It was dark, late, and cold. I wanted not much more than to promptly get back to whichever apartment I'd have been living in and expend every last ounce of my energy studying the intricacies of conflict. To bury myself in literature and not say a word to anyone.
Waiting for the bus, I was impatient. A man passed and sat precariously next to me on the bench, shifting and shuffling his feet in perfect uncomfortableness and discontent. He eyed me slipping the pepper spray into my pocket.
"I'm jealous of your phone," he says, in a voice wavering with unassuredness; I know he wanted to address me as soon as I walked past; I have a certain magnetic effect on strangers, particularly troubled ones. Stability has no effect on me, and those with charming, quaint, stable lives have no interest in me. So be it?
And much like any strange conversation set off by randomness or a stray remark, I ended up discussing the logistics of mobile technology with this 30 year old man, homeless, possibly 'not all there' in his head.
My specialty? Yeah, guess so.
I ended up helping this man's friend load his belongings onto the 49 bus, significantly unsure of what I was doing, but curious to see where this uneasiness would take me. So what if he was homeless? I've always wanted to know a homeless man's story. What's behind those tattered hats and dumpster-scented jackets, traces of Marlboro in the pockets and tobacco between the teeth? There's a certain undeniable elegance and one day I've been intending to get to the bottom of it. So to speak.
We took our seats on the bus, pushed down rudely by acceleration. I moved to make room for this strange man, fingering the pepper spray in my pocket but feeling safer by the minute. It was okay. He wasn't going to hurt me. He was just looking for a conversation -- aren't we all?
We're all craving rhetorical flourishes and welcoming intonations.
Day-to-day small talk can't be enough, not even close; its (eloquence) doesn't sing the blues like genuine words do. Rueful, sorrowful. We're craving something real.
The man introduces himself as "Andy," and we watch the other man -- his friend (sufficiently further down the line of insanity) -- empty and organize the contents of his dumpster findings.
Treasures? Andy seemed to think so.
He pulled out a DVD and handed it to Andy.
"Do you know how to tell the difference between a blank and one with something on it?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, here. See how this blank one doesn't have the same ribbons and lines? It usually works."
"Oh..."
His friend -- the name escapes me -- continues rummaging in his findings, pulls out an unopened bottle of tequila, small, a souvenir. I laugh enthusiastically, having been gulping one much like it the night before, and the notion of alcohol unmarred in dumpsters tickled my cynicism. The two hobos laughed too.
"You should give that to her, for helping you with your stuff," Andy suggests, and the other man complies, grinning and handing me the bottle.
I thank him graciously for the gift, amused by the unexpected profoundness of the circumstances. So many things -- many of them perfectly functional, but no longer wanted.
Finders, keepers.
The friend continued showing us his findings, pulling out a pair of gloves and offering them to me. Internet security. A pair of shoes. A wrench. He offered to me every single one of these objects, his generosity preceding his obvious insanity.
It's intensely startling how those with the least to give are the ones most eager to do so.
"You can't judge things by whether they're wanted. Everyone, anyone, someone, somewhere, will want every particular thing. Nothing -- no one -- is ever unwanted."
I nod in agreement. "I try not to judge... you never know..." I mumble quietly, remembering the pepper spray.
Andy nods. I'm sure he knows.
We exchange phone numbers; his is on a scrap of Marlboro carton -- one mystery solved: so that is what happens to those Marlboros. Numbers of strangers written on them, for future reference and perpetual memories.
You learn something new from every rhetorical flourish. All these strangers, all these welcoming intonations.
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