When a man thinks a thing, the thing he thinks he thinks is not the thing
he thinks but only the thing he thinks he thinks he thinks.
. . . Attributed to Sigmund Freud ( Punch Magazine, 1905)
It was a late morning for me. I had not felt like sleeping the night before, so I had spent the duration of the night watching excerpts from the Ren and Stimpy chronicles. Naturally, a morning such as this one would only come at a slow, tyrannous pace. With my eyes not willing to open and an attitude to match, I threw on the nearest pair of clean pinstripe pants and my tuxedo print t-shirt and off into the day I went.
It was a picture to see, walking down the icy walk in my tractionless green converses, maintaining my balance with a cup of yogurt in one hand and a spoon in the other. As I had begun to collect myself, I had noticed that my bus driving by. However, lacking vigour or integrity of any sort, I continued to walk at my slow leisurely pace not thinking for a second to walk any faster. Fortunately, there was a bus right behind the last, driving in a very unhurried manner, stopping for those wishing to board.
Upon boarding, I parked myself in the furthest most seat from the rest of the passengers, with a copy of
The Rum Diary in hand and a loathesome feeling of frustration towards any living sociable entity. I had my head cloaked, my feet up on the next two seats. It was abundantly obvious that I was not seeking the company of others. However, 14 pages into my book, I was rudely interrupted by a man, who I mistook for wanting one of the many seats I was occupying, so I made the mistake of making eye contact.
"Thompson eh?" the man exclaimed. He was referring to the author of the book I was reading. He spoke in a crackly voice, one which was remarkably similar to "Noah of Noah's Arcade" in Wayne's World. He had patches of white hair on his head and a clean uniform ring of baldness on the top of his head. He was also wearing a pair of heavy sunglasses, the type the stereotypical cop wears, which made it difficult for me to see the dark bags of skin under his eyes. Despite the fact that winter's chill had not yet passed, he wore a blue wife-beater and a faded black denim jacket, with those white patches of wear along the edges, exclaiming that it had had better days and was now showing it's age. He was, as it was apparent to see, a veteran of the good old days. "Thompson eh? Fabulous writer." A bitter smell emanated from his person. "I'm quite a fan myself. Genius, strictly genius." He then proceeded to ruin the plot of the book for me, assuming I had read the entire thing, although it was quite clear I was only on the 14th page. He had one of those joker smiles and seemed somewhat pleased with my curiousity of academic ingenuity. "I'm an english teacher by the way. Name's John. Sorry if I babble on, it's just my nature." I felt a slight twitch of uncomfortable anxiety and was afraid to respond to this man, as a young person would to an idol. He seemed like a fountain of experience and useless information. "I apologize if I sound a little off this morning. Right now, I'm on 'a leave of sickness' but hey, it's March Break right?" He pulled a bottle of whisky labelled "Jameson" from the only piece of luggage he had with him; a blue bag with the recycling insignia, printed largely across the side. "Are you a fan of the whisky yourself?" He took a long healthy slug from the bottle he was carrying. I told him I was more of a Jack's fan myself. It was at this point, that he went into his jacket pocket and retrieved what seemed like a small flask, shaking it in my general direction which I interpreted as an offering. Now, it was at this point when I thought to myself "Should I take this mystery liquid from this complete stranger?" I'm not sure I feel very comfortable drinking anything coming out of this old man's pocket. The flask alone looked pretty sketchy. He was muttering on and on about how it was a brand of whisky, aged 30 years. I recall the name Middleton. I was almost completely certain that he was offering me antifreeze but I figured I have put worse things in my system and whatever this guy is offering can't be all that bad. So, not wanting to offend this generous stranger, I took a drink from the flask. Words cannot possibly describe the wonders in which were contained but I'll say it had a hint of maple to it, and it was quite possibley the smoothest thing I have ever encountered. Pleased with my reaction, the man began to tell me his life story, how he was once in peak physical condition. A neanderthal, or a jock if you will. Almost making it to the Olympics for water-polo. Taking trip after trip of fear and loathing self abuse to the limit that the 70's to 80's would allow. He asked me if I've ever encountered such self abuse and I brought it to his attention that I had gone to Cuba not too long ago. He began ranting here and there about "communist bastards" and "not giving them a fucking dollar". It was from here he began describing his thoughts on the forthcoming apocalpyse, and the day of anti-christ being near, even though I was resting assured that every word spoken was drunken old man talk. But it was so influencial. I was blown away. It was now though, that we had arrived to the final destination, so we shook hands, wished each other the bets of lives, and cast our shadows in different directions.
What piece of information I had acquired from this man I was not at all sure, but I realized here that there was more to life than just living in plain existence. I had wanted to live a life that I could put into words, one worth talking about and one that someone would listen to with such undivided interest. Perhaps it was catching me off guard, or the offering of valued alcohol, but I could safely say that if prophets existed on this Earth, I had just shot the breeze with one, speaking of life as if it was mine for the taking.
