This Would Be The Day My Dreams Come True
By: Joe Andoe

It was murder. I was 31 and six years in New York with nothing much to show. Then I found someone to stick a few paintings in the rear of his gallery. But only to have him ignore me and even hang up the phone when he thought I was an artist with a very similar name. Then one day he called hysterically excited that Tomas Amman bought my three paintings and wanted to see more. Who’s that? I asked. You don’t know? He’s the biggest thing that could happen to you. He’s from Switzerland, art dealer, collector he’s good friends with Warhol will be there soon. He later called from a car.This is before everyone had cell phones. I go up to let them in to my dark basement studio. They got out of a stretch Mercedes limo. There was five of them plus my friend. They looked like movie stars. I had never seen people like this up close, their skin was perfect, they were thin, the suits were dense and dark, the shirt collars were stiff and white, the same with the cuffs, the jewelry was heavy and large, the jaw lines were sharp, the shoes hard and shiny. The woman’s fur was thick around her shoulders.She had beautiful calves in high heels. Me in my favorite green plaid shirt, my hair past my shoulders and messy, I needed a shave. I could not be more different than them.

Tomas sat in a chair in the middle, polite. Everyone else stood for thirty minutes silent. I crouched near the back window nervous and smoked cigar butts as Tomas decided to buy all of my paintings. I worried about the limo driver. Was he thirsty? Or did he need to pee?