Since Saturday, something utterly ordinary and absolutely conventional has taken root in my mind.
…And I can’t seem to shake it.
I was driving up I-77, heading to my mom and dad’s for the night-something I don’t get to do nearly enough. Post the two bottles of water I’d already gone through on the drive I was literally about to burst; fortunately I-77 is flooded with rest stops. On a side note, it seems so odd to me to stop at a rest stop on the way home to see my parents. I mean the trip is two hours tops, does that seem strange to anyone else?
Either way, I was the sole passenger in my car (another reason it seems so awkward) and once parked I headed in the direction of the bathroom by way of winding sidewalk. In the distance of this particular sidewalk I noticed another person walking in my direction. This was an older lady, walking solo and donning a rather large bag. Based on the sheer lack of people at this particular stop, it is safe to say that I wasn’t the only one who saw the other coming. The closer we came to each other, the more I noticed about her.
She looked around the same age as my mother, wearing a large straw hat and a light pink shirt covered in some sort of dotted pattern. She had an exhausted look to her, dragging up the hill, and despite the fact I know that she had seen me from a mile away- it seemed as if my presence startled her. I suppose I could believe that, one minute she was climbing this long and twisting sidewalk back to her car with no one in proximity and the next, a 2o something girl is bounding down the hill in her direction. Remember- two whole bottles of water.
At the exact moment we stumbled upon one another, we made eye-contact, smiled and exchanged a couple “hey, how are you’s,” passed each other and continued on converse paths. Our split second encounter was over almost as soon as it had began, but once I was back in my car, and homebound again, I couldn’t take my mind off this unknown woman I had just passed.
Who was she? Where was she heading? What was her name? If I live to be 100 plus, I’ll never know-but this wasn’t the relevant notion I couldn’t shake. The point, we were total strangers who just happened to stumble into the same rest stop in between Troutman and Elkin on one muggy Saturday afternoon; and for one single second our paths crossed. She didn’t know me, I didn’t know her. She could have walked right past me without so much as a glance, what would it have mattered to her or to me? We didn’t owe each other the polite “hey, how are you,” we didn’t owe each other anything-but there on that snaking walkway our paths crossed and we both looked up, smiled, and exchanged a friendly sentiment.
Now rewind to Thursday night.
This particular night came with a little nervous energy; it was the night I met Ben’s parents. It was a brief first encounter; the four of us huddled around the kitchen area getting to know each other as best three people could in a short time. It was Ben’s stepfather, Gene, who in casual conversation set the ball in motion for the thoughts I would embrace in two days time.
With the BYU/Florida game on in the background there was naturally some talk about brackets and the sports in general. We were discussing the Panthers’ upcoming season, and Ben’s mother admitted she wasn’t a huge fan of attending the home games unless the weather was just right. This I am in complete agreement with, but I learned that Gene attends home games regularly, or at the very least tailgates. He told us stories of leaving the tailgates to venture to bars in proximity to the stadium, where fellow Panthers fans also watched the games. Shocked, his wife vowed to accompany him to some games this year; she was totally unaware of his solitary Sundays in only the company of strangers. Yet, Gene responded simply:
“A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet.”
It’s the conventional idea that a friend now was once upon a time a stranger. It took an event, a discussion, a plight of some sort, or a moment of humor to pave the road to friendship; and yet, despite the simplicity of this notion, it packed a profound meaning. It was an idea I had almost forgotten, and then Saturday afternoon I walked past an unknown character and it all made sense. Obviously, it is much easier to strike up a conversation over beers and football than in passing at a rest stop on the side of I-77, but bear with me- I have a point.
Now fast-forward to today, to literally thirty minutes ago. I’m currently bundled up inside of McAlisters at UNCC sitting at a table all alone with my laptop in front of me, and just like my desk at home-books as far as the eye can see. It was while sitting here trying my very hardest to get into Kristeva’s literary notions that I saw him in the parking lot. When he entered I could feel his gaze. He placed his order and stepped out into the almost empty restaurant- but where did he end up? One table over, go figure
At the time I repressed a smug, more like a slight laugh, it was an unsurprising event. Note to guys, roughly 90% of the time you are very predictable creatures- but we like it:)
I can feel this guy’s eyes sliding in my direction, and fought it by looking down at Kristeva’s complex work open in front of me. I’m thinking there is no way this guy is going to interrupt me, right? I can see he’s battling the inner struggle to pose a conversation…but surely he sees I’m busy. Surely.
Guy- “What are you reading?”
Me- “Stuff for class”
Guy- “What class?”
Me- “Literary Theory”
Guy- “Sounds interesting”
Me- “Not really”
Guy- “English major?”
Me- “Yep”
Guy- “Ok, so if it’s not interesting why take a class on it, or better yet why study English?”
Touché guy
Me- “Literature courses are still required, but I focus on a different area of English”
Guy- “What area?”
Me- “Creative writing”
Guy- “oh you’re a writer? That is so impressive”
So far this conversation has gone exactly how I predicted it to go. Several times I pointed my head back to the notes open in front of me, but to no avail. This guy kept the questions coming: “Do you want to write novels?” “What is your favorite book?” “What types of things do you write?” “Where did you do your undergrad?” “What do you do when you’re not writing?”
Hey guys, get more creative with your commentary or at least your Q & A.
No matter how many times I returned my gaze to my work, this guy kept firing. Truth is, I wouldn’t be so annoyed if I either had this reading done before my class in t-minus 2 hours or if I understood what in the world Kristeva was talking about, so this is probably my fault for procrastinating. This guy was just trying to be friendly. My car keys are resting on the edge of my table with my work ID and photo attached, guy sees and poses: “Jordan Bullington, do you have a facebook?”
Me- (Against my better judgment… )“Yep”
Guy- (Already looking via phone…) “Chance is such a pretty middle name”
Wow, is this guy for real?
At this point, my thought process is: thank God for that relationship status, it really does come in handy. Moments later guy: “I posted a link on your wall.”
This guy might be genius, obviously I have to look at my wall since I’m sitting here with my laptop open. He’s got me. So I log in to Facebook and check it out:
This is a collaborative art movement that begins this Wednesday March 30, and will continue each Wednesday following. It lasts from 7-11 at NoDa’s own Amelie’s in the atrium. I’ve copied and pasted the introduction info below:
A happening is a performance, event or situation meant to be considered art. Happenings take place anywhere, and are often multi-disciplinary. Key elements of happenings are planned, but artists retain room for improvisation, eliminating the boundary between the artwork and its viewer. The interaction between the audience and the artwork makes the audience, in a sense, part of the art.
This is weekly workshops and creative people from all over come and paint, explore with photography, read their own work, play instruments…it’s an artistic person’s heaven.
I’m reading this; I’m blown away by this. I glanced back at this stranger one table over and asked him how he got involved. Turns out, he’s the creator. This guy singlehandedly saw an idea and ran with it. I quizzed him about his initial idea, and as it happens, the name “A Happening” stems from an artistic movement from the 50’s and 60’s. Color me impressed.
Color me a judgmental fool.
Here I was condemning this guy, who was just striking up a pleasant conversation. Just like the woman in passing at a rest stop on side of the highway with a friendly gesture, and Gene embracing a new friend over the bond of sporting events. This was a guy doing exactly what I was doing, having a quick lunch in the midst of a busy day, all by himself. I felt silly for being so ridiculous and automatically inferring the worst. There is an insightful and intriguing meaning within Gene’s words. At the heart of the matter, the utter truth of it all: the world is interesting purely because of the variety of people who roam it. Somewhere along the line of deadlines, paperwork, and meetings I’ve forgotten that; and it is that deficiency in my own life I’m ready to remedy.
No comments:
Post a Comment