The strawberries aren’t as pretty as these ones, but still good.
On my way to work this morning, there was a guy standing on the side of a busy road about a half hour from my house. It was only 7:30am, but he stood with his bags and a cardboard sign pleading, ‘East.’ His bright red beard stood out the most to me; he looked like a friend of a friend. I thought about him on the way to work, what would happen to him on his travels.
After work, I drove to the library to drop off a book. I was almost there, when I spotted the same guy from this morning, talking to a couple people. I couldn’t believe he somehow made it to this one-horse town. Sounds weird, but something inside of me needed to talk to him. I just felt this odd connection. I had to find out his story. I parked the car at the library and took off down the street to where I last saw him. I didn’t want to lose him. As I reached the main street, I saw him stroll out of the drugstore. I made my way over to learn more.
His name was Charlie, an artist from Florida. He was on his way to New York to work on boats made of odds-and-ends parts that will be put in the Hudson Bay. He took trains through Georgia to Memphis, to Chicago to Indiana, then back to Chicago, and finally, somehow, my little deadbeat town in Southwestern Pennsylvania. He told me about how he paints, draws, and makes sculptures out of weird little objects, working at a pizza shop when he needs money. I told him I’m sort of a non-fiction writer by night, office drone by day. His travels fascinated me, this small town girl begging to get out. I walked with him a little ways, talking about where he’s been, what this town is like, and where he wanted to go next. He said he wanted to get some coffee and pick up a few items at a grocery store. Well, the gas station with the best coffee and the grocery store aren’t exactly close… so I gave him a ride.
I know. It’s not safe. By this point, however, I walked halfway across town with him, so if Charlie the artist was going to attack me, he could have done so ten times over. Walking back to the car, he told me how much he liked the town, especially the old architecture, something he never saw growing up in Florida. I agreed with him that we do have beautiful buildings, but living here is not an option for me. He said he understood, but told me how different it will be to come back once I’ve moved on, that this town will look completely different to me. We’ll see.
After Charlie stocked up on canned goods for the trip and olives and wings for dinner, he asked me to do him a favor. He had some items on him that, though very important to him, were taking up room in his pack. Could I mail them to his home address? Yes, I told him, you can trust me to mail your stuff. I plan on doing so on Saturday, which coincidentally, is both of our birthdays.
I dropped him off so he could catch his train out of town. He said he’ll send me prints of his artwork, and to keep him updated if I ever get to Portland, which I told him is my ultimate goal, because he has a friend out there. I waved goodbye before he turned to go, and I put the car in reverse, leaving.
A few years ago, I came to the conclusion that a person is officially a grown up when they become a ’stranger’ to small children. To become a stranger, one has to start talking to strangers without fear, which is encouraged in adult life– meeting people through friends, at bars, various get-togethers, networking opportunities. All of these go against what we’re taught as children, to fear people we don’t know because they could be a potential threat. This is still sometimes carried over, especially for women. For a minute, I considered not finding this guy, because– you never know!– he could possibly be a crazy man with a big knife and a thirst for blood. While I think its best to play safe, meeting cool strangers every once in a while is good for your soul. You can’t let the fear get you down. I’m glad I didn’t.
