WOULD THE GIRL I'M GOING TO MARRY PLEASE STAND UP?

The forecast in Manhattan called for rain, and rain it did.

In the waning hours of the morning, as I stepped from the subway at Union Square, as my feet skittered across the cement and through the crowded stalls of the Green Market, the skies began to positively drip.

You’d be surprised by how few people stopped to pull out their umbrellas. Granted, this was little more than a gentle pitter-patter, but that’s not to say that it wasn’t wet, or less than persistent. Before long—before anyone even realized—what had begun as a scatter shot of slick spots, these random little pockmarks of precipitation, had pooled their efforts to suddenly form a whole host of tiny, tepid puddles.

Although the people had been slow to respond, they eventually came around. There were purveyors of fresh fruits and jams, of ramps and radishes, all huddled together beneath their tarps and heavy canvases. Artists went about the task of pulling clear, plastic sheets across tables strewn with watercolors, and with colorful, acrylic appropriations of other, far more famous works. Amidst it all, there was a solitary man who persisted in offering free hugs.

I don’t think a single person took him up on it; regardless, he kept standing there, out in the rain, holding up his sign.

My sister and I had pinned our hopes on the likelihood of piss-poor weather, for there was a movie playing that we both wanted to see. I won’t mention the title, other than to say that if the temptation strikes to go and see a film involving ghosts and girlfriends, you should definitely resist that call. The movie plainly isn’t good, but in my defense? My youth was spent in a household filled with three sisters, and looking back? I think we all grew up a bit punch-drunk on a few too many Disney movies.

(If you think about it, that explains a lot. Consider the title of this blog, for starters. I mean, good Lord.)

In any case, enduring that first feature was like swallowing a bitter pill, and we both felt the need to then go and cleanse our collective, movie-going palette. So, we transformed the afternoon into a double feature.

It was somewhere between Movie One and Movie Two that I received a most curious call. A person I know was dialing to ask if he might recommend my name for work on an upcoming freelance project.

That fact alone was not enough to make the call peculiar. Freelance work is something that I’ll do—not that it happens all that often. Typically, my schedule won’t allow for it, but from time to time? I might write a little something here, or put some thinking towards a challenge there. Whenever I do, there is always the question of compensation.

This particular call made that part easy. Rather than be paid in dollars and cents, it was suggested that we barter for my services.

I thought bartering was all but extinct in places outside of third-world countries. Apparently, I was dead wrong (and just a wee bit stereotypical, to boot). The company behind this whole endeavor has a wealth of interests across a variety of industries, in a whole host of locales, and you’d be shocked at the things that have been offered up, thus far.

If I’m interested in travel, I might elect to jet to Southeast Asia, where I can wile away the hours on my own island (well, mine except for the staff and anyone else I might want to bring along). I could opt for a week on a massive, seaborne yacht—again, with a crew on board to do most everything, short of bathe me.

The opportunities test the imagination. There’s been talk of travel to exotic locales, of tickets to concerts and to sporting events. I might decide that I want to work in exchange for a particular piece of art, or for some blowout dinner for fourteen at Nobu. You name it, and chances are, it has been placed upon the table.

I shouldn’t talk about it, as I’ve yet to work out all the details. I don’t yet know how much of my time the job itself might actually involve, let alone what I might need to charge, or what sort of compensation to ask for in return. I don’t yet know what constitutes “fair trade.”

Still, if you stop to think about it? This entire opportunity is really kind of fun. I mean, there’s nothing to say that I have to work for money. I already have a full-time job, and so it’s not as though I’m pressed for funds. This is a chance to go ahead and step off the reservation—to venture to the kind of place, or embark on an activity that I might not think to do otherwise, and especially not in this economy.

This is like gravy, except that rather than the kind of gravy my family makes at Thanksgiving, where my Mom and I doctor a concoction made from the drippings of the turkey with those ready-made packets that you buy at the supermarket? This is like gravy made from the shavings of rare, white truffles. And gold.

Now, I’m not looking to place any undue pressure on the woman who has yet to reveal herself to be the girl I’m going to marry, but let me mention once again: Should I so choose, I could end up with my own island.

Some haste, on your part, may be in order here.