blog entry

Island of Misfit Toys

It's my fault the Sox lost. I went to bed at the top of the 11th inning, at midnight.
Morning didn't console me as I left the house driving a car with an expired registration and squeaky brakes in need of repair. Traffic was lousy, deadlines were looming.

Then, I was ambushed. I got out of the car at a post office in a very upscale town where everyone is thin and attractive. I must be the only one who doesn't start the day with a 7am power yoga class and latte, I thought. I could never live in that town.

But apparently a very colorful character does live there. He has a beard and long hair. He wore an assortment of clothing: jeans, a vest over a button-down shirt, a baseball cap. He was carrying two walking sticks stripped of their bark when he approached me.

"I like your colors," he said, motioning to my choice of clothing. Hmm. "Can I give you this necktie for your man? It's colorful too. I think he'll like it." He proffered a dirty yellow tie, probably found near the train station. I thanked him, and hurried on my way.

Heading back to my car, he was still there. Knowing he should be "busy" like everyone else, he'd staked out a phone booth and was trying to look purposeful, to blend in with the brokers and businessmen who undoubtedly passed by here for the early trains.

"Hey, you remind me of a song," he said. "Judy Collins. Do you know her?" I wondered when this guy was last truly conscious of the day and year, but he was wearing me down in a charming way. He was so unlike what I expected to find here this morning. My gloomy mood was lifting. What must it be like to let go of the stresses of life and exist in a happier time?

He talked about the song, something about blue, and how it related to what I was wearing. I smiled, still trying to brush past him somehow politely. Then he was on to Joan Baez and Judy Collins singing together, something that might have happened, but not in my adult years. A guy checking the parking meters raised his eyebrows. I smiled and was determined to be polite.

When I finally said goodbye to this misfit in suburban powersuitland, he turned back to his phone booth. A sprig of evergreens was tucked in a back pocket of his jeans, some sort of talisman against the paved world. I felt encouraged that he sought me out and that I didn't completely reject him, like I'd passed a test. The day improved from there.