Close Your Eyes and Think of Me

I found my friend this Labor Day weekend.

I was riding the bus on Friday, taking my usual route to the library, to watch the children's story hour. Or, to be more precise, to watch a boy named Thomas question the librarian after the children's story hour. On the bus, there was an able-bodied homeless man who was sitting towards the front in a section clearly marked Handicapped Only. The man was reading a TV Guide and chuckling to himself with some regularity. The man was unquestionably homeless, but he wasn’t bothering anyone. He just sat, enjoying his TV Guide immensely.

I sat watching this man for several stops before I noticed the girl sitting ahead of me was also watching him. She seemed to enjoy watching this homeless man as much I was did. She turned and looked at me, shrugging.

“I could watch that man all day,” she said. Then she pulled the stop cord, got up, and hopped off the bus.

I was surprised to hear her make that comment because I had only just thought the same thing myself when she spoke. She was an adorable girl, not in a sexually attractive sense but in the utterly platonic sense. This girl was adorable the way a kitten or duckling might be adorable. She had a round face with tight dark curls hanging down just below her ears. Her eyes were small, squinted, and framed with dark eyelashes. She had an unnaturally wide mouth that made her smile take over her face. As she got up to leave the bus, I noticed she carried a worn shoulder bag that carried a equally worn journal with heavily crinkled pages; it was evident from only a glance that this journal had been thoroughly soaked at some point, but its owner had decided to let it dry and continue on. She was also wearing a plain, white tee shirt with a single word printed on it, in a simple black font.

YES.

My first thought was that the shirt might be a Yoko Ono reference. My second thought was that the period on her shirt made it complete, that the shirt would definitely be the lesser without the punctuation. I was so taken by this girl on the bus that I followed her off the bus, four stops from my destination at the library.

The longer I watched this girl, the more I enjoyed her. She was a tourist, that much was clear. She had a large folding map with exaggerated illustrations of the local points of interest. She frequently asked for clarification from the passing strangers on the street. I was most impressed that she seemed to experience no shame or hesitation with her tourism, freely displaying her map to all the world and approaching others as if they had been old friends. I envied her immediately.

After half an hour of walking about, she entered an Indian restaurant that boasted an all-you-can-eat buffet lunch for $7.99. The host tried to seat her by the front window, but she requested a table for one at the back end of the restaurant, right outside the kitchen, and out of the direct footpath of the buffet. I must admit that I was relieved she asked for the table away from the window. With her sitting at such a distance, I was able to watch her have lunch from the street, standing right outside the window. Had she been seated by the window, I would have had to have lunch at the restaurant myself and, I admit, I am a bit of a coward when it comes to foods I am unfamiliar with.

I am ashamed to admit that the foods that I am familiar with are primarily those that my mother has prepared for me or ordered for me at various dinner functions. These foods include, but are not exclusive to: prime rib, roast leg of lamb, potatoes au gratin, baked Alaska, rice pilaf, and Yorkshire pudding. Outside of these and similar culinary arenas, I have always felt the slightest sense of apprehension.

What delighted me most about this girl's lunch was simply that she watched her fellow diners. She helped herself to a plate from the buffet, then proceeded to nibble at it as she watched others. At first, she watched a heavy set man with a red face make his way through the buffet line, using two plates to accommodate his appetite. She had a look of serenity about her while she watched this man, vicariously enjoying his enjoyment of the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Next, she watched a young couple chat over their lunches. They seemed to talk seamlessly, one partner's dialog running without interruption into the other's. I could see the girl's eyes bounce back and forth between them, following the verbal volley. I am certain that she, like me, was amazed that there are those people in the world, those people who have found the way to take jarring and halting stops out of conversations.

She ate only half her lunch, left a cash tip on the table, and came back out onto the street. She walked right past me, taking luxurious breaths of the afternoon air and walking down the block. The girl has an unusual gait that I had trouble defining at first. But as we walked through the downtown area, I realized that her shoes were too large for her feet, creating something of a floppy clown's walk.

I was elated when she turned towards and then entered the main branch of the public library. Not only was I following the most intriguing person I have come across in all my life, but she was heading to my favorite Friday afternoon haunt.

As we crossed the lobby, I could see that the children's story hour was wrapping up. Without a second thought, I followed the girl up to the second floor where the periodicals are kept. She walked briskly up and down the aisles of Recent Periodicals and swept up a copy of The New Yorker with her left hand without missing a step. She gave the distinct impression that she had come to the library with no agenda whatsoever but to pick up an interesting read and enjoy the afternoon; simultaneously, she also gave off the distinct impression that, while she was a tourist to this library, she had no doubt she would find her periodical of choice effortlessly. She made her way to the cushioned armchairs near the second floor windows, kicked off her over-sized shoes, and nestled down to read her magazine.

My mother has always held a firm stance on The New Yorker. It is her view that news magazines, by and large, are vulgar and editorial. However, a news magazine that fills its pages with fiction and cartoons clearly does not spend sufficient energy gathering the news before going to press.

Once, at a dinner party, my mother made this very point and another guest argued that The New Yorker provided the world's news in its larger cultural context, each issue acting as a reflection of the Western sentiment as a whole. Mother said nothing, but never invited that man to dinner again, claiming he was an Exeter mind in a Harvard suit.

The therapist my mother sends me to asked me what I thought mother meant by that comment. I advised him to never pursue that line of questioning with my mother.

That afternoon at the library, I sat at a study table watching this girl read. She would stop every so often, gazing out the window to the concourse level, then jot a few notes in her water-damaged journal, then continue reading. We were there for over an hour before I decided to approach her. First, I waited for a moment after she'd finished her jotting but before she moved back to reading; I know I would prefer to meet a friend when I was not in mid-thought.

"Is that a Yoko Ono reference?" I spoke at a regular volume and startled her, to say nothing of the irritated and shushing patrons.

"I'm sorry?"

"Is your shirt a reference to the Yoko Ono ceiling? The one with the ladder you climbed up all the way to the ceiling, to read only 'YES'?"

The girl smiled and tucked her feet under her body on the chair.

"Right now," she said, "that is what it means. By tomorrow, of course, it may be something entirely different." She smiled at me again.

"Harold," I offered.

"It may mean something very different tomorrow then, Harold. That's why I love this shirt."

She went back to reading The New Yorker. I took the bus home.

The therapist my mother sends me to was quick to point out that I may never see this girl again, that I failed to initiate a relationship because I did not sit and talk with her. I told him friends often drop each other quick notes or calls just to keep in touch. I pointed out that companies like Hallmark have made their empires on it. Friendship, I told him, should not be measured by the length of its conversations.

The therapist my mother sends me to pointed out that I failed to get her number or address, so my seeing her again is subject utterly to chance. I told him that many friends go years without seeing each other or communicating at all, but remain friends. In fact, all of my mother's closest and lifelong friends are those whom she sees most infrequently. He thought the better of commenting on that point. I could tell.

I told my therapist that as far as I'm concerned, and my concerns are the only concerns that concern me and ought to be the only concerns which concern him when he is working with me, a friend is someone with common interests, who challenges you to act outside of your routine, and whom you think of with some regularity and fondness. My concern with finding a friend was the only concern I came to him with. This girl and I meet all of these criteria to my mind. We both watch people. She got me to alter my Friday afternoon routine. She will think of me when she wears that shirt because I spoke to her, and I will think of her at the library because she spoke to me. This girl and I, I told my therapist, are friends.

The therapist my mother sends me to told me this girl could not be my friend because I do not even know her name.

I took a taxi home and thought about my first friend.