When I finally get up the nerve to ask him why he laughs, he smiles. It’s the smile I’ve seen on his face before. He doesn’t answer for a moment and I think I’ll have to ask again. But he says, “I know things no one else knows.”
I’m at a loss how to respond so I smile back. Not his kind of smile, the one so full of joy it doesn’t look human, but a lame near grimace. As I turn away, I half hope he’ll grab my arm to make me stay. Instead his whisper echoes across the plaza, “I’ll tell you more, when you’re ready.”
So what am I supposed to do with that?
I don’t see him for several days and figure he’s found shelter somewhere to get out of the rain and wind. Not like the birds, they don’t seem to care yet about the weather as long as they can find the crumbs that linger after the mobile breakfasts and lunches.
I try, again, to describe it to my guy.
“He’s this funny little dude. Not much taller than you.” He’s five foot seven in cowboy boots. “He’s really skinny, just a bit of muscle on bone. His hair and beard are both white and long, but not messy. And he always wears black leather. I think it’s the same pants and jacket but sometimes with different decals or chains-”
He interrupts. “You know way too much about this guy.”
“No, he’s the one who knows-”
“You are creeping me out.”
“But if you heard the laugh or saw that smile-”
“I don’t want to meet him. He’s some homeless bum you’re developing some weird fascination over.”
“I’m not obsessed. I talked to him for the first time yesterday.”
“You finally talked to him? Did you ask him out for an Appletini?”
“Oh, you’re real funny.” I’m sulking now. I know how much he hates that. “Let’s drop it.”
“Fine by me.”
“Fine.”
He pauses a moment before mouthing, “Fine.”
I shut up and let him have the last word.
******
I drink my coffee as I lean against the wall, soaking up the sunlight reflected in shades of pink from the bank tower. The birds edge up to within inches of my feet, feasting on their favored fare of muffin scraps. My thick brew is getting cold. I always order the venti with two extra shots. And it always gets cold before I finish it, cold and muddy. I drink it anyway, maybe I think that much adult caffeine should taste nasty. In high school and college, I’d get my morning dose by chugging a big gulp of Mountain Dew. Two on test days.
I tried that the first month or so, on the job, but then I burped through all my morning meetings. A burp is okay for a student but it’s not so cool in the great halls of business.
“Hey.” The balding guy from the cube next to mine dumps his paper cup in the garbage and points, indicating he’s going back inside.
I shake by head. “Later.” The sun is sneaking through the clouds more often than not. Maybe the laughing man will be back.
After about ten more minutes, I have to go back in.
I sit at my ergonomic chair later, after the big weekly meeting, as opposed to the little daily meetings. I go into the draw functions in Word. They say we don’t need any fancy programs, just the basics, enough to get the job done. A few minutes later I take more than a glance at the screen. It’s primitive, not much more than a cave drawing, but it’s the laughing man, complete with leather, long hair, beard, decals, and one silver chain dangling from a belt loop.
******
The next couple of days I grab my coffee quick and go right back upstairs to let it get cold on my desk. I click the draw toolbar into hide.
But on Saturday I do a more detailed drawing on my graphics tablet and click it out of sight when my guy comes in the room.
But he’s wise to me and taps the mouse on maximize. “This is him, isn’t it?”
I nod more than a little sheepishly, or maybe half sheepish, half proud. “It’s a decent likeness.”
He looks at it again. “Why don’t you try to sell some of this stuff?”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Ask that coffee shop you spend a fortune in every day if they’ll hang up some of your work.”
I shake my head and sketch a few adjustments onto the tablet. “I can’t get his smile quite right.”
He doesn’t say anything.
******
Monday I hang around outside with my coffee. The sun is warm, a brief respite before winter sets in once and for all. The coffee is cooling.
I hear the laugh before I see him. The birds squawk, look about, and return to their meals. The sound of his laughter doesn’t enter through my ears. It’s more like it claws up my spine and jars around in my head. Think, rough sex, how it hurts and feels great at the same time. Now ratchet that up a notch and you have the feeling. Today, the black leather is decorated with auto and oil company patches like a race driver wears. And I notice for the first time how aged and cracked the leather is, just like the pieces of skin you can see on his face under the beard and bushy eyebrows.
This is one very old dude.
He spots me instantly and smiles.
I try to smile back but I have to ask as I have before, “What’s so funny?”
He walks right up to me, too close, but I swallow the urge to step back a foot. The odor seeps out of the creases in his jacket, the pores of his skin, and the pupils of his eyes. So sweet it’s sour, like fruit just before it gets soft and brown. When you bite into it thinking it will still be good. He looks into my eyes. I want to turn away but I don’t.
He laughs again, softer. “Almost.”
******
I can’t get him right. Maybe he isn’t compatible with the digital age, so I dig out my old art supplies.
I sketch him at work with a soft graphite pencil, on the bus with a calligraphy pen, waiting for a hair cut with charcoals. I paint him in colored pencils at home, when my guy isn’t there. I’d use oils or acrylics but the smell would betray me. Each drawing is the same, old skinny man, long beard, long hair, leather. Only his decorations change. I paint him with gold chains, silver chains, red, green, purple, blue. I copy decals from the logos of every product advertised on TV. When I run out of real logos I go on to make up imaginary cereals, cosmetics, and petroleum products so I can draw their logos in patches on his leather.
I scan everything I’ve done. The hand-painted ones I print in saturated colors. With the black and white sketches, I try some digital color. But it’s never right. I can’t capture the smile, so it’s not him.
******
The cold has set in now and the rain and wind are constant hammers, pounding icy nails through the bones of my skull, ribs, and spine. The smart birds are gone, heading south for the winter. The stupid ones stay here. I haven’t seen the old man in weeks.
My guy is gone, replaced by reams of paper engraved in the old man’s image. One time I came so close, almost got it right. I kept erasing and redrawing the lines about his mouth until the paper tore. I fixed it from the back with tape but I couldn’t alter it any more.
I practice the smile in the mirror. I have the curve of the lips down, but somehow there is no hint of that unearthly joy. Maybe that came from his eyes. But I can’t get them right either.
I even record my laugh in an old cassette machine I found at a garage sale. The computer mic was too tinny. I’ve filled my only tape again and again. I could probably find another tape but I’d be embarrassed to ask for something so archaic. Anyway, I’m so many light years from his laugh it isn’t worth the bother.
They call me bird girl at work. I feed muffins to the remaining pigeons every day as my coffee cools. But they don’t know what the old man knows. And I can’t understand their coos even if they did.
******
My guy asked me before he left, “What is it? What is it about him that has you so enthralled?”
I wanted to answer him, I really did. He got madder and madder the longer I remained silent. The longer I thought about it and tried to decide. Was it the smile, the laugh, or what he knew? Would I know it now if the cold and wind and rain hadn’t spirited him away, taken him south with the smart birds?
My guy came back once. He waded through the piles of paper. He took the rest of his CDs and DVDs and some old boxers I’d tucked away in my sock drawer. There was no joy or knowing in his eyes when he looked at me before he quietly closed the door behind him. I heard the thick heels of his shoes clumping down the hall. I thought I heard the pong announce the elevator’s coming and the thrum of its descent.
******
Sometimes I see old co-workers, as I stand by the bank tower waiting for the pink reflections. But they avoid me, looking down like birds searching for crumbs.
I think I see the laughing man one day. The pigeons scatter as a loud chuckle bounces off the tall buildings. A snatch of black, maybe leather, disappears down the breezeway.
I dodge the tables and emerge onto the street, searching both directions. The sidewalk brims with the bright clothing of those hoping to mimic spring and the dark attire of those who embrace winter. But no one wears a leather jacket and pants adorned with patches or chains. A sour scent hangs on the air. Piss. But maybe it had always smelled like that.
Image by Harrison Fulop