10.23.2002 - 3:03 p.m.

Was talking to this guy I haven�t seen in years. I met him in fourth grade, when he was the new kid and I had to sit next to him. He had a whole set of pencils with his initials burnt in at the top, and he spent most of our worktime drawing planes, tanks, and dotted lines of tracers in between. I drew unicorns, with an occasional pegasus or dragon thrown in for good measure. So he�d have his planes shoot off the edge of his paper at my creatures. In retaliation, my dragons would incinerate a tank, or I�d draw a plane of my own to join the fray. We argued a lot. The first time a teacher ever yelled at me was his fault.

He became good friends with my brother, the two of them bonding over the shared desire to destroy G. I. Joes by fire, fall, or unfortunate vehicular encounter. By the end of middle school we were all friends, using his collection of camouflaged clothing to play capture the flag in the woods behind our houses. We had a roleplaying group that he�d gradually taken over; we played traveller and robotech and lurps and two or three other games that allowed for a great deal of carnage. I had a were-bunny with a game leg that I was particularly fond of playing. We still argued a lot. Sometimes he was a jerk, you know, and I had to call him on it.

Sometimes he wasn�t, though. Somehow my characters were more likely to survive than not, which was an interesting coincidence considering the fact that I was also the only girl in the group. Bugsy the were-bunny died the week after I mentioned that, though. Hmm.

I�ve seen him a few times since then, but I haven�t really talked with him. The roleplaying group dissolved over creative and personal differences. We went to different high schools. I know he tried for the marines when he graduated, but didn�t get in because of asthma he hadn�t realized he had. We ended up at the same college but never even said hi on the pathways; I saw him outside of a party, once, glassy-eyed and stumbling, wrapped around a two-liter containing a small amount of liquid which I seriously doubt was soda. The sight shocked me, although I don�t remember why; he didn�t want to be where he was. That was sophomore year in college, four years ago. I hadn�t seen him since.

But I ran into him this weekend, in the grocery store by my parents� house. Went through an awkward �hi, it�s been a really long time� routine. He seemed so much more�at peace�than I remembered. So much more flexible.

�So what do you do for fun,� he wanted to know. �Do you still draw?�

�Oh, no, not really,� I answered. Drawing, I thought. How odd that he uses that to define my memory.

I wondered if wanting to be military still defines him, but I didn�t ask the question. We exchanged a few more conversational nothings; I�m thinking of grad school, he�s thinking of Peace Corps. Then we run out of things to say, and walk in different directions down the aisle, back towards our separate lives. The arrogant army-brat kid was okay, when I knew him, but I find that I cautiously admire the strange man I�ve just met in the bread aisle.

Sometimes I want to take people apart, piece by piece, just so I can see how they are what they are, how they see what they see. This temptation is even larger with people who are so different from me; it is greatest with people I carelessly thought I had the measure of. �Do you still draw,� he asked me. I never drew, at least never to the point where drawing was what I was about. It was always just something I did.

The most interesting reflections come from other people�s eyes.

-stonebridge

previous | next