It will come as no surprise to anyone familiar with my clown work that at 10:00, the hour when the man was supposed to come and buy my car, I was frantically ransacking the apartment, looking for the key.
Half an hour later I had the key. But still no buyer.
Finally called him. This guy is really fantastic at not letting you know when his plans have changed, even if your plans depend on his. We have rescheduled. Again. If he flakes again...oy, I don't want to think about it.
I can't shake the feeling that the car is going to find some way of clinging to me, like one of those exceptionally persistent cats that manages to follow its former owner across the continent even though it has one eye, a bum leg, no spleen, a colony of fleas that has evolved its own sophisticated metropolis, and a case of distemper strong enough to kill a tiger. I'll be in class in Tuscany, rehearsing some intricate and dangerous bit of slapstick, and suddenly, from outside: Honk.
And I'll look up, and my scene partner will clobber me.
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