31 May 2011

Vignettes

I was walking the other day when I encountered a shadow of myself. There was an older man walking toward me. I guess he is living in the streets. He had a scraggly beard and was pulling a small roller bag that I imagine held all his possessions. There was a line of cars at the light next to him. He was yelling at the drivers about the price of gas, the cost of their cars and the general irresponsibility of owning a car and driving around with only one person in it.

Of course he seemed crazy. As we passed one another I simply said to him "It's crazy isn't it?" He looked at me with very clear eyes and nodding said "Yes, it is."

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I moved to Paris right about the time of 9/11. I was living there for about a year before I came to the US again. When I first arrived in the US, I met and had dinner with a good friend of mine who had been a client for almost a decade. He was a doctor, specializing in the nature of sleep, and the head of development for one of the large pharmaceutical companies. Having been out of the US since 9/11, I asked what it was like since then. He and his wife looked at one another, looked around the restaurant and began to tell me in whispered tones what it was like, in their experience. I could not help myself, I had to ask if the waiter was an informant of some sort. They had not even realized they were whispering.

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Several months ago while taking an early train in California, I was gazing out the window, thinking and watching some miles of orchard pass. In the verge between the orchards and tracks I saw a dead body. He was lying face down, jeans, check flannel shirt, and work boots in a pool of blood surrounding his head. I assumed from this that he had probably been shot in the head sometime in the early morning, since the blood was still red and had not been absorbed into the dirt. My own surprise and dismay was very brief, followed by an analytic scrutiny and curiosity; all of this taking place for what felt an extended period, when in fact it was just moments at 50mph or so. After the body passed from my view, only then did I feel a sorrow, wondering what had lead him to such a circumstance; wondering what had lead those who killed him to such a circumstance. No one else in the train car seemed to see the body.

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Occasionally I have seen a man driving through town in a very distinctive yellow truck. It is distinctive in part because it is clearly a work truck and many of the trucks on the road are clearly not work trucks. I imagined it to have some special purpose. The man himself wears a flat brimmed, western style white hat. I guess it is a Stetson. There is always a little orange and white dog sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the front window of the truck. Both man and dog sit very upright. They look like a Norman Rockwell portrait of themselves.

I noticed this man in line at the post office behind me. He turned out to be a small, compact man dressed in boots, jeans, western style shirt, leather vest, bolo tie and the hat. He may have had a pocket watch. I am not sure. I have some impression of bits of metal here and there: belt buckle; clasp knife; small chain. I recognized him by his hat, from which I imagine he is never parted. I told him that I saw him driving through town in his yellow truck and asked him about it. I was curious if perhaps it was used for dairy or something of the sort. He said that yes, he owned the truck. I commented that I thought it looked to be a very high quality truck and wondered if it had some special use or purpose. He told me that everything he owned was high quality and that the truck was used for hauling things.

Everything about the his presentation seems composed to me. I do not mean he seems a man of great composure. Indeed, my impression is that he is very energetic, even impatient and was likely offended by some random person asking him random questions in a public building full of people. Affronted. No, I mean everything about him was composed as if intentionally painted just so. Perhaps this was some vestige of military habit from his past; possibly just a sort of pride or even vanity; or again an perhaps expression of a life self understood as moral. An ordered life of great routine, presented in an orderly way. In all these ways he was an icon of a particular moment of US culture. I noticed him in great part because he looks so out of place.

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1 comment:

  1. Roger, i really enjoyed reading these vignettes.

    I recall the conversation with the man in the hat in the post office like this:
    Roger (accosting with great kindness, yet completely out of context) : I noticed you driving around town in your yellow truck. Does it have a special purpose? It seems like a special truck.
    Man in the Hat: Everything I have is special. (end of conversation)
    Roger (several minutes later when the man is gone): I doubt that very much, Sir.

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