Earlier today, he visited an art fair just down the street from his motel. Some of the art was good. Perhaps he would have thought about buying it. But none of the artists talked to him. Not one! Instead, they sat on lawn chairs, made dour faces, and watched to make sure he didn’t break or steal anything.
After the art fair, he watched a local band play at a nearby bar. Though the patrons seemed to enjoy the music and whatever friends they came with, they stood in circles. Or looked at the floor or the ceiling. And didn’t notice him standing at the back of the room, alone, with a beer.
After the bar, he walked down a busy street. He’d learned to look at the ground while walking down busy streets. But tonight, he looked straight ahead. And he watched the pedestrians avert his eyes. It was a common courtesy in New England, he knew, but it still felt so “alien”.
He walked by a coffee shop. It was funky and charming and still open. So he walked inside. And ordered a chamomile tea. And sat down in the chair next to me. And looked at me.
I put down my book and looked at him. “I want a friend,” he said. Boldly. Firmly. Without hesitation.
And as if in answer, his phone rang. He looked at the number and smiled. “A friend,” he said. And he looked upwards, wondering, perhaps, if the heavens were listening in.
The friend’s name was Julia. She talked loudly. About how crazy things had been in her life. Something about school. Something about work. Something about boys. Something about…
In the middle of her monologue, he turned the phone off. “Remind me to tell her, tomorrow, that the cell phone coverage is flaky here. Or perhaps my battery just died.”
Then he told me about the art fair and the bar and the busy street and the friend who - he now realized - wasn’t really a friend. And I listened. As if I’d met him before. As if we were friends.
“I’m sure there are good people out there. People whose friendship isn’t borne out of innate self-interest, but rather, simply, love. But how will I find them? I must have passed a thousand people on the street today and not one of them actually saw me. You’re the first person I felt I could talk to.”
I smiled. But didn’t know what to say. This was more his conversation than mine. We were silent for awhile. Then he noticed the silence. And it was painful for him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe that I didn’t notice. You haven’t said a word to me. Not a word!”
And I told him that he shouldn’t be sorry. That I empathized with everything he’d said. And that I’d felt as if I myself was saying it.
