Sheila is frustrated because she cannot draw hands. They always come out looking like sneezes. Tomorrow she abandons a life of art and embraces the family trade: Competitive Sitting. Like her uncles before her, Sheila will travel from county to county, from parking lot landscaping trench to parking lot landscaping trench and take all comers in timed Sit Offs. Soon she will master the half-sit and the bottom sit. In Arizona she will demonstrate a superior ability to Scowl Sit in high temperatures. All across this great land of ours, Sheila will plant herself on rock, on pillow, on broken box and not move for hours. Sheila will give everything over to sitting. She'll commission special pants with double reinforcement. To sit will be like breathing unto her. A chance trip up to Nova Scotia's ice fishing community will introduce an entirely new dimension: sitting in a group around a hole.
There will be no phone calls. No distractions. There will be sitting and there will be Sheila and there will be Sheila sitting and there will be no more.
And after the accolades and honorary degrees and the awkward requesting of wheel chairs, after all this, Sheila will one day find herself at a charity sit inside the conservatory. There, sometime during hour three, Sheila will notice a piece of chalk on the ground near her ankle. She will pick it up and examine it. And after a few moments of consideration, Sheila will slowly draw a circle on the ground. Then another circle. This one larger with rippled edges. A pie! Next she draws a slice of pie, then a piece of pie with ice cream, then two pies facing each other having a talk. Soon she will find herself sitting in a circle of pies. Her fingers will be dusty and blue. And Sheila will cry.