Believe I met the writing angel last night on the subway home. He was decked out in fluorescent lime green high tops, shorts, outback leather hat and had luggage near by with Nightmare Before Christmas looking dolls hanging off the side. I sat across from him and immediately picked up on the vibe of the woman cramped to the window beside him. She was politely trying to ignore his talk, but when I sat down I felt his radar turn around to me. Now some people do the classic no eye contact tactic, which is usually successful, and if there was a hint of aggression I probably would have opted for that. But clearly here was a man of artistic bent, with a handful of business cards that he was using as sketching paper. And I became his subject from St. Clair Ave. E down to the Yonge St. stop. He was an Chinese man with an English accent, and introduced himself as coming from England as he fiercely sketched my profile. I watched the woman beside him looking over his shoulder to gauge the outcome. Her expression was at once interested, amused and perplexed. I imagined myself with three eyes. His words came out fast and passionate so I didn’t catch his name, but he spoke of writing movie scripts. This angel seemed bursting with ideas and talked about needing to write them down immediately so as not to forget them. He stressed this point or at least my brain stressed this point to me and my focus sharpened onto this messenger.
He then shared the themes he was working on in a script where mermaids would save the earth from humans and innocence would triumph over darkness. He said it was very serious, but a comedy. He spoke about humans truly in the third person, and then asked me to guess how many woman did he already have now for his movie as mermaids.
I guessed 20. Higher. 85? Higher- he had 60 I believe he said billion women as mermaids for his movie. I gave an impressed look and so did the woman behind him as she was still eyeing his sketching progress. I told him I was getting off soon, his fingers then flew faster over the card, and he handed his work to me signed and dated.
It was a good rendition of me with a serene look on my face. I thanked him and we said farewell with the praise of innocence being victorious in its rescue of earth.
On the bus home I remembered his words and promptly started to write down…lime green high tops…mermaids….England…. What he said I needed to hear.
I looked down at the business card, the labelled side stated community services. Turning it over I looked again at the image of myself and now noticed the swirl of water below my chin and the fish head popping up to the surface just beneath me. Was I one of his mermaids now?
I hope so.