A Man

The last couple of days, driving back and forth between my house and Mom and Dad's, I noticed a man. He's been standing on the less traveled side of an intersection - a little side road, really, that leads to an old road that used to be the main road. He has a very small cardboard sign that says, "HOMELESS HELP."

The first time, he was nearly a blur as I took the yielding curve on the slow side of 40 mph. I noted the cardboard, the flannel, an unkempt beard, a baseball cap. That was Saturday. And yesterday, I saw him there again, impressed by the same details, an additional sense of fatigue. Worn work boots.

I headed to Mom and Dad's after work today. An unsettling blue mood fell on me at the same time I was bathed by golden sunlight and perfumed by the early blooming cherry trees. So much beauty on the edge of melancholy. I flew across the county line at the bottom of a hill, crossed the river on the old main road and turned up the hill.

He stood where he'd been the past few days, all faded flannel and denim and weathered leather and a face burnished by sun and whatever hardship had fallen. The light was red. I dug in my purse. My windows were down. I held a folded bill out the window.

He approached the car assuring me that he was a harmless fellow. But I wasn't afraid of him. That sense of sadness in me just welled up. He took the money from my hand with callused fingers, thanking me. "God bless you," I said, feeling a terrible knot rising in my throat.

"God bless you," he repeated. And then he add, "Rock and roll til you die."

I smiled as the light turned green, held out a lifted hand as I made my turn. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's an addict. Maybe he's an angel. Maybe he's none of those things. But what I do know is, he's a man.

In Plane English

I am not a frequent flyer, by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't even fly until I was 24 years old. But I've flown a fair bit since then - enough to know the drill. And considering that I was pretty anomalous in this day and age for having flown so seldom, I'm surprised at the number of people who have probably flown a great deal more than I have who act like they don't know the drill.

Please, sir, don't try to use your cell phone while we are taxiing toward the runway. The flight attendant can see you, and her name is Joan and she looks like Elvira, and she means business. It is not an approved electronic device for in-flight use - use of a cell phone is strictly prohibited once the exterior cabin door is closed. And I know you're probably very busy and important and you're trying to get in one more very important call, but just don't. Aside from the fact that you're holding us all up, I'm afraid to see what Joan will do to you.

And I know that the upright position isn't like your Lazy Boy recliner, but please, just click it forward. We can see that your head is resting in the lap of the passenger behind you. Sit up straight and get ready to go. And your tray table? Don't use it to prop your latest issue of Country Living on. It must be in the stowed and locked position. Open your shade, too. I know you're ready for your long winter's nap, but the shades must be open during take-off and landing. Oh, and your giant oversized carry-on bag that you refuse to stow in the overhead bin? It must be completely under the seat in front of you - seriously. Joan will get out her ruler to check it.

I know the flight attendants don't always speak clearly over the intercom - and some times they say their spiel so fast you wonder what if I actually need to know that? But get with the program, people. Flight delays are bad enough without having to endure them because you can't wait to take that call until we land. And, p.s., in the unlikely event that we have a water landing, I'm not going to instruct you on how to use your cushion as a flotation device. I'm just going to let you drown.

Dirty Film Boys

Almost from the first moment I started The New Job, I thought of the guys that work in the office across the common area from us as the Dirty Film Boys. Right in line with the oddness of ATown, I think they make short films and indie documentaries and maybe make commercials to pay the bills.

Their hours are irregular - sometimes they are there when I arrive in the morning at 8:30, but more often than not, they come in somewhere between 11 and 1. When they aren't there, I notice the place on the white door where they've pushed it open, a big brownish stain from dirty hands. And when they are there, I notice the stale sweaty smell that seems to linger in the common area. I attribute it to them, although, that might not be fair, since the common area isn't air conditioned and we have been experiencing a heat wave. Whatever the case, they take the fall for the pervasive locker room odor.

And then there's the interior of their office. Shelves line the right wall, spewing all sorts of cords and equipment. Weird props - like the mannequin head that looks out from the first desk along the wall, which is painted this ridiculously vibrant apple green. Sometimes I see the guys in there in their giant video-gaming chairs looking at the huge monitors and shouting incoherent commands to each other. And sometimes I meet one of them coming out of the men's as I go into the ladies' - I seem to be on the same pee schedule as the one who could easily be a stand-in for Vincent D'Onofrio. I think about introducing myself, but that's an awkward place to shout hello, so mostly I just smile benignly at him on my way to the WC.

So far, I kind of love the Dirty Film Boys and their mysterious sweaty office with its mannequin, whom I've name Elsa (even though it has no hair and is not clearly female). Perhaps they will become greater players in the drama of my life - or maybe they'll just continue to be the extras across the hall.

Life After Potter

When I went to get my book Friday, I was feeling a bit sad that I couldn't be at some wildly fun party that made the occasion more memorable. But once I saw the little group of people clustered around the first register in Kroger, I realized that I'd picked an appropriate place to get my book. It was a testament to the magic of Potter that among the crowd were Gothy teenagers, frat boys, a couple of good ol' country boys, and a guy I'm quite sure plays Dungeons & Dragons. Young, old, black, white, men, women, all standing there waiting, talking to perfect strangers from completely different walks of life about the sweet anticipation of book seven. Even among my friends, I've been reminded that Potter has been one of those things that can bind us together. And now it's over.

Daisy considered starting a support group, but since it would be sort of expensive for all the cross-country flying, I'm doing the next best thing: The Post-Potter Blog. In order to respect the privacy of those who haven't finished the seventh Potter (like poor Niki taking the bar) and those of my readers who are tired of the Pottermania (like STGD), I've set up a new blog so that those of you who wish to can talk about the book. I've posted a basic review for reactions, and I'll put up some additional posts for discussion. If you want me to post something, just email me or leave it in the comments. Because even though it's over, Harry Potter's still something to talk about.

In Praise of My Fellow Man

Generally speaking, I hate Wal-Mart. I hate the big-boxness. The battleship blue of its sign. And the crowds, which are inevitably horrid from the moment you pull into the parking lot to the checkout line. But tonight, I needed two disparate things - groceries and a tire guage. No choice about either one, and Wal-Mart was more appealing than making two stops. My cupboards are in a sad state of affairs with all my comings and goings. And the new car comes with a guage that tells me when my tire pressure is low - this time around because of the sudden drop in temperatures.

I decided to chance it. I actually maneuvered into a parking space without much ado. I was mad that the only tire guage left was the $10 one. I debated what to do about knocking off a glass jar candle - Kim will attest this accident seems to be my lot in life. But I managed to assemble a reasonable menu for dinner, grab a loaf of bread, some Diet Cokes.

At the checkout lines, all of the under 20 items lines were packed, so I picked the traditional fare. The guy in front of me had a buggy full of groceries. But I was too tired to care, finding some relief in making it to the Wal-Mart finish line to seek out a shorter line. He had already unloaded a few things from his cart when he saw me fall in line behind him. And he put those items back in his cart and invited me to go in front of him. That never happens. I thanked him for his kindness and pulled ahead.

Checking out in front of me was a young black man. He pulled cash from his pocket to pay and unknowingly scattered a few bills on the floor. I didn't notice until he started to walk away, but I managed to catch him in time for him to get his money.

On the way home, I thought about all the little ways that humanity finds you when you least expect it. Sometimes in quiet subtle ways, like some guy responding to your harried face and letting you go first in the Wal-Mart line. He could've ignored me. I could've ignored the money on the floor or taken it for myself - it was just a couple of dollars. But somehow, the kindness showed to me made me want to make the effort to call attention to someone else's potential misfortune.

After dinner, I cleaned a few moldy things out of the fridge and took the trash out to the big cans behind the house. Tomorrow's pick up day, so I rolled mine to the end of the drive. On a lark, I rolled my neighbor's cans out there, too. I'm not the neighborly type - I only know their names and not much else about them.

It's a cold clear night, this week marking the first taste of frost. Downtown's bright - they're filming One Tree Hill down on the corner. As I turned back toward the house, I saw the lights blazing in everyone's windows. Maybe one of them was inside thinking about a bad day. Or talking on the phone to a good friend. Or just cozied up inside not wanting to venture out into the cold. Whatever they might be doing, they don't have to take the trash out.

Strangers Collide

It's just after 2 a.m. I'd been sitting up reading, curled up under a throw on the couch, enjoying the cool breeze from the open window. Just before 2, a sudden sound split the silence - the unmistakable sound of crumpling metal, swerving tires, grappling breaks and shattering glass. The noise rent the air so abruptly that I started into the upright position and was at the window by the time silence descended again.

I couldn't see anything, but I knew it had to be close. And then there were the shouts of voices and the sudden peal of sirens filled the air. They seemed to be coming from all directions - from the north end of town and the south and from its very belly down by the river. Police cars, firetrucks and ambulances descended on the intersection.

And then there was the sickening quiet with the blue and red lights kicking an eerie strobe against the windows of the bank building. Even from a block away, I could hear the crunch of glass under the passing traffic; the discordant voices on the radios.

I can't actually see what happened. Can't see the cars or the passengers. I don't know who was loaded into the ambulance that just pulled away. I don't know what's left for the tow trucks angling across Third Street. In just under fifteen minutes, the street has fallen quiet again...a few passing cars, distant voices, the low whistle of a train. And yet, it's another one of those moments where I'm up here, peering out the window over the limb of the tree outside, and they, whoever they are, are down there, sharing the same strange moment. Two powerful bodies in motion and then. Stopped. For one breathless instant.

Post Script: As I was rereading this to post, I heard a scream and looked over my shoulder out the window in time to see one car rear-end another as they sped through the intersection. One turned in front of the other, the later careened into the side of the first, and so it begins again. How unbelievably eerie.

Habits of Strangers

The past few times I've been to the library, there's been an older black man sitting at the same table right between the H and K rows. He wears a gray felt fedora-type hat and a khaki coat. Every time I see him, he has a newspaper - but not the hometown newspaper. I can just tell from the layout of the front page. He has a notepad in front of him and he seems to be copying from the newspaper into the notepad. Slowly, painstakingly copying. There is something about him that makes me want to ask what he's doing, ask if I can help him. But I never do, and then he sticks with me as I walk home, cutting through the sculpture garden and up to the sidewalk on Third.

Today at Barnes & Noble, I stood in the romance section reading the back of a thick paperback. A group of people walked past me, but I didn't even look up. As they came back past, the guy pointed to the cover of one of the books featuring a rugged barechested cowboys. In an unmistakably gay voice he said, "Do you think there are pictures in this? If so, let's buy it right now." I laughed at him, and as they passed, he smiled at me. It reminded me of that old geometry principle that two lines only ever intersect in one point. This was a point of intersection. I didn't even get a good look at his face. But it happened - that moment where we were part of the same point of existence and then it was over.