A License to Be Ordinary

The town of Bellweather required every adult to perform a special talent at the annual festival. Bakers baked, singers sang, and the retired dentist balanced a chair on his chin. Ada, who repaired invoices for a living, applied for an exemption.

The application asked why she could not perform. She wrote: I would prefer to watch. Three days later it returned with a red stamp. Preference, the notice explained, was not an incapacity.

Ada tried juggling oranges in her kitchen. She broke a plate. She tried singing and received a polite note from the neighbor asking whether the plumbing needed attention. Finally she went to the licensing office and requested permission to be ordinary.

The clerk had no form for that. After consulting three supervisors, he offered a temporary street-trading license and suggested that she cross out the irrelevant parts. Ada returned it with every box crossed out except her name.

The mayor took an interest. He announced that Ada's refusal to display a talent would itself become a special attraction. A chair was placed beneath a banner reading AN EXTRAORDINARY ORDINARY WOMAN. Ada found her photograph beside the fire-eater's in the festival program.

On the day, she brought a book and sat in the chair. A crowd gathered. Someone asked when she would begin.

“I have begun,” she said.

They waited. Ada turned a page. The fire-eater came over between performances and asked whether she was being paid. When she said no, he sat beside her. The acrobat joined them, explaining that her ankles hurt. By noon, half the performers were sitting quietly under the banner.

The mayor arrived carrying a microphone. He congratulated Ada on inventing a daring new form of entertainment. She asked whether he could arrange lunch for the people who had been working since dawn.

He said lunch was not in the program. The retired dentist removed the chair from his chin and asked why not.

The festival continued after everyone ate. Ada watched the fire-eater, applauded the acrobat, and bought a cake from the baker. At four she went home. Nobody noticed at first; three visitors were still photographing her empty chair.

The following week the licensing office sent her a certificate recognizing her outstanding contribution to public rest. It came with an invoice for administrative costs.

Ada corrected two errors in the total and returned it unpaid. In the space marked SPECIAL TALENT, she wrote: Noticing when other people need a break.

The clerk read it, put down his pen, and went out for a sandwich.