mainsqueeze's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- time to turn outside-in It's incredibly strange to think about how certain people are inextricably linked. Remember that movie "Sliding Doors," with Gwyneth Paltrow? Every once in awhile, I imagine myself in similar scenerios- You know, the one person that would be so, so perfect for me is standing just a few feet away from me at a concert. We bump into each other, but we don't speak. Or maybe we enter some stupid coffeehouse, just moments apart, and we order the same thing, Maybe we sit back to back on the patio, but we're never aware of each other. It's comforting to think that. I like the idea of fate, even if I don't necessarily believe that it's true. Anyhow, yesterday, something that could only be described as an act of fate occurred. I was desperately searching for the second and third volumes of a series I'm reading. I went to three different book stores, a few novelty stores, and even TARGET. Nothing. I stopped by the mall, on a whim, in the hopes that I'd find them there. I entered a store called the Gamekeeper, which is, basically, a store that specializes in board games. I asked the very familiar looking boy behind the counter if they carried graphic novels. They didn't, but he recommended several places that did. He wrote a list of authors and titles down, too, and I tucked it into my back pocket, and left the store. Midway through the parking lot, I realized why he looked so familiar. I jogged(and I don't jog often, folks) back into the mall, and once I reached him, I breathlessly blurted, "Elliot Smith and Grandaddy, about three years ago, at the Sanctuary. Were you there?" He gave me a puzzled smile, and nodded. "Okay," I continued,"Did you work at Cafe Roma last year?" Another nod. The reason that any of that is at all significant: At the afore-mentioned Elliot Smith show, I was forced to stand in line outside of the venue for about an hour before purchasing my ticket. A few feet behind me, there was a giant group of annoying, heroin-chic, hipster kids. A few feet behind them, a homeless man was working his way up the line, asking for money. He was obviously drunk, and he was very dirty. He reached the hipsters- and I was watching it, because funny things happen when upper-middle class kids are approached by the homeless. They get so NERVOUS!- And, of course, he asked for money. A few of the kids muttered things like, "Oh my god," a few turned away, and a few stared straight ahead as though they hadn't heard him at all. One boy, though, did not ignore him. He reached into his pocket and gave the man a five dollar bill, and spoke with him for a minute. When the man started to walk away, the boy shook his hand and wished him a good night. I remember being so touched by that. I pulled out a notebook and scribbled away, and later that week, I posted the results on my webpage. It was a silly poem, which I am not going to insult you with, but it meant so much at the time. IT WAS THE SAME BOY. Of course, I didn't tell him that. I stood there and caught my breath while he spoke about Elliot Smith's poor health, and then, I shook his hand, wished him a good night, and walked home. 6:35 p.m. - 2003-03-26 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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