Scene from a Dream
Ceramic Donald.
Pam and I were traveling in Florida. At an obscure tourist trap we wandered into a gift shop piled high with trappings that tourist collect for no particular reason other than to satisfy their predilection for impulsivity. Tripping through the shop we came to a table on which were displayed a dozen or so ceramic sculptures. There were vases, some tall and skinny, others short and squat, all with big holes in the top supposedly for flowers, decorative grasses, or cattails. They weren't particularly attractive, though they were colorful and glossy as ceramic pieces tend to be. Behind the table stood two women, one tall, one short, middle age, otherwise nondescript but maudlin and yet alert in appearance. Dark clothes, black, sooty gray and a touch of brown, hung on them like rags in a mechanic's washroom. Ostentatiously, they were there to answer questions about the ceramic objets d'art should any arise. Were they (the women) the sculptors, or consignment agents?
On each ceramic piece were small, rectangular, white stickers with prices marked in scrawled blue ball point pen. My eyes went to the tallest of the objects, a cactus-like green and blue vase that stood two feet tall. It was attached to a large replica of a yellow rubber ducky. I leaned over the piece and ogled the price tag sticker—$12,633.
"Wow," I said. "You must think we're made of money," and shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want the ugly thing at any price. Where would they put it, I wondered? Perhaps in the back of a dark storage closet to be discovered at our death by grandchildren who would immediately take the hideous piece to the sidewalk and crown it with a sledge hammer. The women said nothing, their expressions expressionless.
I looked around the table at the other price tags—$600, $450, $1,200. All were more money than the two of us had in their combined bank accounts, including our IRA stocks. It was nuts. Who would buy this stuff?
We were about to turn away when a small creation at the left edge of the table caught our attention. At first it looked like a small, squat pumpkin, about seven inches tall. Like the others it was a glossy ceramic object, but instead of a hole in the top for weeds, it had hair. Not real hair, but a ceramic re-creation of hair in orange flowing locks. The top half of the object was covered in soft orange and yellow blotches, evenly spread about the top and sides. Immediately below the hair was a face. The face we recognized. It was an impressionistic likeness of Donald Trump...a head bust...but not of marble or brass, or gold, or silver. It was ceramic. But it was cute and endearing, actually. Whoever created it apparently liked The Donald. Sitting askew on Donald's head, so as not to totally cover his locks, was a real, tweed, wool (not ceramic), men's flat-cap, like a British gentleman might wear on a dreary, damp day herding his sheep or playing golf between rain squaws.
That's really cute," said Pam.
"Yes, I agree," I said.
"How much is it?" asked Pam.
I removed Donald's brown tweed cap. On his ceramic orange hair was a tiny, white price tag—$20.
"Twenty dollars." Pam exclaimed, "we've got that don't we?"
"Yes, I think so," I said.
"Let's get it," said Pam.
The two women behind the table groaned with disgust, although it was not clear if the groan and the disgust were because The Donald was so cheap and they would be poor for yet another day, or if they disliked The Donald for other reasons.
"But I don't like the cap," I said. "It doesn't match."
I had no more said that when the tall woman quickly removed the brown tweed, wool cap from Donald's head and replaced it with with a similar cap that was a perfect match of fuzzy orange and yellow blotches.
"Perfect," I said. "We'll take it."
Another stereo groan from the women. The one on the left said, "with tourist and state sales tax that will be $26." With hopeful derision she said, "Do you have that much?"
We pooled our resources. After counting out several crumbled one- and five-dollar bills, and a loose coins, we only had $17.23. "I'll write a check," I said.
"We'll have to clear it with your bank before you leave," the woman on the right said.
So, I wrote out a check for $26. The short woman called the bank on a speaker phone.
"Yes, that's fine. It's fine. Just fine," the banker said. "They have plenty of money. That's fine. Just fine. It's a really good check, really good."
And so the tall woman produced a used plastic bag from Thrifty Food Mart. The bag had a small hole in the bottom. She put The Donald in the bag, and Pam and I tripped home with our new objet d'art.
It was not destined for the storage closet. We would put it next to the four foot tall ceramic angel with the trumpet. Like the angel, we decided the children would argue over The Donald when we died.
