Tell Me About Your Life

If you listen, people will tell you everything. For such a loquacious person, I have come to the belief that if you listen, people will tell you everything. From the grocery clerk to the person who you happen to sit next to in any public facility.

It's not always the case, but often, if someone begins a sudden conversation, sit back and listen. You'll get it all. Case in point: a few days ago I was privy to someone's drug dealing past. I heard all about his former life, why he doesn't need to go that route now, and, get this, why he really misses the good old days. Cocaine was so reasonable. Nowadays these meth heads have screwed up everything. No argument from me, up here in the Northwest, they're taking anything metal that isn't nailed down, and even taking pipe cutters and welding torches to a few things that are.

"Tweakers" are so desperate for the almighty scrap metal dollar, they are going after statues in the park, catalytic converters under cars, fire hydrant fixtures, and all types of copper wiring.

So I'm listening and this dude is telling me everything. His need to tell it is obviously greater than my need to hear it. But, as a writer, it's how I learn things. So I listen harder and he details his customers from a senator's son to a bulimic jockey. Now I'm really listening; and he's really telling me everything.

He's so likable too. Even when he tells me about a certain trip to Vegas when, "we turned the Jew on his head and took all his money." Imagine him looking into my face and telling me all this. Is he that out of it? Apparently.
He spots an old friend in the crowd who asks what he's doing now. "I'm following the Cubs," he says, yeah, I go to a lotta ball games, the Cubs, the Giants sometimes, and the Roy-als." He refers to the Kansas City Royals as the Roy-als. It reminds me of the Travolta character in Pulp Fiction who was so amused that a Big Mac in France is called a "Royale with cheese." They'd like each other.
So now I have a new friend. Oh boy!

Eventually I move on. He took off with his brother to have lunch and I saw a chance to change seats. An hour later I feel a tap on my shoulder. Deep in concentration I look up and guess who? Fortunately, a quick handshake from my new bud and we part company.

What a great day I had. No really.

Comments

To a Tee

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Illusory

What does it take to enrage you? That moment when your words fly on pure emotion because enough is enough. Is it a driver that cuts you off at high speed? What about being an eyewitness to blatant racism or on the receiving end of some obvious injustice? I know some people who never express rage. I admire them but know full well I am not capable of such distance from that which would bring about such a strong response. Another senseless shooting and 7 people die at the hands of a mentally ill gun owner. The father of the 20 year old college student lets it fly and somehow millions feel a new sense of relief. He calls the politicians bastards who do nothing, he wears his pain in public. The news media responds but we all know that nothing is going to change. We are the gun country. We are the place where anybody, anytime, can be cut down just for being there when somebody else snaps. Usually the perpetrators are delusional. ...

Mr. Greene v. Mr. Brown

I want to tell you about something. Something I've carried inside myself for a number of years now. Perhaps if I were a different kind of person I wouldn't need to talk about it. I'm not. My need to tell it is stronger than your need to hear it. Because, however, there are a number of teachers and former students of mine who may read these meanderings from time to time, I need to tell this story all the more. About 7 or 8 years ago I was asked if I would allow a university PhD. candidate to observe an English class. At first I decided against it because I was scheduled to have a student teacher placed with me the second half of the semester in question. After some urging, however, at the request of a respected colleague, I agreed. Soon I was committing to extra meetings, signing documents and explaining to the class in question who the young woman who thoughtfully pounded away on a laptop in the rear of the classroom three times a week was. I knew that the topic of ...

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