Published in The Tripoli Club Gazette
"Do you have a collection?" It's a typical question and "collectors" come to life. Their cheeks have a soft flush and their eyes glow as they begin their in depth revelation of their interest – be it a stamp collection or a rock collection or a coin collection. I listen politely, but I cannot share their enthusiasm for "things". Later I chide myself for being different and shrug my shoulders with a quick excuse that not everyone collects things. "Do you have a collection?" he repeated. I sighed and hurriedly exited the shop as I caught a fleeting view of the salesman's baffled expression. Then I absentmindedly headed towards The Village.
A restless urge would always drive me to The Village, a trendy location in the inner city, which caters to the bored but wealthy population. The bold, contemporary architecture would invite me to enter and explore the unique and novel boutiques which offered clothes, jewelry and art at fantastically escalated prices.
After browsing and glimpsing into the world of the rich, the enticing aromas of various spices would draw me to an exclusive and quaint French restaurant with a limited number of customers to allow time for full enjoyment. Two to three hours easily vanished and I marveled as to how I could have possibly consumed such a quantity. The service was superb, the atmosphere was warm and cozy, and the food could only be matched in paradise.
A quick glance at my watch ended my floating bliss and reminded me of my appointment – my appointment with Fluffy. I smiled. What kind of a name was Fluffy? But it suited her.
A strong, sweet fragrance enveloped me as I was guided to my chair. Seconds later my seat whirled around as Fluffy arrived with her scissors in hand. She always wore brightly colored contemporary attire, but it was her hair that had earned her the nickname, Fluffy. Her naturally curly auburn hair was the envy of most women. It was a rare color and impossible to obtain through dyes. You could dye your hair red but not her color of auburn. Her hair fluffed gently around a heart shaped face like a frame. She possessed a truly unique beauty and she could perform magic with those scissors. I always felt like a million bucks when I left the beauty salon.
My next appointment was not quite as pleasant, but it had become necessary since the day of torrential rains when a truck mowed me down on the freeway. I have had aches and pains in places where I never knew I could have aches and pains. The old bones rattle and creak and need a jump-start. It was time for the jump-start.
Tornado bustled into the room. Her energy, vitality and gusto for life had labeled her. She never tired and when she entered the room, I could swear that a gust of wind had just slapped me in the face. Her questions were thrown at me at such a velocity that it was impossible to utter one word.
Tornado was renowned for her replies to a very ordinary question of "How are you?" "Great and getting greater, wonderful and getting more wonderful, or I only know high and higher." With a chiropractor like this I had no choice but to recover and quickly. "Electrical massage, electrical stimulation and exercise." (Yea, plug it in and jump-start the old engine," crossed my mind when she finished ordering my chiropractic treatment.) "Three times a week for four weeks. Now let me see you smile". Personally, I have never known anyone who smiles with excruciating back pain! Tornado departed the room and a whooshing sound accompanied her.
Regular visits to my massage therapist follow my chiropractic treatment. As anticipated, I entered the room to find Tranquility in her favorite yoga pose looking like a flamingo perched on one leg with the other extended out behind her and both arms positioned for balance. Several minutes elapsed before her eyes focused on me and a slow, graceful movement would land the extended leg on the floor. Without changing moods, she would quietly guide me to the table.
An aurora of peacefulness surrounded Tranquility. I gazed at her serene face half hidden by her silken blonde hair as she bent forward to light the scented candles and then turn on the soft music. In a calm controlled manner she would begin the massage, and I could feel her inner strength and warmth flow from her fingertips.
I glided to my last appointment of the day cloaked in a mellow feeling. As usual, Mr. Tinker greeted me with a chuckle in his voice, a wide grin and a twinkle in his eyes. "What outrageous character have you dreamed up for me to design this time?" Mr. Tinker inquired. "I don't dream them up. They are real people," I quipped.
The gleam in his eyes brightened. "Each time you say you are not a collector. Hmmm…" he paused for emphasis, "how many dolls have I designed for you? Fluffy, Tornado, Tranquility, Tolerance, Curiosity, Impatience…"
"That's right, Mr. Tinker, "but they are all replicas of real people. I don't collect things."
"Who is the next lucky person to have a doll designed after him?" Mr. Tinker searched for my reaction as he enjoyed his work as a custom doll designer. "You," I responded in a cajoling tone, "and your name will be Replica."
Merriment danced in Mr. Tinker's eyes as he extended an elaborately wrapped package over the counter. "For you," he could scarcely conceal his amusement, "Open it." My mouth gaped open as I stared at a miniature doll…of me! Dramatically he announced, "Your name is – People Collector."
