My name is Maisie Day and people will tell me anything.

My mother calls it "the gift of openness". Anyone, whether I know them or not, will tell me any truth about themselves, whether I ask them or not. And I rarely ask. This sort of thing is fine with family and close friends, awkward and uncomfortable with acquaintances and coworkers, and down right terrifying and boggling with strangers. It’s a bus, not a confessional.

My mother calls it a gift; I call it a pain in the ass. Mom has repeatedly lectured me on using my power for good. I think she meant that I should become a therapist or a journalist or an interrogator. Expose the truth, catch bad guys, help people.

I don’t think she meant for me to become a writer and use what people freely tell me as fodder for stories. I think she’d call that exploitation. I call it my fee, the price someone pays for assaulting me with their life against my will. It’s not like I’m getting rich off of it; just making a living.

Some people may argue that it’s not very creative, that it’s lazy writing. Believe me, it takes a lot of creativity and work to make reality believable enough for fiction.

There’s a place I go when the idea pit is running dry or I’m in need of some stimulation. It’s an out of the way, yet busy café buried in LA, not too far from my apartment. I take a notebook, get a tea, grab a table, and just soak myself in the human experience.

One particularly busy day, I found myself setting my tea down on the last available table, one outside with a green and white umbrella to shield me from the winter glare. I doodled and scribbled, catching bits of conversation, interesting fashion choices, appalling social rituals.

I was just finishing an amazingly childish drawing of an ice cream cone when someone cleared their throat to my left. I looked up at the most eye piercing Hawaiian shirt I’d ever seen, bright green with big red parrots everywhere. I looked up to the owner of the monstrosity and found a stick figure with a vulture’s nose, Buddy Holly glasses, and black straw that was supposed to be hair.

"Can I help you?" I asked, knowing he was really beyond my help.

A plastic surgeon and a fashion guru couldn’t fix that mess.

"Would you mind if I sat with you?" the stickman asked. "There’s no tables left. I promise, I won’t bother you."

He held up a book and an iced coffee.

I shrugged. "Sure."

Stickman sat down across from me, setting his drink on the glorified patio table.

"My name’s Stanley," he said. "Stanley Ivanov. There, I’ve identified myself. No worries that I’ll be attacking you later."

I snorted. "Thanks for that."

"What’s your name?" He took a sip of his drink.

"Maisie Day."

Stanley choked, gasped, and snorted.

"Seriously? What kind of a name is that?"

I glared. "It’s my name, thank you."

"Your parents named you Maisie Day with honest sincerity and no hint of irony."

"And yours named you Stanley and thought you’d keep your lunch money."