The Unconventional Man

The first time I saw the unconventional man was when he stepped off the bus at the corner of Lexington and 22nd street. He wore faded jeans with rips in the knees. He had mismatched wool socks poking out of unlaced sneakers. The brim of his Red Sox hat sat low near the nape of his neck and was frayed along the edge. In his right hand, he carried a leather satchel. The kind that doctors used to carry when they still made house calls. And his eyes were hidden, walled behind twin shields of blackened glass rimmed in stainless steel.

He stepped off the curb in front of the bus, walking toward the other side of the street. His gait was relaxed, reminding me of a leopard pacing near the edge of its cage. He reached the other side and stepped onto the sidewalk. Around him, a pack of rowdy teenagers was milling in front of the drug store. He glided between them without breaking stride, turning in my direction. The young people seemed to fold around him as he moved through their midst.

He walked the three blocks between us, coming to a stop at the pedestal table adjacent to mine in front of the Glass Factory Diner. I always had my breakfast there on Saturday. A large latte and a coffee cake muffin. The unconventional man inclined his head ever so slightly in my direction. I smiled and nodded back. I watched as he placed his satchel on the table and sat down, sliding his chair out with one hand. Once seated, he slid the bag across the table, placing it directly in front of him. He grasped the handle between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, unzipping it with his right. He slid his thumbs into the opening and parted the leather. Then he tucked the handles inside. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table between him and the bag, steepling his fingers below his nose. 

I watched all this with growing curiosity. The town of Dulverton had its fair share of less than typical characters, but this man was unlike anyone I had ever seen. His mannerisms seemed almost ritualistic. His movements were choreographed. His body seemed to transform the space around him rather than occupy it.

The man raised a hand to his sunglasses and removed them. He folded the temples inward and placed them on the table next to his bag. Then, he turned and fixed powder blue eyes on mine.

“Are you familiar to this place?” He asked.

“Sure thing,” I replied. “Lived here my whole life. Are you looking for something in particular?”

The unconventional man smiled. “Looking for something? No, not looking. I am waiting for something.”

I nodded, not sure that I understood him. “Well, the Glass Factory is a great place for waiting. I’ve wasted plenty of hours here myself.”

“Oh, I think not wasted.” He replied. “But you mistook my question. I asked if you are familiar TO this place.”

I arched an eyebrow, trying to puzzle through the question.

“I’m not sure I understand the question, friend. What do you mean, to me?”

The unconventional man opened his arms expansively. 

“There are lots of people who are familiar with this place,” he said. “I bet everyone in eyeshot is familiar with this place. But I suspect very few are familiar TO it. Are you?”

I leaned back in my chair and chuckled uncomfortably. The stranger seemed friendly enough, but I was beginning to suspect he might not be quite right. Still, there was a look about him that made me think that he was harmless if a little odd.

“Well,” I said, “I’m still not sure exactly what you mean... but I guess if there’s anyone who the town of Dulverton is familiar with, it would be me. Like I said, I’ve lived here my whole life. Spent most of my childhood wandering through the alleys. Used to disappear for hours in the woods on the Maxwell’s property. I could probably draw a map of this town with my eyes closed and have it come out passable.”

The unconventional man threw his head back and laughed. The suddenness of the action caught me by surprise, causing me to jerk my hand, spilling the remainder of my latte. I frowned, annoyed at being startled, and muttered under my breath as I mopped up the spill with a wad of napkins. He continued laughing unabated. My scowl tightened for a moment, then began to relax despite my annoyance. His laugher was lyrical. It tickled at my senses until my frown had vanished and I was chuckling with him. We laughed together for several seconds, although my mirth had considerably less gusto.

“You are a strange one, aren’t you?” I said when the laughter had subsided. “I’m not sure what I said that you found so amusing but I’m glad I could brighten your day.”

He smiled broadly. “I didn’t laugh because what you said amused me. Although to be sure, you most certainly have brightened my day. I laughed because I came prepared to wait for days, but that will not be necessary. The something I was waiting for has happened.”

“Well that’s good,” I replied. “Waiting for days does seem quite daunting.”

He nodded solemnly. “Indeed, it would have been. But as I said, that will not be necessary.”

He reached a hand into his bag and fumbled around inside. Then, he removed a clenched fist and rose from his chair. He grasped the chair by the arm and slid it across the gap between our tables and sat down next to me. He placed his clenched fist on the table, fingers up. Then, he leaned forward and stared into my eyes.

“I would like to give you something, George.” He said.

I felt my mouth drift open as I digested his words.

“But... how do you know my name? I didn’t tell you...”

The unconventional man placed his free hand on my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I understand your confusion, George, but unfortunately I don’t have time to explain.” He said. “The world is often a confusing place, but rarely as confusing as yours is about to be. As I said, I would like to give you something. Would that be ok?”

I looked into his eyes. They burrowed into mine, delving deep. It felt comforting somehow. I nodded.

“Good, George! That is very good. Please, hold out your hand.”

I extended my arm and placed my hand on the table, palm up. He hovered his clenched fist over my open hand, then extended his fingers. Something cold and hard landed on my palm. He withdrew his hand, never taking his eyes off my face. With some difficulty, I tore my eyes away from his and looked down at my palm. In the center of my hand, I saw a stone. It was impossibly black, as if it stole the light around it. The surface was smooth, with subtle undulating curves. The thing felt as if life might lurk inside it.

“It’s... It’s beautiful,” I said in a whisper. “I can feel it pulling me. What does it mean?”

The unconventional man placed his hands on the sides of my face, drawing my gaze away from the stone back to his eyes.

“It means that you are special, George. It means that you have purpose.”

I opened my mouth to protest, sure that he must be mistaken. He shook his head, silencing my words before they came.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but those thoughts do not serve you. You are special, George. There is no way around that. This place is familiar to you, and you to it. You need each other. Most desperately. Together is the only way you will survive. This stone is the bridge.”

I looked down at the stone again, trying to fathom what he meant. As I looked at it, the stone began to change. The black shell began to swirl, revealing glimpses of a burnished copper core. It began to warm, sending a pleasant rush through my hand and down my arm. The copper core began to pulse, glowing brighter. Beams of golden light escaped the stone, enveloping us in a pocket of something good.

As I watched the metamorphosis of the stone, I felt something shift inside me. It felt as if something fragile broke free and fell into a waiting abyss. In its place, a new thing began to form. Something harder. Something stronger. The new piece of me took hold, growing roots that dug deep.

I closed my hand around the stone. The light went out, leaving in its place the Saturday morning sun. I looked around, expecting the world to seem duller. Instead, it looked more alive than I could ever imagine. The colors seemed more vivid. The smells seemed more fragrant. Everything I looked at seemed to shimmer with beauty and life.

I turned back to the unconventional man, looking into his twinkling eyes. He threw his head back and laughed, louder than before. Without hesitation, I laughed with him.

When our laughter had subsided, the unconventional man stood and returned to his table. He closed his leather bag and returned his sunglasses to his face. Then, picking up his bag, he turned to me and smiled. I smiled back, no longer plagued with questions. He nodded once at me, then turned on his heels and walked away. I watched him as he walked away, shrinking in size until he vanished from my sight.

I often think about that day. The day I met the unconventional man. I think about it most on the darkest days, when things seem most desperate. When hope feels like a whisper, and light a memory. I’ve seen him several times since then, on the edge of town. Wanting to see if I’m still standing, I suspect. We wave at each other and share a laugh across the distance, then he turns and walks away. We haven’t spoken since the day he gave me this stone. It isn’t that surprising. There’s no need to say the things two people already know. Still, I hope someday we can speak again. Perhaps share a latte and a coffee cake muffin. I would like that, I suspect.