roadprologue




				Prologue from On The Road Copyright © 1991 by Stephen R. Datz. All right reserved.

		On a Sunday afternoon at a show not long ago, a casually dressed, middle-aged man stopped at my booth and spent a long time carefully browsing through my stock. "Anything in particular you're looking for?" I asked. "I never know what'll strike my fancy, so I just look at everything, thanks. Say, do you ever get any large lots or collections you'd sell at a good price?" "Sure, but I don't take them to shows. They're too bulky." "I'm trying to build a stock," he said. "Thought I'd get into the stamp business when I retire. Been planning to do it for years. Figured it'd be a lot of fun traveling around the country--maybe even overseas--buying and selling lots of stamps, meeting lots of people, seeing lots of exhibits, and all of it tax deductible." His fingers flicked through a box of stock cards as he spoke. Occasionally, he extracted a stamp for closer inspection. "I can't wait to get started," he said. The dream of being a stamp dealer brought a smile to my face. I'd lusted after the same dream myself a long time ago. And I'd been down the road many miles since then. It's going to be great! I remember thinking of the travel-poster existence I imagined: jetting away to distant cities, handling rare stamps every day, dining out every night, leading a life of adventure. Every boy who has ever dreamed of running away to join the circus knows how bewitching the fantasy is, and how glorious the sense of anticipation. That quiet Sunday afternoon, while the middle-aged man looked through my stock, the memories came flooding back, the high points and low points, the headaches and pleasures . . . . While I spent a moment daydreaming, the middle-aged man continued to peruse the stock. After a few minutes, he looked up and said, "I can't wait until I retire. It's going to be great!" My first inclination was to say, "You don't know what you're getting into. The show circuit's not a big party. It's a business, and it's not easy. You've got to make a profit or fall by the wayside. You're constantly chasing fresh stock, facing headaches at airports and hotels, risking money on shows that might not break even, worrying about theft, crime, and insurance. Then, there's the unexpected, like the tornado in Dallas. No, sir, life on the road isn't all it's cracked up to be." But I didn't say those things. Instead, I smiled and said, "Yes, you're going to get a real kick out of it." It was the right answer because I knew that deep inside the man seated across the table from me lurked the fantasy of every boy who ever dreamed of running away to join the circus, see the world, be a lion tamer, a trapeze artist, or work on the carnival midway. I knew that when he closed his eyes, he smelled hot buttered popcorn, roasted peanuts, and fresh straw. He saw the bright incandescent lights of the midway and heard the hypnotic chant of the pitchman in the Panama hat. He heard the calliope and saw the gypsy jugglers, whose dark eyes danced in the evening light. "Yes, you're going to love it." I said, because I, too, had been enchanted by the same vision, and I knew that even after the mirage of anticipation vanishes, the power of the road remains irresistible, and the siren song of the carnival keeps calling you on.