WESTERNER

I turned right onto Troost, heading north to work. I suppose you could say that it was still early morning hours, though by the time I’m leaving my house at 8 AM , I have done thirty minutes of exercise, fed the animals, opened the chicken pen, showered, dressed, packed my lunch and had one cup of coffee while checking email. Mornings have always been my best time of the day. The day before, I spent an hour with tech support on a microscope, washed the dog, emailed IT, cleaned the bathroom, emailed IT again, dusted and vacuumed the house, emailed IT again, and took the dog for a walk all before lunch. It’s the afternoon where I start to fall apart. This particular morning, I turned my car onto Troost and about a block later, I noticed a young man walking down the sidewalk in my direction. The young man was of medium build, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. My first thought of him was ‘hipster’. He sported a scruffy beard and a dark fedora similar to Indian Jones. He wore a long duster of a coat with a plaid button down and jeans. His shoes were boot like. The man, at first glance, made me think he was in costume. In a sense, he was. We all wear our own version of a costume. Mine is somewhere between seasoned yoga teacher and early 90s teen. Michael leans towards lumberjack. This young man’s look leans towards 70s Western.

His look was enough to trigger my imagination. I thought about him as I continued on with my commute, speculating about his life. I decided that he had a look of surprise at being awake at this particular time of day, that in fact, he had never actually made it to bed. He had spent the evening and early morning hours in a dark coffee house filled with cigarette smoke. He had stayed up drinking coffee while chain smoking and philosophizing with a group of like minded individuals. They had talked and argued and agreed and discussed until suddenly, blinking, they all realized that the sun had come up. Someone in the group yawned, while another stretched their arms overhead. My 70s Cowboy, stood and cracked his neck to one side. He stubbed out what remained of his ash laden cigarette before reaching for his hat and coat. As he shrugged into his coat, he tells the group that they should do this again next week. Then, placing his hat on his head, he walked out into the cold morning. He took a moment to savor the morning air and then started his walk home.

He triggers a song lyric loose in my brain. This cowboy’s running from himself and she’s been living on the highest shelf. Yet there is something nostalgic in this made up life I have given him. It harkens back to my own younger years, falling asleep on some raggedy old couch while voices of discussion railed on and on around me. I have never been able to stay up past midnight, but I would do my best and hope that I was absorbing the words flowing around me while I dozed. Eventually Chris would nudge me and walk me back to my dorm room or put me to bed in the room we shared in our first apartment. I always, desperately wanted to be able to hang because this was when all of the schemes and ideas would show up. Plans would be hashed. Brilliance would be revealed. I wanted to be a part of every moment of it. Not to contribute, but to be a witness to the marvels that would flow out his brain.

All the times I fell asleep are moments I missed.