insanity and sunshine

The day smelled of sunshine, and it was true, but the sidewalks were still cold in the shadows. My intent was to buy a book, but I was held up by bare feet, rolled up jeans, a white bandana, and unruly blond hair. He begged for change, but offered to give me a quarter when I handed him a dollar bill: such a strange generosity.  I don’t know where the conversation began, but before our time was over, we talked of fathers, Kurt Cobain, and absurdity.  The yellow sun danced on his pale skin, itchy from the opiates, who aside from me were his only company.  He must have asked me my name, and told me about his white mustang convertible (power windows and power steering, POWERRR [he would say with strength in his voice, mocking the ignorant American], but it’s only a four cylinder, so it gets great gas mileage) a hundred times, but I didn’t mind the repetition.  An array of pills came out of his pockets with the loose change he threw in his guitar case before he started to play; he swallowed one and returned the rest to the safety of his pocket.  He slurred words and noises when he did and did not know the lyrics, never finishing a song.  Eyes closed, he fondled the six strings that seemed to be all he could feel.  He sensed his guitar was boring me, although I was content, so he suggested we go get some tea.  Crazy Wisdom was closed, so we settled for Tea Haus and we were greeted by a man, Fu Manchu.  With a bicycle pendant resting on his sweater vest, Fu Manchu was the 1950’s.  J, my new found friend, drank peppermint (for his active sinuses), while I asked for Fu Manchu’s favorite; I don’t recall the name.  Relaxing on a couch I watched his eyes close slowly; he was walking the line of consciousness.  Each time he fell back into reality it was followed by an apology, but I didn’t take offense to the frequent disengagements.  Alive with tea, we reentered the world of grey sidewalks to relax on a bench, where we met The Poet.  He and J shared a Pall Mall, while I admired the musicality of The Poet’s voice.  His long curly hair flowed as beautifully as his words, and small, red sunglasses defined the scars on his worn face.  He didn’t stay long after satisfying his nicotine craving, and I too had to be on my way.  Beautiful people swim through river of sidewalks we call Ann Arbor.