His life was for sale, with an auction paddle and a promised check.
Holding the portfolio with its gray concrete pages laden with tissued drawings my heart accelerates, like pedestrians catching the flashing hand at an intersection. Ready and fired up.
The dense well protected black leather binder, light under my fingers lept to life. Each page still vibrantly hand inked with interior designs, craftfully done.
Who was he? His portfolio, ascribed a B+. Other belongings were perched on top a splintered table and a pair of colorful and worn chairs along boxes without lids containing cufflinks brandished by wear
and two watches catching the last breaths of bygone days.
Searching in a webbed world, unknown to him, I found him. Mr. Watler of Gansevoort, New York and formerly of Beeker Street in New York City.
WWII honors
Bank clerk in NYC
Student of NY School of Interior Design
State Assessor, Albany, New York
Never Married
One cousin in Gansevoort, New York
All other relatives deceased
Grasping tenderly at his artwork and design, I imagine his designed life and wonder if anyone ever knew him like I do or cared so much about who he was.
His life was for sale at the auction. I held it in my hands for pennies on the dollar.
