Strangers

I saw a man this morning in a dead sprint down the highway carrying a baseball bat, and though I wondered about his crusade (it was surely nothing less), I didn’t dare speculate. Maybe he was the leadoff guy for a sour ass fast-pitch team with the 9 am slating and he knew that, without him, they were dead bones by noon.

Maybe his son was the actual leadoff guy, in the shit with the dented TPX (the only other bat in the dugout light enough for him to get around with), and he still thought his father his hero–his dad didn’t want to let him down.

My brother bought a bottle while he was at work today and had to hide it behind a tree because he couldn’t fit it under his motorcycle seat.

Now we’re on our way to retrieve it.

Life is fun sometimes.

It gets so hard sometimes.

I remember a Saturday morning about ten years ago, toting a blanket and a pillow with vomit on it fifteen blocks to a Burger King to get to my car, wondering what all the cars passing by me were thinking.

A lack of self-awareness may be the true beginning of wisdom.

I once saw a man in the Texas panhandle pulled over by a highway patrolman on the side of an on-ramp. A shotgun rested on his hood beside his head while he was being cuffed, with his windshield blown out.

I once came across a guy in the checkout line buying a single rose and twelve long-stem condoms.

Or they guy carrying a dozen roses and a jug of bleach down main street.

You’ve been there; I know you have.

We shake our heads. We speculate.

We keep life spicy, don’t we?

Keep making them wonder.

The highway is just long enough for questions like why, and if I ever meet you someplace with a few minutes to spare, I’d love to hear the story.

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