Matt was feeling extremely nervous as he stepped up in front of the crowd outside the gazebo at King's English Bookshop. It was the release party for the magazine his short story, Father's Painting, was published in, and he was going to do a reading for the public. He had barely arrived at the bookshop and taken a seat 5 minutes earlier, when he was informed that he was to be the first reader for the evening. He nearly piddled his pants on the spot.
As he stepped up to the podium in front of a gorgeous vine with a trellis, he happened to notice a small, black mouse running the length of the vines directly behind where he was to be standing. This did nothing to calm his nerves, knowing that a critter might suddenly run up his leg or jump into his hair. Trying to not think of an attacking mouse, Matt looked out at the expectant crowd and tried to adjust the microphone. The stand was too short and he had to kind of hunch over in order to speak into the mike. Crickets could have been chirping as Matt looked out at the silent mass of people. It was a truly awkward moment.
Matt was surprised as he heard his voice begin to mumble something inconsequential about being a student at the U, and that he was going to read something from his new novel he was finishing- which he suddenly couldn't remember the name of.
Realizing that he was losing it completely, Matt took a deep breath and quickly conjured up a mental picture of his favorite fridge magnet. The one with a picture of a couple wearing loose togas as they sat on a swing, while the lady with more hair than clothing says- "I sure hope they never invent underwear..." Remembering this made Matt inwardly snicker to himself, and he suddenly knew he would be okay.
Matt then began to read 'The Hat Man,' (see earlier blog post) a small essay from his novel, The Manhattan Memoirs. He was soon very much into the piece and he had a grand time impersonating the voice of the threatening street vendor from China Town who tried to force Matt into buying a horrid fedora that he did not wish to buy.
And as he read his favorite line from the piece- "The man then literally began flapping his hands and shooin us out of his booth, the way Miss Alabama would probably shoo away a swarm of mosquitoes with her stiletto heels during her talent portion," he knew that this was why he was a writer. So that he could get up in front of a crowd and read comical blips, while at the same time wondering who the idiot was who ever invented underwear anyways...
