Before I knew what was happening, Prior had braked. He hopped out of the tony sports car to greet surprised fans. A curious Monty tagged along.
A glance past Gomery’s shoulder explained: Prior was introducing
Monty as “Tomorrow Town’s bright new filmmaker.” All eyes outside turned
in the popcorn box’s direction.
“Oh wow, Gomery, Monty’s signing autographs!” I clapped.
“This is the moment of his life, and I know, because I’ve seen most of ‘em.”
“He’ll be impossible to live with now!”
“Now? No. This is great,” laughed the bespectacled man.
Two excited people stood on either side of Monty as Prior snapped a
photo, which sent the person I was smooshed against into a paroxysm of
gaiety. It was about the fourth time I’d seen Gomery Overbove fully lose
it, to the point of near-tears, and it was the fourth time every
capillary inside me blossomed into tiny interior flowers, making me feel
as if I grown a sudden garden inside, an image undesired in reality but
glorious when viewed through a poetical prism.
The scene
outside grew fuzzier as the car's window grew foggier. I stuck a
fingertip in the air. “You like to draw on windows, mister, but watch
the master.”
I drew two stick figures, one with giant glasses.
“Wait! I messed up.” I leaned across him, blew on the window, and began
again, adding a blob to one of the figures’ heads to symbolize a snood.
“Wait! Damn.” Leaning across Gomery again, I drew another blob, this one
signifying a pool, though the snood blob and the pool blob were
essentially the same size.
“Magical.” His review of impromptu artwork was both wry and kind.
