Encounter 2

Time passes.

I was sitting outside of the library at Eastern Michigan University. A young woman came out of the library and sat across from me on the other side of the walk. She was well dressed. She looked all around her like she was looking for something she couldn’t find. Her hair was kind of a mess. She seemed agitated. After a few minutes, she walked across to where I was sitting.

Her: She’s not dead, you know.
Me: I’m sorry?
Her: She’s not dead. She can’t die. They can’t make her.
Me: Who’s that?
Her: Lucy.

It was just after comedienne Lucille Ball had died. It was national and international news.

Me: Oh. You mean Lucille Ball?
Her: Lucy. She can’t die.
Me: Well, they say she’s dead. It’s been on the news.

She laughed at that.

Her: She had all the pretty cats.
Me: Yeah?
Her: She had all the colors. All the cats. You can see them. Do you have cats?
Me: No, I don’t have any cats.
Her: Are you sure?
Me: Yes. I’m pretty sure. Cats are okay, I just don’t have one. Do you have cats?
Her: I have lots. All the colors. I love cats. I like my cats. Do you have cats?
Me: No. I sure don’t.

Awkward pause.

Her: She’s not dead, you know.
Me: Well, I guess we’ll see.
Her: Yeah.

Awkward pause.

Her: Gotta go to class now. Nice to meet you.
Me: Nice to meet you too.

After that I noticed her around campus. Hadn’t noticed her before. Someone said her parents paid to keep her in school because it was good for her. I tried to talk to her a little later, but she didn’t respond. Just walked away like I wasn’t there. Didn’t see her around after the semester ended. We never spoke again.



Peace to You.

© LW Publishing 2010

Encounter

In the days of the cavemen, while I was a student at Wayne State University, I was sitting in the hallway near the band room one day when a guy in his mid twenties came in from the front. He was very thin and disheveled. There was a wildness to him. His hair was a mess but his clothes were clean. His movement seemed slow and specific, like he knew where he was going but he didn’t want to get there. He was carrying a Monopoly game box under his arm. It had big rubber bands holding it together, packed full of papers that were sticking out here and there. It was impossible to not see him. On the street you might not see him, but in a university music building, he stood out like a stop sign.

We made eye contact.

He looked away. His eyes scanned the hallway, floor, walls, ceiling, as if he was looking for cracks. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Finally, he looked at me again. Then he walked right up to me and stood directly in front of me where I was sitting on the bench. If I’d tried to stand up, I would have bumped into him. He looked very tall from that perspective.

Him: You go to school here?
Me: Yes.
Him: Me too.
Me: Cool.
Him: Yeah. I’m a trumpet major. French horn. Flute. But right now I’m producer for the Commodores.
Me: Wow.
Him: Yeah. But you gotta be careful.
Me: Careful about what?
Him: About them. You can’t trust them.
Me: Who’s them?
Him: The operator. You can’t talk to her because she know. She can see what you thinking. You have to be careful.
Me: Yeah.
Him: They’ll get your numbers and then you got nothing left.
Me: Is that what’s in your box?
Him: Yeah. All my numbers. I produce. The Commodores. Kool and the Gang. Retha Franklin.
Me: You produce all of them?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Wow.
Him: Yeah.
Me: Must keep you busy.
Him: I got it all right here. Everything I need.
Me: Cool.
Him: Yeah. Don’t call her. Don’t talk to the operator. She know, man. She know. You gotta be careful what you do.
Me: Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.
Him: Yeah.

Awkward pause.

Then he walked away, that box held tightly to his chest. As he went he looked at the floor and the walls and the ceiling. He turned the corner and I never saw him again.

Another student in the music department walked up to me. He said, “I think that guy used to go to school here. I said, “Really.” “Yeah.” “Wow.” “Yeah, they say he dropped out one year and then he just came back around all messed up.” “Wow.” “Yeah.”

I have wondered from time to time if that could happen to me. The brain decides to stir up a little too much dopamine. No one knows why. Would it be a slow decline into confusion? Would it be a sudden fall? Could I wake up one morning and find myself compulsively trying to avoid the operator, walking the streets, speaking nonsense to strangers?

If you were the stranger, would you be kind to me?






Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010