Nixon was in a meeting when he suddenly read his fortune in the tag dangling from his Yogi teabag: "Love what is ahead by loving what has come before."
Across the table, his colleague's mug read, "I wish I were dead."
For the rest of that meeting, an asterisk hummed just outside Nixon's ear. As soon as the meeting broke, he burst out of his chair, threw on his coat, and slipped out for some air. His red steps rang with purpose. He made his way to the intersection of Franklin Street and Franklin Place and stood in front of the gallery located there. "You're not in Kansas anymore," read a huge sign in the window.
But Nixon was not phased. He was smitten. There was a ruckus in his heart. No moor was spread too thin for him to cross; no county line was too far flung for him to approach. He had run away from Finishing School and yet he was gainfully employed. He was unrankable.