Look at My Booth!

A tiny story you might relate to.

One of my favorite kinds of creative moments is when you start out thinking you’re making one thing and it turns into something else entirely. That was the case this week—I thought I was writing an essay, and my thoughts evolved into a very short story instead.

Thanks to Katie Schorr Rubin for her brilliant editing (as she often provides for these pieces). As I said last week, no solo work is really a solo work.

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You walk into the cavernous room.

It’s a massive convention center, where many people you know, and even more you don’t, have booths set up with science-fair-style tri-boards. You stroll around to learn about everyone’s latest accomplishments, or their latest vacations, or their kids’ latest accomplishments, along with up-to-the-minute political news. You also see goofy bits performed by people you don’t know, and profound lectures on a broad array of sobering topics, and cooking demonstrations from people with really nice cookware.

There are also booths set up by companies to promote their products. You are reminded about the sneakers made from recycled plastic cups you’ve been meaning to purchase.

As you walk through, trying to take everything in, this question keeps rising to the surface of your brain:

Why is all this shit in one room?

Forget about that, though, because you have your own booth to tend to. You always think very carefully about what you want to display, what it will say about you, and how it will be perceived. Once you’ve landed on the right thing for this afternoon, you find it harder to walk around the convention hall, as you’re mainly waiting to see how people will react to your tri-board. Maybe they’ll love what you have on display. Maybe they’ll hate it. Maybe, and this is most likely, it’ll be hard to tell what they think because they walk by it so fast.

Everyone seems mostly focused on their own booths, anyway.

Plus, there are the booth shields. They come down from the ceiling, seemingly at random, to temporarily block people’s booths from view. When the booth shield is down, it’s impossible to know if people like what’s on your tri-board because they can’t see it in the first place. You sometimes bemoan the existence of these shields, but everyone ultimately puts up with them, the strange price of admission to the convention center.

You’ve come here much less the past few months, and, to your surprise, you’ve discovered you’re actually more content without this place’s sensory overload sending your brain spinning. Still, though, you like to check in from time to time, both to peruse the other booths and to let your fellow conventioneers know that you still exist.

Curiously, your booth shield seems to be activated more than ever today, and it occurs to you that it might be a penalty for not visiting more regularly.

“Too many words and objects,” your friend says, leaving their booth for a moment to chat with you.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not just your absence activating the shields; it’s also that you’re putting boring stuff up on your tri-board. Like, that photo you have of a book you read. The shield would probably lift if the photo had your face in it too. Like, you holding the book. Or, look at this picture you have of words on a white background. Very dull. The shield will definitely come down to block that.”

“Oh,” you say. You are appreciative of this guidance but also a little annoyed. Why should you have to prove yourself to avoid the booth shields? Shouldn’t everyone’s tri-boards just be displayed regardless?

“I gotta run,” your friend says, “I see someone waiting to tell me something about my tri-board.”

“Wait, can we just talk for a minute mo—” 

Your friend is already gone. You would have liked to have an actual conversation with them, grab a coffee, maybe get lunch. The convention room doesn’t really allow for that sort of thing.

You find yourself turning in a slow circle, taking in this mammoth room, seeing how crowded some of your friends’ booths are and feeling jealous and bad about yourself without fully understanding why. One person just looked at your tri-board for a second before yawning and continuing onward.

This place sucks, you think to yourself as you hear the low hum of your booth shield coming back down from the ceiling.

You walk outside and down the steps. It’s cold but bright. The sun feels nice on your neck.

“Where are you going?”

You turn and see you’ve been followed out by one of the people who works at the information desk.

“I’m done for today,” you say. “Maybe for the week.”

“But you have a couple of people waiting at your booth,” the woman says. “I think one of them actually has a comment.”

You’re embarrassed to admit it, but this has a powerful effect on you. You take a step forward.

“I was just in there,” you say. “There was no one.”

“Well,” the woman says, shrugging. “They’re there now.”

She stares at for you a moment before going back inside.   

You wonder which people are waiting at your booth, what they have to say. It’s probably connected to the most recent thing you displayed, an accomplishment at work. Their feedback might feel really good. Especially if it’s praise.   

Oh shoot.

You’ve completely neglected the mountain of work you intended to get done today. You took that break to pick up a snack from the store, and of course, the convention center was on the way, so you figured you might as well stop in, and now…

You turn with an almost violent jerk of your shoulders and begin walking home.

But doing all of your work is going to be unpleasant. Difficult. A slog. No one leaning over your shoulder to congratulate you as you go. 

You can take one more minute. What’s the big deal about taking another minute?

You sprint back toward the convention center, a hopeful feeling in your chest, excited to hear what that person has to say about you.  

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