Meditations on Meaning

I am reading a book at my favorite coffee shop.  And enjoying it so much that I don’t notice whatever else is going on.  Until I feel laughter directed toward me.  So I look around.  And see a man pointing at me.  And laughing.

“I’d give anything to write like that author,” he says.  Which is something I might expect a teenager to say.  But not this guy.  Who is middle-aged, well dressed, and who wears a wedding ring on his finger.

I tell him I agree that it’d be nice to write with the author’s reckless abandon.  But that the author was homeless and a crack addict for a decade.  And had a scarring childhood before that.  “Do you want that too?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he says.  “Because if I was as funny as him, I could bone millions of women.”  I tell him that the author is gay and in a committed relationship, and that he probably doesn’t want to bone many women.  I also remind him that he’s wearing a wedding ring.

He tells me that he and his wife have been platonic for years.  That she stopped sleeping with him after he wore women’s underwear to bed one night.  Which he thought was funny.  But she didn’t.  And now it’s been too long.  “Now I just want to bang a few chicks on the side,” he says.

I wonder where the hell this guy has come from.  Is he practicing a late night comedy routine on me?  Does he think I’m a young-looking psychiatrist?  Is he just crazy?  Whatever the answer… I don’t know what to do.  Should I laugh?  Console him?  Run like hell?

I choose to console him.  To tell him that he looks sharp, and that he probably doesn’t need to be funny to find another woman.  But that he’s made a commitment to one woman, and should stick with it or end it before exploring other options.

“Trust me, with a penis like mine, you better be funny,” he says.  And I want to laugh.  Not because of his apparent reference to  penis size.  But to break the ice.  Because I am so uncomfortable right now. Instead of laughing, I put my hand over my mouth and hope that he walks away.  But he continues.

“And as for the marriage commitment, I’m off the hook.  See, my wife’s been doing my neighbor and maybe his son for fourteen years,” he says.  “I know because she told me about the neighbor ten minutes ago.  But I’m pretty sure his son is also involved.  For reasons I won’t get into.”

His eyes are deadpan.  As if his story is true.  And he seems to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgment or response.  And I suspect that he’d prefer that I laugh.  As if my laughter might give him some relief.

So I laugh.  And close my eyes.  And pray that his wife isn’t really doing his neighbor or his neighbor’s son.  And tell him, while still fake-laughing, that he must be dealing with a lot right now.  That perhaps he should write a book about it.  Because people might find his book really funny.

He smiles.  And nods.  And says, “A minute ago, I thought the only thing left to do was cry.  It’s good to know that there’s an alternative.”  I tell him to take the book that I’ve been reading.  My gift to him.   And he takes the book.  And orders a coffee.  And reads it at another table.

And laughs periodically.  Which is good.  Because it’s better than the alternative.  And because it means that I can escape without him noticing or saying goodbye.  Which is a relief.