Two Feet to A Mile

His profound words went unnoticed by nearly all of those who passed by.  Except me.

“Money for nothing, because nobody can pay for music,” he softly spoke as a precursor to the lyrics he was about to sing.  He had already begun to strum the strings of his guitar to a vaguely familiar rhythm; I just couldn’t place my finger on it.

He was a homeless man crammed tightly into the entryway of a vacant retail store along a pedestrian mall.  He attempted to persuade holiday shoppers to spare their lose change for a good cause; his cause.

Yet his words were too intricate for the average pedestrian to comprehend in the short period of time necessary to deposit a donation into his hat.  Exactly why I had to pull the fine point Pentel R.S.V.P. out of my front right jean pocket to write it down on my left wrist – it’s my default notepad.

This man wanted money for nothing, and chicks for free… wait, no, that’s a song by Dire Straits.  He wanted money for nothing because the true essence of music cannot be purchased.

He simultaneously struck a chord on his guitar and in my mind.

It was the climax of my excursion home through a one mile stretch of an observational berry patch; tales were ripe for the pickin’.

It began as I crossed the bridge…

The large, outstretched cables of Denver’s Millennium Bridge reached down toward a concrete platform like the fingers of a rigid hand reaching into a bowl of nuts.  I am completely enveloped by these massive tensile cables as I pass through, yet feel safe in their strength.

You can see the whole city and its surrounding landscape through the gaps in the cables.  The Rocky Mountains to the West, Coors Field to the East, and the 16^th Street Mall straight ahead.

The RTD Free Mall Ride is just on the other side of the bridge.  That should get me home relatively fast.

But why am I in a rush?

It’s Sunday, the last day of the week before it’s back to work.  Jack Johnson’s lyrics from Breakdown slowly roll off of the tip of my tongue,

“And I got no time
That I got to get to
Where I don’t need to be…”

The whole week is spent moving at lightspeed trying to do this, finish that, all the while making sure that the world isn’t waiting on you.

It never has, and it never will.

I understand and appreciate the importance of efficiency.  It’s important to value the time of others.  Just don’t forget to value your own time.

Knowing now that my agenda is vacant of any pressing matters for the next few hours, I decide to fuel my curiosity and jump at any opportunity to explore and observe the city; it’s time to use my two feet.

It’s the feel, the touch, and the smell that captivates me.

A book links you to the knowledge, personal experiences, and insight of its author.  Every time I pick one up I can feel the power it holds within its pages.  That’s why I had to stop into the Tattered Cover bookstore on the north end of the 16^th Street Mall.

It’s a calm and quite sanctuary with a vast wealth of knowledge at your fingertips.  Just meandering through the aisles puts a smile on my face.  Understanding my strong desire for impulse buys, I put down the enhanced script for the Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon, and venture back out into the 27 degree weather.

The air is dense.

It is cold yet crisp as it carries the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the scent of delicious entrees from The Cheesecake Factory straight into my nostrils.  As I stand at the crosswalk I watch a few cars fly by.  I think to myself,

“It’s tough to savor those appetizing smells while whizzing by in a car.”

I continued to place one foot in front of the other, letting my eyes wander from side to side.

It wasn’t before long that I encountered the first character worthy of a double-take.

I couldn’t tell if he was a she, or vice versa.

Either way, something was amiss.

The long, blonde hair was deceiving from behind.  But the large, 6’4” muscular frame supported a huge head with a chiseled jaw line and the unmistakable bulge of an Adam’s apple.  When I moved in closer to get a better look at (we’ll call him/her “Pat” for the time being) Pat’s features, she/he struck up a conversation with a fellow panhandler in a voice deeper than that of James Earl Jones.

I think I solved the mystery.

I needed record of this encounter, so I pulled out my camera and aimed it toward the side of a building.  Why the side of a building you ask?  It’s because I angled the camera down just as Pat was walking by.  That’s MacGyver shit right there.

“Zip” went my camera case as I closed it up and continued walking.  I glanced backward to make sure Pat was none the wiser (she/he would probably have crushed me into submission).

Only moments later would I encounter the cunning lyricist and his acoustic guitar.

He led an inconspicuous life, overlooked by the very people he sought after for help.

The majority of the individuals I notice during my walking adventures are the ones that live their lives in the shadows.  I don’t know why that is.  This homeless musician appeared to be no exception.

Ironically, he probably had no clue I even passed by or observed his performance.  I am just as nameless to him as he is to me.

Strange how such a small and minute interaction can weigh so heavily on your mind.  It immediately makes me think of every wordless exchange of emotional energy I have with complete strangers every day.

They’re small, but powerful.

Do you ever have those moments in a restaurant, or at a coffee shop that you continuously make eye contact with one person?

Not always, but I try find the woman who I think is most attractive and intentionally get caught looking at her multiple times.  And no, that’s not creepy, I simply appreciate the beauty of a woman.

I’ll throw a smile their way, or maybe a quick glance as I laugh at a joke told by my friend.  I do my best to hold eye contact until they look away… people usually hate that.

It’s like they get this feeling that if we looked directly at one another for too long we could peer into each other’s souls – something about eye contact freaks a lot of people out.

Typically I’m not alone in my optical probing, because I continually find them looking back at me.  There is this non-verbal interaction that sparks the imaginative portion of my brain to go into overdrive.

What do you think she’s into?
Would she laugh at all of my stupid jokes and ridiculously awesome dance moves?
Will she get upset when I poop with the door open?
Does she like to get a little creative in the sack?
Could she handle being with a HoboDrifter?

99% of the time we’ll never exchange a word because my balls seem to disappear in these situations.

Yet in a strange way, we never had to.  It could have been 2 minutes or an hour, a bond was formed.  A transient connection, yes, but a connection none the less.

That exact type of connection occurred as I left the south end of the pedestrian mall and began walking down the home stretch: Colfax.

The stop light quickly changed from green, to yellow, then red.

The walking man symbol illuminated as a signal that it was safe to cross.  I subtly increased my pace as I approached the intersection.  I was getting cold and didn’t want to wait at this unusually long light in below freezing temperatures.

That’s when it happened.

An average woman, probably in her mid 40’s wearing a light winter coat, fuzzy boots, and gloves, was carrying a bag of groceries in each hand as she walked next to her husband.

We crossed each other’s lines of sight and made eye contact.  We locked eyes yet continued on our respective paths long enough that is was necessary for our heads to turn to maintain eye contact.

I wasn’t going to look away… neither was she.

Then she gave me a quick head nod.  It was one of those quick upward jerks that you would give to a friend as an informal “hey” or “what’s up?”

Had I met this woman before?
Did she know me from somewhere else?
Was that just her way of being friendly?

Mental Overdrive: INITIATED.

I crossed the street without a single one of those questions remotely close to being answered.

They never would be.

I was only a quarter mile away from home at this point.  But I yearned for more.  That’s when I came across the local bookstore and decided to two-step it straight toward the new arrivals.

I couldn’t escape the lure of the leatherbound.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, yet found myself in the children’s section reminiscing of all the classics I loved as a child.

“Excuse me, do you have any Shel Silverstein by chance?” I quietly asked the old woman behind the counter.

“Sorry sir, we don’t,” she replied.

Damnit.

“I was hoping to find a copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends.”  I mumbled in disappointment.

A fellow book store patron overheard my request.

“Actually, there’s a copy over in the new arrivals section.  I think it’s The Missing Piece.”

Jackpot!  I must have missed it.

In all honesty I’d never read The Missing Piece before, but Shel was a whimsical wordsmith and I’m sure I’d like it.  A quick glance at the book sleeve gave me my answer.

“The missing piece… what it finds on its search for the missing piece is simply and touchingly told in this fable that gently probes the nature of quest and fulfillment.”

That has HoboDrifter written all over it.

I picked it up, paid the cashier and ventured home.  What a fitting conclusion to the end of my adventure… but it wasn’t quite over.

What had gotten me from beginning to end?  From point A to point B?

Two feet.

Walking: it’s that primal form of transportation where you use your two legs in an alternating fashion to propel you forwards, backwards or sideways.  They’re all great directions to go.

The one mile trip could have lasted 10 minutes instead of 3 hours and I would have gotten home in plenty of time to tackle my to-do list.

But I said fuck it.  Not today.

The to-do list will always exist… today I needed to walk.

Like every day, I needed to enjoy the journey.

Walking for nothing, because no one can make me pay for that freedom. 

Keep Drifting