So I’m at home, about to go to school and someone knocks. Weird already, no one knocks at our door. My son opens and calls me: there’s someone at the door. There’s this guy, imagine him, blond, redface, green t-shirt with Scooby Doo in it, not so tall, not so short. The average of the averagest.
He tells me he is a student looking for help. Hands me a card that explains how much money he needs to raise. I tell him, right away what I have learned to say: I am a student too. Really?, he says, What’s your major? I answer and he says: oh, you are a writer, science fiction writer?! (have I ever mentioned how many times I have been asked the same? i should begin to wonder if I look like one and then run to Forever 21 or GAP or even Walmart to fix that).
After I explain him that no, I do not write sci-fi and after he gives me a 3 minute speech on a sci-fi author he tells me he is from San Antonio but originally from NY. I ‘m going south, you see? But I will never, EVER, go to California. Have you been there? My yes-nod is ignored. Californians are crazy, man, crazy. They can stab you right in the face one day (and here is when he approaches to me and pretends to stab my own sci-fi-writer face!) and then, the next day they talk to you like the best friends ever. I tell you man, they are crazy. I hate them, If only… (I thought he was gonna say: if only i could kill them all and then he was going to take a knife out of his pocket and…) Did you hear about the bomb in Juarez today? Somebody really got nailed today there. I don’t even try to answer.
He hands me another card and explains he is not asking for money but for people interested in reading the publications in his card. Scooby-Doo adventures is just one of many in the list. I say no, thank you, but no, look at my watch and he gets the hint.
He says goodbye. And no, he had no knife -to stab californians in the face- inside his pockets.
I go in my house, my son looks at me and says, are you ok? I wonder what I looked like. Probably a scared sci-fi-writer.