The Man in the Wool Cap

We’ve seen the man in the wool cap two or three times in the past six or seven years; the last, I think, was about two years ago. But we saw him at the grocery store, rather than where books were being sold. He was still wearing his cap, and was a bit grayer, with the same kind face, and he had only one or two small items in his hands. I can’t imagine him pushing a full cart, or carrying a big stack, of anything — it would be completely out of character, just as it would be if he were to drive anything but the smallest, most modest of vehicles, if, in fact, he doesn’t ride the bus. I still feel that he and I are, or could be, friends; there are people like this, whom one recognizes and becomes familiar with over the years, if he lives long enough in the same city or town, as I have. It was that way where I grew up; we knew a great many people, and those we didn’t know, we almost knew, and were glad, because we could tell the feeling was reciprocated. A great part of the knowing, of course, was imagined. I’ve long been in the habit of imagining whole life stories for people — as if they needed my help, or didn’t have life stories of their own. But I suppose this is natural, having spent so many years with words and books and make-believe. At the same time, it seem fairly apparent that there are a great many people in the world who would be more than happy to change their life story. They have the words, I know; they just need to take a deep breath, and put them in the right order.

[ 1978 ]