I have to write a novel (part two). Dinner was served as part of the time capsule closing ceremony. At my table was author Timothy Findley and the cast of Cats. There may have been other people, too, but I was still shaking off the effects of puberty (often literally) so I mostly just stared at the Cats ladies.
At some point Timothy Findley brought out a stack of his latest novel, Not Wanted On The Voyage, to sign for anyone who wanted one. I'd already read one of his books and found it not to my liking, so like the snot-nosed brat I was I declined a copy of the book.
aside:
Yes, I realize that's just the sort of action that would come back to bite me in the ass Karma-wise if this was a fictional tale of a would-be novelist. Luckily, this is not fiction so there's no such thing as Karma here. Nor the Easter Bunny and God, in case you were keeping track.
end of aside
Findley didn't have a pen on him so he asked if anyone had one he could borrow for the signings. I leant him mine, feeling smugly prepared. Please reread the "snot-nosed brat" comment above.
Eventually we adjourned to the lobby to see the sealed capsule and hear some speeches. Or perhaps that was before dinner. I can't recall because this was a billion years ago, roughly.
I do remember something quite clearly, however. Something that struck me as I was leaving, and that I've recalled and recounted ever since. And that something is this:
Timothy Findley stole my pen.
aside:
That's not Karma, that's coincidence. Some other people might call it petty theft, but those would be people less fearful than me of being sued by an author's estate so I'm going to stick with, um, "premeditated coincidence."
end of aside
So here I am, many years older and no novel richer, ready to head up to the Xerox Tower lobby and look at the date on the capsule's plaque to see just how early/late/screwed I am.
I'll bring my camera.
