But he was a point of interest for me. In fact, I kind of liked him. He was completely honest when he talked, no euphemisms or excuses. Friendless because he liked to watch relationships. This was easier if we wasn�t involved in any himself.
An individual to the core. His secret passion was for bagpipes. It wasn�t really a secret. If anyone had ever bothered to find out anything about him, they�d learn about his extensive collection of Scottish tunes. But no one ever had.
Why did he interest me so? Who knows? Maybe it was the way he�d smile to himself while other people conversed. Maybe it was the way he walked, secluded in his own world that, from the outside, somehow seemed vastly more important than anything reality had to offer.
I talked to him one day. This is how the conversation went:
�Um, hey.� Me.
�Yes?� Him.
�Penny for your thoughts.� Stupid, stupid! Inane, but my mind frantically tried to remember if I had a penny should he demand one.
�Perfume disrupts pheromes.�
�Come again?�
�Find a girl who smells like a flower. Watch her. She�s insecure.� Will do, for sure.
�Well, who isn�t?� Good response, keep talking.
�Anyone to admit liking the sound of bagpipes.�
�I like bagpipes.� Just love �em.
�Don�t lie. It�s not worth it.�
�I wasn�t.�
He gave me an odd sideways glance. Turned, pulled a binder out of his bag, selected a sheet of paper, tore it out and handed it to me.
�What�s this?�
He closed his bag and walked away.
I looked at the page in my hand. On it was a poem he had written:
All the world a busy bee
Hustling bustling to tie another knot in her shoelaces
Soles so dirty and worn through
Each tying finger identical to the rest
Meaning in the know not sought after
Fascinating tangle,
Yet I go barefoot
We never talked again after that. We smiled and nodded to each other in passing, but it was a cool understanding that exchanged words would sever the tenuous bond that had grown.
A few days before school ended for us and we parted ways, I found a book in my bag, a book that was not mine. It was an ancient volume, a collection of short stories by major existential figures in the late nineteenth century. Inside I found a card. It was a piece of plain white paper, folded, and on the front was a drawing of a pair of hands holding a melted Earth. A powerful image. Inside was written:
You understood. Peace to you.
He had no need to sign it.
A few years later I saw him once more. Rather, he saw me. I was sitting on the grass in a park while a game of ultimate frisbee raged around me. A coincidence, a mighty suspicious one at that, but I was reading the book he had given me. I saw him walking unfazed and untouched, almost unnoticed, through the frisbee match, but did not recognize him until he joined me on the ground. I kept reading.
We sat there for an hour or more, me reading, him watching me read. Then, as I finished the book, I looked up and smiled to him. He smiled back-a truly cheerful grin. He leaned in and kissed me on the forehead and walked away, out of my life: unfazed, untouched, unnoticed.