Stepping Out

Last summer, as I walked back from the coffee shop on Pearl Street, some big guy with a shaved head, out on the sidewalk, said something to me about my glasses and Elvis Costello. He then made some connection with Joe Jackson, saying that he'd once met him at the Blue Tusk (I'd never heard anything about Joe being there). The guy engaged me in conversation for a few minutes, walking along with me: at least that's how I remember it now.

This past Tuesday morning, I drove around the corner from my apartment, from Willow to Pearl Street, as I was late and didn't have time to walk to the coffee shop --- I'd have to drive instead. Right near the corner, I saw a man with his back turned to the busy road, a bag beside him, and he gave every indication that he was in the process of taking a leak. It was 11.40 AM.

I shook my head and drove down the street, parking in the first available spot, a good many spaces back from the coffee shop. Grabbing my mondo dark roast (black), I headed by foot back to my car, espying the late-peeing bum on his way towards me. Like a good many fine people in this fair town, he had a "SYRACUSE" sweatshirt on, the proud orange logo of our esteemed university emblazoned across his chest. The car was 15 seconds away from me; I hoped for the best.

As he pulled even with me, he looked me dead in the face and said "hey, remember me" and thrust his arm full out, palm upward, in anticipation of a hardy handshake. I remembered him alright --- the Joe Jackson guy; the guy who had just taken a piss down the street. In broad daylight, at lunchtime, in "SYRACUSE". Waiting for me to shake his hand.

Thinking quickly, I decided to react as if I thought he was panhandling, and so I just shook my head and said "no, no, I'm in a hurry" and made my way without hesitation to my car.

Once safe in my Saturn, I was left saying to myself "these things only happen to me", while smirking and shaking my head and thinking that I couldn't wait to tell my story to Jack, and to Shawn, and to Bryan. And so there it is.

But I'm forced to admit that it's not me at all, it's the glasses, and to wonder that if Buddy Holly had worn a different set of frames, would he be alive today?