Skip to main content

Masked Man

He's got one of those faces you see all over. The kind that you can't place because it's always out of context. He speaks to yo on occasion as if you've known each other for a lifetime. You don't know his name. In fact you know absolutely nothing about him except that you recognize his face and it keeps popping up all the time. Today, he's really animated. Fired up because he has something to say and he's got to say it right now. He spills out of the coffee shop and into your face. He sets the scene. Apparently some guy in there is on the phone or on his computer having a video or audio conference. He's way too loud and could care less. He forces his conversation, which is meaningless to everyone in the room, on the faint music in the background. He rapes the ambiance with his voice. He's wheeling" and dealin"' and oblivious to the reader in the room. Oblivious to 3 other conversations near him. Oblivious to the baristas, their supervisor, the guy who emotes into his journal daily with his head in his hands. He wants you to know, this familiar face. He wants to tell somebody and it might as well be you. You listen. He tells you he is a runner and when he hears voices creeping up on him he gets paranoid. It's because he runs, he says. He wants everyone to play by the rules. But there might not be any rules. You understand and you tell him so.
You share his concern. A thought strikes. You say, "Maybe there should be some kind of universal symbol...a non-verbal sign a person could make to communicate that the border has been crossed." Something that says, hey bud, you're too loud, be aware of yourself and those around you. He agrees. He really agrees and lights up like the Statue of Liberty. You suggest making the time out sign. You form a T with your hands and he's ecstatic. He exits muttering to himself and then turns to see you enter the coffee shop. It's quiet inside, and you still don't know his name.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Quality of Optimism

 I've returned to The Book of Qualities, by J Ruth Gentler once again to meet the needs of one of the senior students in my little Writing From Memory class I'm currently teaching in my local community center.  This little volume personifies various concepts and personality traits.  The particular student "in need" seems to be fixated on writing about her past relationships.  Apparently, there were many.   I'm OK with that.  I only hope that she picks a few qualities that are as revealing about herself as those that might describe her Ex's.  There is much to be learned by writing about a quality.  The aforementioned book seems to have survived well over the years.  I first encountered it and its author way back in the late 1970s.  I took a journal writing workshop from her.  Then, a few years later, her book came out and I introduced these writing exercises to my students.  11th grade Juniors seemed to do the best with it. ...

Writing on the Wall

       The first time I saw graffiti that was memorable was in a middle school bathroom.  As 6th graders I often walked home with friends by the middle school we'd soon be attending.  A stop by the boys bathroom near the boys gym placed me face to face with a piece of graffiti that immediately madame and my friends laugh uncontrollably.  On the wall above the urinals, was penned a short poem that read"                     This is a Teepee to take a pee pee,                         Not a wigwam to beat your tom tom      14 year-old humor at it's best.  The laughter my friends and I experienced was cathartic.  Being bottom of the barrel Freshmen could have dire consequences in the boys bathroom.  Those unpleasantries would come later, but for the moment, we were ecstatic and proceeded to read all the g...

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 ...