April 08, 2021
Volume 51 - No. 14
By Sam Lowe
Two females – one young, one old – observed immediately that I was a fake, and both made statements to that effect, even in the face of snorts of derision from their male companions. This created a most difficult situation because I could not defend myself against their accusations without proving them correct. So I remained calm and steadfast while they questioned The Paper - 760.747.7119
website:www.thecommunitypaper.com
email: thepaper@cox.net
my impassive sincerity.
We all met, in a rather odd way, one hot summer day at the Tombstone Bar Exhibit in the Royal London Wax Museum, a delightfully funky institution that once stood on the corner of Fifty-Second Street and Van Buren in east Phoenix. They were tourists. I was a dummy. Actually, I wasn't just a common, everyday dummy. I was a wax
dummy. Or, more accurately, I was impersonating a wax dummy. Lest there be some unjustified snickering as this account unfolds, it is imperative that I digress here to emphasize this singular point:
Being a wax dummy is hard work. During
a
45-minute
guest
Dummy for a Day Continued on Page 2
appearance that day as a bartender in the establishment's saloon tableau, I was forced to remain completely immobile and go without inhaling, exhaling, breathing, blinking, scratching, swallowing, sweating, coughing, sneezing and twitching for as long as five minutes in a row so my true identity as a newspaper columnist seeking something to write about wouldn't be exposed. Despite that, I don't think I