But this was no ordinary evening. This was my first case as a real artist. No more slugging away in the minor leagues, toiling the beat where creativity is high but the pay is … well, not much.

Now, I was a real artist with taxable income. I could finally make a damn difference.

As I took the subway to Art-O-Rama, I envisioned myself sketching all kinds of clever ideas. I’d have to call on a fickle muse for some of them. Others would fall into my brain as if channeled by a higher power.

My new client said she wanted an illustrator to “think outside of the box.” My box was ring-sized, so everything was outside. And I liked bending the rules. They wanted to meet.

“What is it you need?” I asked. “A logo for the Mars exploratory mission that also incorporates humanitarian rescue from climate change-caused catastrophe while embedding an ad for a third political party? No problem.”

I was on my second cup of organic decaf beans the next morning. I told the server I took it with oat milk. I don’t do dairy and I take my eggs hard-boiled.

The client asked for the logo in 48 hours. I had a feeling that something wasn’t right. After some decision-making by committee and technical pen-breaking threats, I delivered the goods.

The committee couldn’t agree on my solution and in the end they invoked the kill-fee. It was still a dark and stormy night.

Several months later, I was awoken by the low jangling of my cell. A production company wanted me to work on a documentary and curriculum for a civil rights history project.

I picked up my Pigma Micron 01 and headed out.

They loved what I did.

The story doesn’t end here. At least, that’s up to you.