MoFo Coffee Pot Adventure

10/18/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

My wife should know better than to let me wander in strange towns. It’s like an opportunity to be inside a petri dish, watching – and sometimes commenting.

It’s the commenting part that will one day lead to my body being inside a chalk outline on the sidewalk, probably with onlookers pointing and saying, “He had it coming!”

While Dawn made good use of herself, I went to find a coffee pot. I decided to buy one for the motel room so that we could enjoy coffee-on-demand without the necessity of hiring servants or driving around like electrocuted squirrels. We leave the coffee pot when we leave. They don’t get discarded by the staff. The “coffee pots” provided by most hotels, in my opinion, are secret torture devices that neither make coffee or provide any service, unless it is to test one’s ability to hurl a small appliance out the window and into the parking lot.

As I wandered around the Dollar General store in North Little Rock, I couldn’t help but be amused by the antics of another shopper. His fevered chatter reminded of that time when I gave my Aunt Ardith 2 bottles of 5-Hour Energy Shots instead of whiskey in her coke. (The doctor said she needed to drink less alcohol; the fault is his for not being cautiously specific about this sort of thing.) Not since the early comedy specials of Richard Pryor had I heard the f-bomb and mofo grenade dropped with such frequency. There were so many I thought I was seeing them begin to fall from his mouth and hang in the air, like profane Zeppelins. No matter where I wandered in the store, the F-Bomb Man seemed to materialize, like impossible-to-remove flecks of glitter in one’s underwear drawer.

I finally succumbed to the realization that I had walked around the store so many times that I was about to be made Store Manager. I stopped and bothered a young male employee who was apparently trying to strangle the cash register on the left in frustration. I swear that he said, “Go to the last aisle and jump off the bridge there, where the zombies are.” When I went to the last aisle, there were indeed coffee makers there. There was also an errant display of Halloween merchandise. I surmised that at least some of the keywords in the employee’s reply to my question were reality-based.

Lo and behold, when I got the register, F-Bomb Man and his female companion were behind me. The two children with them were darting around like pinballs in a half-broken machine, one manned by a maniacal player.

After a few more Mofo Grenades, I couldn’t help but to laugh. The little boy with the couple behind me stopped in his tracks and stared up at me, his mouth open, as if he were witnessing a grown man about to lose his mind and/or vote Republican. It struck me as strange that my laugh startled the boy sufficiently to bring his frenzied stomp around the central displays to a halt – but that the impressive onslaught of profanity from the adult male with him hadn’t fazed him. I made myself a note to write that child’s teachers in the future, to let them know that he was in no way responsible for believing that some profane words were substitutes for common adjectives, nouns, verbs, and salutations. (And probably street names too.) I had grown up with world-champion cursers myself. I was quite old when I realized that it was possible to read the menu at a restaurant without inserting colorful and possibly ear-piercing obscenity in the middle of descriptive items.

Turning to make eye contact with the man behind me, I was surprised that he had stopped talking too.

“Hey. How are you doing?” I asked, loudly, as my voice had been amplified by a town crier from the Middle Ages. And I laughed again, possibly from brain damage at this point.

Surprised, the man said, “Just maintaining, man. Sorry about all the cursing.” Which proved he realized he was cursing.

In a moment never to be rivaled by any extemporaneous quip ever, I replied, “Dude, just call me Ritz.”

And I held up might right hand for a fist bump, something I never do.

F-Bomb Man immediately held his fist up and bumped mine.

“Why they call you Ritz?” He asked.

Without hesitation and looking him right in the eye, I replied, “Because I ain’t no common cracker.”

And then we both laughed and laughed, as the man’s female companion and the cashier looked at us like giraffes with top hats on our heads.

PS: This story isn’t about the cursing. It’s like ambient background music to me. Without insult or anger, profanity is just another means of communication; it is often uncouth and undignified, but so too are parts of this life, one which is too busy and too demanding to be derailed by a poor choice of words. Also, the F-Bomb/Mofo Grenade Man was a Rembrandt of his time with cursing.

Whimsical

Nailed It!

10/15/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

People still take a moment to caution me about walking in the dark. It’s generally good advice, just as it is when someone tells you to not use a blowtorch to warm one’s nose.

I’d like to present further proof that almost all of my mishaps and near-misses have occurred in the bright of day, in maintained conditions.

In this case, I thought I had a rock wedged in the high-dollar treads of my Wal-Mart walking shoes. When I took a step, my instincts stopped my foot from hitting the surface flat. So, I did what I always do – I shot my foot out slightly above the ground to knock the rock out. Instead, the ‘rock’ jabbed my foot again.

Something in my brain stopped me from doing it again. I hobbled over to the brush to lean over and pull the rock out. Instead, my fingers pulled and pulled at something flat and metallic. It took a minute of back and forth motion to pry it out of my shoe.

It turns out that I was very lucky. Had the nail hit anywhere other than the arch of my right foot, I would have been a shrieking disaster.

As for my walk? I nailed it.

PS: The last line was for levity, in case my favorite cousin furiously hits the ‘eye-roll’ emoji that isn’t there.

Halloween, Holiday, Humor

A Quarter Past Halloween

10/14/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

A Halloween Story For My Friends:

I’m normally not one to attend parties, especially if drinking or dancing are expected. Or being awake past 9:01 p.m. There’s too much temptation for me to do an unannounced gravity check and meet Mr. Floor during these events. Especially Mr. Waxed Floor, whose most trusted friend, “Mrs. Lower Back Injury,” seems to be everywhere.

My wife Dawn insisted that I at least try to go and enjoy myself. A local club was sponsoring an event near Downtown Springdale last year, during the prolonged period in which Emma looked like year 2 of the Vietnam War.

Dawn wasn’t amused when I asked if it was an “either/or” proposition. In typical fashion, she replied, “It depends on whether there’s a scented candle to mask the smell of blunt force trauma.”

As is always the case, I spent an inordinate amount of time planning my costume. Attending a Halloween party without wearing a costume is akin to eating the label from a jar of pickles and discarding the contents: it’s amusing, but in the end, not very rewarding. I take these things very seriously, as older adults get fewer chances to mock other adults without the risk of a scuffle. The riskiest thing I had done all last year was cast my vote for president and it seemed like I was still doing time for that error.

As you would imagine, I got kicked out of the party. But not for a reason you would ever expect. These party people sure don’t have a sense of humor to match their drive to hold gatherings of strangers. I theorize that their thickening wallets cut off the blood supply to their cerebral cortex.

“Why are you dressed like a quarter, X?” Several people asked me this as I milled around the Halloween party near Emma Street.

To which I replied, “Well, Gandhi himself told us to “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.””

🙂

Razorback Greenway, Springdale, Whimsical

Armadillo By Morning

10/14/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

Last night, my wife asked me how I choose where to walk next. I answered honestly that I had no clue. Most mornings, I seldom end up anywhere that I had intended. I could point out that my life has taken the same course, but for the moment, I’ll skip the cliché of a life without compass.

This morning, I lay in bed with the cat nipping my shin and toes for at least an hour. It was too early to get up, so I used my other foot to pet the cat until my calf muscle was insisting that I stop. I felt guilty for having delighted in petting a neighborhood cat last night, one we alternatively name “Marsha,” or “DevilCat.” Last night, as my wife and I sat on the bench in the front of the house, DevilCat darted around the corner and demanded affection. Our own cat Güino peered suspiciously and contemptuously through the bottom of the blinds as the intruder greeted us outside. This is the very same cat who screeched and hissed at the office window yesterday morning at 4 a.m. startling me as I sat there trying to navigate the complexity of getting both of my shoes on the correct feet at such an hour. DevilCat’s eyes are hilariously large in the dark, like a teenage girl getting to order her first mocha frappuccino at Starbucks. Marsha the DevilCat, as it turns out, is quite the friendly feline, despite having a demeanor which would frighten Freddie Krueger.

Although I left this morning with the intention of going to Emma to walk and check out the new goings-on (including the crater recently added at the first stop sign), I ended up in Lowell, along Goad Springs Road. North Goad Springs has a beautiful stretch of trail extending for a long distance. For no reason whatsoever, I parked across from the convenience store there, on an empty and graveled area near the road, and walked South instead, on a portion of the trail I had never walked. The trail below my feet was a wide expanse of modern concrete, a vague grey ribbon marked with intermittent yellow dashes that I could barely see. If only life would take a moment to give us such direction, even if only in the most dimly-lit way possible. (I promised clichés, remember?)

The first portion of the road there is dense and people have little cause to drive the road near the trail at that hour. It was a wide open sky, one without clouds but decorated by a hazy sliver of a moon above, in the shape of a cookie bitten once by an overzealous 5-year-old. It’s scenic and quite beautiful during the day; at night it is magnified into something beyond. I think I’m going to need to coin a word describing the overlap of differences between scenes during daylight and night, one which conveys the magic of both isolation and of something just about to happen at every moment. If other worlds exist, they certainly exist in the margins of what we think we see and no time of day is more prehistoric than the swath of minutes before sunrise.

Off to one side of the trail a solitary yard light last cast an orange sherbet glow, creating a diaphanous haze like one sometimes gets over one’s eyes coming out of the pool. I couldn’t see what the light was supposed to be illuminating. For me, it was simply an unexpected orange beacon casting thousands of beams of light into the trees and brush as I walked by.

At the first bridge at the curve at the bottom of the valley, the temperature dropped precipitously as if 17 ghosts sneaked up on me to send a shiver down my spine. (Ghosts always travel in odd numbers, if you were wondering.) It was as the valley hadn’t gotten the message that it was still warm above.

As I exited the valley and began my slow climb it was startling to see on my left a huge reminder of civilization in the form of a multi-floor building off in the distance. It was comprised of 200 stacked and similar brightly-lit rooms, all of them lit unnecessarily. I imagined that a mischievous janitor had run through the building, flipping all the lights on for his own amusement. In his defense, no one would stop him. Why all the lights were on was a mystery I thought about for a moment and forgot as I moved past.

And just like that, before I’d even settled into the idea of possibly being tired, a huge construction crane towered above me, against the night sky. I couldn’t believe that I had already reached the unlikely intersection of the trail, the interstate, and the area where the new East-West corridor above Springdale met them. As I walked under the interstate, the whump-whump of the vehicles passing above created the otherworldly post-apocalyptic feeling that I had anticipated. It brought to mind a period over 30 years ago in the mid-80s, when the interstate was being built and still referred to as “The Bypass.” We weren’t sure what it was bypassing. And we certainly had no idea that such a road would transform every aspect of our lives in this corner of the state. Even back then, in another incarnation, I spent many nights running, walking and biking on those unfinished lanes, even when they were still just miles of compressed gravel. It’s a memory that I cherish and one that is almost impossible to replicate in today’s more modern world, governed by strange ideas of safety and caution. I owned those roads then and in some way, I still own them. The great cycle of time has provided me with a way to relive those hours in the dark, all the while experiencing new incarnations of the same fleeting feeling of isolation in the midst of so much.

Before deciding to turn back, I walked under the mammoth overpass of the new road, stopping to look straight up and feel the dizzy recognition of immensity. The twinkling stars above it and me provided the perfect backdrop. It would have been the best possible picture to have somehow captured the perspective of it. Providing no catastrophe strikes, in a blink of an eye in the course of time, someone will stand in the same spot, years from now, seeing the same sight I did this morning.

Doubling back and retracing my steps I had forgotten that the cool valley would be waiting for me. It enveloped me in a cool haze. All I can compare it to is that first blast of cool air when you are 8 years old and you’ve been banished to the great outdoors for most of the afternoon.

I stopped to look up at the silver moon that reminded me of an older movie logo, the one with the small boy fishing off the cusp of a bright partial moon. On my right, there was a single solitary tree towering above a bench several feet away from the trail. I thought of some future afternoon, one with a cool breeze, when I might return and sit on that bench, a visit without real motive.

Apart from the impersonal interstate I only encountered two vehicles. One was a white truck which was being driven so slowly I speculated they might have been attempting to go back in time and the second vehicle was a police car out of jurisdiction driving so fast I thought it might be a DeLorean attempting to reach 88 miles per hour. It’s possible that the police car driver was also accumulating frequent flyer miles. I met several armadillos, too, none of which seemed interested in making my acquaintance.

There’s no message in this story, just moments.

As you slumbered, I walked with the moon and made friends with old memories. Or vice versa.

Travel, Whimsical

A Tongue-In-Cheek Travel Story

10/13/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

A Story For All My Friends:.

During my whirlwind trip to Europe last year, I was visiting a place unfamiliar to me. The locals had cautioned me but didn’t specify why I should be careful. At the time, it didn’t bother me at all. The fact that they served me the best baguettes and flavorful coffee I’d ever tasted made such concerns seem foolish.

My only morning there, I very much wanted to take a walk in the unknown hills and fields surrounding the tiny hamlet in which I was staying. It was my goal to see all the sights I could squeeze into my trip, and preferably on foot. I headed toward a large expanse of open field, one I could see from my quaint bed and breakfast. A light fog obscured all the distant edges, waiting for the sun to peek and burn it off an hour or so later.

As I passed the edge of the pavement, I encountered a large yellow and black-edged sign, one which indicated “Warning: Stay Out!” in 3 languages. The urge to get away from people and places overpowered me, so I ignored the warning sign, deciding that the absence of a fence or any other observable prohibition to entry meant it was a forgotten relic, left as an inside joke or an indication of a property owner’s laziness.

About 50 feet past the sign, I still couldn’t see anything which warranted feeling unsafe. The grass seemed relatively maintained and it was quite peaceful. I continued on, but started noticing little bits of black and white-striped fabric. Soon, there were many more scattered whimsically on the ground. After several more steps, I noticed that some of the strips now seemed to be stained with what seemed to be blood.

Still ignoring any sense of danger, I quickened my pace, following the trail of thickening fabric pieces on the grass.

Suddenly, I noticed a large group of thin people wearing unusually clingy clothing and dark berets on their heads. Most were waving their arms in the air, while some seemed to be doing so in patterns I couldn’t quite discern as if they were trapped behind a barrier I couldn’t quite see. Their clothing matched the black and white-striped fabric pieces strewn about the field.

I bolted toward the tree-lined edge of the open field, some yards away. As I approached its perimeter, I could see a large rectangular sign facing the opposite direction, away from me.

As I cleared the field, I swiveled to read the sign’s large black lettering.

My skin crawled and the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up, as the realization struck me that I had just survived the last remaining WWII French mimefield.

Whimsical

Southeast of Eden?

10/12/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

Adjective joke: The sign indicated “Reserved Parking,” but the guy who exited his vehicle was one of the most aloof people I had ever seen.

Overly-descriptive analogy for the morning: “…it was the type of morning for which you would gladly insert your head into the slivered aperture of a storm drain, hoping that Pennywise the Clown were there, anticipating your arrival…”

Confirmed: local hospitals are offering free wound care to any Arkansas Razorback fan who is still deeply butthurt.

No word yet on whether Beliema’s $11,000 a day was wounded, though.

The old man turned to yell at me. “Hold your horses!”

“Mister,” I replied, “I can barely get them to cuddle!”

Sometimes, location matters. Imagine if we’d grown up watching the “Werewolf of Toledo” instead of the horror classic as we know it.

Because they warned me to dress formally, I appeared at the gala wearing my best birthday-suit-and-tie.

I woke up to a Monday morning. I dread the day – not because of the calendar, but because I can write 90% of the conversations I’m going to see and hear today before they occur. Don’t blame me as I creatively avoid the inevitable onslaught of news interpretations in favor of seeing things for what they are: overwhelmingly normal with a chance of crazies. (Written the morning after the Las Vegas shooting…)

Inexplicably dangerous: playing The Cars’ seminal 80s hit song “Shake It Up” on the company sound system at Dynco Nitroglycerin Manufacturing.

“I’m not saying that the small town’s police force is racist. On the other hand, they did arrest a can of black paint the other day.”

Culinary Science Fact: calamari was actually the result of an experiment gone awry. Two teams of scientists were investigating both calamari and nasal discharge. They got the samples mixed up and both were rated as “edible.” It’s been hell ever since.

If Target or Wal-Mart wants to play Xmas music already, you should rejoice. That means that big business thinks that Trump won’t have effed-up the entire country by then. That’s optimism, the fundamental essence of Xmas.

For a short time, I had a parrot that loved nuance, trivia, and arcane little-known facts: he was a technical fowl.

“Why do you insist that a sense of humor is our greatest gift” He asked me.

“Well, your face is sufficient proof that our creator indeed had an unrivaled sense of the hilarious,” I replied, a small smile touching the corners of my mouth.

PS: I value wit over popularity

It turns out that my Bedroom Gong wasn’t the best idea…

…but I’m basing that conclusion solely on the murderous look on my wife’s face this morning at 5 a.m.

It occurs to me that he is also the Inedible Hulk, too.

I recall with fondness the halcyon days of my youth – especially that time when I entered my sawhorse in the Ozarks Rodeo.

Strange and Inappropriate Juxtapositioning:

Is it just me or is there something amiss with playing Michael Jackson’s greatest hits at an 8-year old’s birthday party?

I spent about 2 hours in the dentist’s chair this afternoon. He was pissed when he came home and found me napping there.

Personal, Whimsical

October Surprise

10/07/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

Every once in a while, I walk somewhere new, where I’m not sure in which direction the roads might run – or if the road continues at all. There’s something about the unexpected that makes an otherwise uneventful walk a tad better. Because I found a new combination of places this morning, I walked much further than I intended. But because I encountered no one, I walked the roads as if I owned them. In a sense, when I’m the only one on them, I suppose that I do. At one point, I smelled the faint odor of tobacco and thought I could discern the orange glow of a cigarette, but I couldn’t be certain. I waved to the dark place containing the tip of the glowing cigarette and continued on. It amuses me to think that whoever was standing there was startled by the idea that I might be able to see him or her in the dark. Yes, it’s not smart to wander unfamiliar roads before the sun rises to greet me – but it is the only way I can be the sole owner for a brief moment.

I could see the horses to my left shortly after I started walking. The bright moon above gave their silhouettes a pronounced presence against the slight hill they were standing on. It seemed like I could walk up and reach out across the brush and touch them. On the way back, I stopped to approach the gate near the road. The white horse with dark flanks turned and came up to the fence. Unwisely, I reached out my hand, expecting the horse to eat at least two of my fingers. Instead, it pushed its head down across the gate and rubbed the side of my hand and arm. He stood, patiently, as I rubbed the side of his head with one hand, then two. I agree that it’s unwise to do this before 5 a.m. but in my defense, I think that we parted as friends. Although that horse may indeed bite me the next time I reach out my hand, I will be able to recall a surreal October morning when he dropped his guard and said hello.

In one spot, near a wide, open creek bed, I passed an imposing manor. Much of its profile was lit by arcing security lights. They might have been bragging lights, too, given the scope and intricacy of the house they were illuminating. The house was enormous, with a rolling yard and a gate which cost more than a new kidney. Oddly, though, the towering iron gates were wide open, as if they were an invitation to me to come inside and have a grilled cheese sandwich. The house seemed like it would have been a better fit in the countryside of England. Against the driveway, there was a small street sign. It probably said, “Don’t even think about it.” I took a picture of it but all I have to prove it is a large white blob, as its reflective surfaced rebelled from being captured in a picture.

As I turned from the apex of my walk, I discovered that I had been walking up a very long hill, imperceptibly taking me toward a rise I couldn’t see as I walked. Off in the distance, I could see a tower with its blinking warning light. The wind, already blowing with some force, escalated and began to whip at me at that elevation. It was a beautiful sight, looking toward the distant skyline and feeling the wind’s invitation to take flight and disappear into the night. Like most things, the view differed drastically coming from the opposite direction.

The full moon was a couple of nights ago, so the moon above wasn’t full, but it certainly shone brightly. The sky was intermittently broken by swaths of cotton ball and gauzy clouds. All the details of the early morning were starkly illuminated by strong shadows.

While I was admiring the sky, a dog materialized from either Hell or the dark shadows of the treeline along the road. He lunged and barked viciously. The only reason I didn’t get bit was because I jumped toward him, ready to stick my hand down his throat and yank his innards out through his mouth. He retreated for a moment. I elegantly turned and ran. Being an adult, though, I planned my vengeance. Before heading back toward the spot of the dog’s assault, I snapped a large branch off of one of the trees lining the road. I pulled off the little limbs and twigs of the stick as I walked back. As I neared the house where the canine resided, I readied my stick. Again, instead of barking in advance, the dog waited and I almost missed his silhouette by the edge of the road. As he jumped out to chase me, I stopped, raising the stick above me. I was going to show that dog what a headful of stars looked like. I’m not sure what changed the dog’s mind, though, because he continued to angrily bark as he ran past me and across a wide expanse of yard behind me. I put the stick in the driveway where the dog had originally emerged, as a gift to the owner.

Since the roads were desolate, I decided to go shirtless. Not since I was on the cover of “Least Likely” magazine have I wandered the streets in such a state. The breeze was simply too pleasant and I decided that if I did accidentally encounter someone on the roads at that hour, they would be too startled to object. I walked mile after mile, feeling the air on me and the trees rustling their approval.

As tired as I was, I stood near my car, feeling the wind howl around me. Someone watching me might have been concerned for my mental health. Unlike that hypothetical observer, though, I’ll remember this morning for a long time, perhaps forever, and most likely for reasons which might seem inconsequential to you. It was the perfect October morning, before the encroaching cold, before the bonfires on Friday evenings, and in advance of the hordes of costumes scampering around the streets.

I wish you could have been there, given that I don’t possess the words to convey the sublime pleasure of the morning. I could almost see the glittery magic dust in the air as I sighed and got in my car, returning to own version of normalcy and daily duties.

In my mind, though, I’m still standing on that unknown road, at the top of an immense hill, as the wind prepares to give me wings.

Social Rules, Whimsical

John-The-Catalyst’s Lesson For Today

10/01/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

Note of warning…The following is a paraphrasing of something that will either turn on a bulb on in your head or trigger mild irritation. Either way, listen closely to the revelation buried in your reaction. X
.
.

From John-The-Catalyst

The fact that you take a moment to bitch about what someone is wearing, the way they do their hair, sing, dance, or how they choose to speak is proof beyond a doubt that you believe that what other people think truly matters.

It’s the only logical continuation of your complaint.

If what other people think truly doesn’t matter, then exactly who are you complaining to and for what reason?

Your words of derision don’t reach the person you judge. Their lives continue on, pursuing their own chosen course.

You, though, have appointed yourself to be the arbiter of taste and decorum. To deny this is to misunderstand your own words and motives.

Even if you do tell the other person of your thoughts, anyone free of external validation will recognize your pettiness as just that. Anyone wounded by your words was already suffering – and your efforts have made the world incrementally worse by your presence in that moment.

If you don’t understand your own motives and self, who is the greater fool: he who wears clothing which doesn’t meet your approval or he who fails to see himself as a unique creature with free will?

Face facts. You judge the clothing, style, and bearing of another person to improve your own self-image for a brief and fleeting moment. It escapes from your grasp as soon as you utter the words.

The very nature of your words implies a superiority of perspective, if not worth, between individuals.

It is the most inauthentic to way to proceed in your life. You’ll feel powerless to stop it and perhaps to even try, even if you recognize the futility of anything except humorous observation.

All of us look and sound stupid and uninteresting to someone else. As you lean over to whisper a comment regarding another person, be assured that on the horizon stands your judge, barbed words at the ready.

Personal, Springdale, Uncategorized

The Morning of Shoes

10/01/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

I walked down the middle of Pleasant Street this morning. It lived up to its name for once. There was a single shoe in the exact middle of the road. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find an unattached foot in it but it turned out to have a pair of sunglasses inside. I tossed it to the sidewalk, hoping that no one with sun allergies was wandering the metropolis sans shoe. I know it’s not safe or smart to walk in the road, especially when every fifth car is probably being navigated by someone smelling of the fumes of a Corona or Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. I’ve often mentioned how liberating it is to own the road and the slumbering town around it. It is a sensation that I already know that I’ll miss when infirmity eventually robs me of my ability to walk the abandoned nighttime roads.

Seeing the high school from every angle certainly amplified the size of the place compared to when I crawled the halls there. It is much more majestic in the deep night, each light inside highlighting a plaque, a shadowy doorway, or polished surface. It was the embodiment of an empty world awaiting its inhabitants, both timeless and anticipatory. It is a haunted place, its souls imprinted there from the thousands of students and faculty who’ve resided within, concentric lives centered upon a collective of buildings with a single purpose.

Walking around business 71, I couldn’t help but intercept a group of young people exiting an eatery. One of the young men had a mostly finished bottle of beer in his hand. He raised it in salute and then turned to laugh with his other friends. I couldn’t imagine drinking at 5 a.m. and still be laughing. It’s a sure sign of old age when a cup of coffee and a comfortable chair defeats the call of the wild and youth. Although they wouldn’t understand the joke, I wanted to yell, “Get off my lawn!” in mock humor.

As I passed McDonald’s, I had the momentary urge to run inside and order 15 breakfast sandwiches and eat them all, without even bothering to take the paper off the outside first. The aroma was momentarily maddening, like when you visit a pizzeria and get your first sniff of the yeasty crust, certain that you will literally die before getting a bite of it. After a moment though, the siren call of the aroma changed and soured in my head to one of cloying grease in a pan of cooling water.

Heading back to my car, my feet demanded that I walk another long circuit, this time around the circumference of Murphy Park, a beautiful place transformed by the recent modernization of its features. As I was watching the geese and the ducklings circling around them near one of the central fountains, I didn’t notice the form seated on one of the trailside benches. He was seated, motionless, a hoodie covering his head against the chilly air. Had he screamed “Boo!” as I approached, I would have undoubtedly needed a new pair of underwear. I said “Guten morgen” instead of “Hello,” and he didn’t reply, move or give any sign that he saw me – or indeed that he was even alive at all. I’ll admit I looked back at least twice as I moved away from him. For all I know, he was the grim reaper, having lost his scythe. I saw no reason to invite any trouble, despite that fact that trouble has me on speed-dial.

Peering into the library from a distance, it occurred to me that I’m a terrible criminal. I’d rather break into the library and sit among the million books than magically appear in a bank vault. At the heart of the matter is the insufficient number of minutes allotted in life. No matter how pronounced my greed to consume even 1% of all the books, life’s stop sign will reach me before I can fulfill such a desire. Even though I love libraries, I still dislike hoarding books myself. I have a very few at home, nestled in a box, ones with names like “Night of the Avenging Blowfish” and titles in Spanish. The best books live a little each day in my mind, memories of other worlds and people. They are far safer there, virtually comforting me.

If you find another solitary shoe in the road in Springdale, pick it up and drive by the park and library. Toss the shoe into the bushes. Just don’t make eye contact with the faceless void of anyone wearing a hoodie.