A strange thing happens to me on my way to work. I’m on the 6 Train sitting down, my ears stuffed with what used to be white earphones, the iPod's playing … something I don’t recall, because my focus is on reading Paul Neilman’s “Apathy.” Then, suddenly I feel a tap on my right shoulder. I put the book down, unplug my right ear, and turn to face the agitator of my morning commute.
She’s around my age, I think. With a big grin, she tells me that my Ben Sherman bag is her design. And as to justify her interruption and as to show evidence, she lifts her big, black, Ben Sherman logo etched bag. It’s a pathetic attempt at her proof of her profession. My overprotective New York mentality goes into hyper-drive. Must I suffer another sort of crazy, other than me, on this dreary morn? I ponder. She gushes about how great it is to see her work in people’s hand. Then as the train reaches my stop, I praise her work, saying how much I like the bag, and with an awkward goodbye I walk away.
I don’t generally function well in the morning... Now as I’m writing this, I think, what if she was really the designer of my bag? Why wouldn’t she be? Why would some random stranger lie about who she is? I think I should go into craigslist’s Missed Connection or something, and apologize for my halting display of social ineptitude. Or praise the shit out of her so that she can get in touch with me and send me a sample or two of her new designs.
What say you?
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