The egg and the oval shaped man.

This is important because the shape of the man and make up of his face were (at least to me) telling of his plight. His body was round all over, not unlike an egg with a thinly gray-bearded grape on top. The grape, being the egg and oval shaped man's head, found all of its features pushed together in the middle of his face. All senses operating together. His nose could no doubt smell his lips, which I am inclined to believe could taste his nose while his eyes could easily see the marriage of the two. His ears though were where they belong, that being on either side of the grape. The egg (his body) was garnished in a faded blue button up, un-buttoned, with a matching faded blue T-shirt underneath. His pants were large .. even too large for his 300-some-pound figure. I never did get his name, but for the story, and because I think it probably truly was his name, we'll call the man Cobwell. Cobwell sat in the corner of the Jack In The Box with the usual vagrant plastic bags and various homeless possessions. Occasionally Cob would get up, shaking his head gently with a smile of varying length, whisper consistently to himself, while walking over to other tables, no doubt checking to see if recent patrons had left pieces of Patty Melts or fragments of fries behind. He found an unfinished beverage at one point, and happily returned to his seat, where he drank quickly while watching the current goings on of the said fast food chain. The pure insanity that flickered in his ocean colored eyes brought with it an unsettling peacefulness and calm.

I sat at a table yards down from Cobwell, my back to him, but with enough distance between us where I could glance back without being obvious. There were many vagrants in the place, all with differing degrees of true madness showing in their eyes. The silence of the room, coupled with the inhabitants, gave me a strange feeling of a metaphysical randomness. All of humanity suddenly seemed to be the cause of a violent collision where for century's we had been fighting and clawing to make sense and find peace. And with all the truth and beauty that seemed at our fingertips, we were instead found dumb and lost in a Jack In The Box on Sunset. I tried like all men in a crisis of meaning to think about myself instead. If I could be truly selfish for a moment and focus on the good and bad things in my life and daydream about love and wonder what kind of shirt I should like to buy I may be able to avoid this oppressive notion of being without purpose. But still it crept in. And with it a cloud floated over me thundering down thoughts of what then shall one do if his existence truly does not matter. By this time as I began to embrace my self pity and felt a welling up inside of emotion that felt like what is described by those who have nervous breakdowns in restaurants, I noticed Cobwell was behind me at the trash can. I glanced at his reflection in the window. As he rummaged through the waste his mouth moved in silence. Soundless words whispered into the meaningless air around us. Then for one short sentence his speech came with volume. ..

It's going to be all right...

On that, he turned and went back to his table, still shaking his head softly, frowning, then smiling. He seemed to know something I didn..t. Sure, he could have been babbling on about an axe murder he committed in one of his fullest moments of nutso bravado, repeating what could be the only six words he's ever said to try and bury the guilt of having eaten children and blown up a tree or something. But I don..t think so. He was talking to me. I sat and stared at my hardly eaten hamburger. I decided to leave. I refilled my soda, leaving my food on the table. As I started back towards it, to discard it, I glanced and saw Cobwell looking at me, then the food. He smiled sheepishly, and pretended the moment didn..t happen. Understanding his silence I walked past the table, leaving my food. I felt bad for not taking care of my garbage and also wasn..t about to offer the man a half eaten sandwich lest he be offended at the notion he would dare eat another mans trash. So, I left it open, and exited the building. As I walked into the parking lot I turned and looked into the Jack In The Box and saw what I had assumed. Cobwell was retreating from my table with the tray of food on his way back to his table. His little smile showing, his head moving in a quiet nod. Suddenly everything had meaning. There was nothing random to the world. It wasn't possible. There has yet to be a coincidence in my life, and it felt affirmed by the egg and oval shaped man. We had shared a dinner, and continued on in life. I had been placed there in that moment for him, and he was in his corner booth, perhaps for me. As I walked down the street the air felt clean and tasted sweet. My feet moved quickly as if I was racing now optimistically towards truth and beauty. Everything was going to be all right.

About thirty minutes later I felt like I was going to throw up because Jack In The Box is terrible shit.

In the time of me.

I'm realizing there are many signifigant moments in my life I can no longer remember. Moments at one time that had a lot to do with who I am now. This is alarming. My hope is that there have been so many moments in the recent years that are so incredibly wonderful they can only eclipse the old memories otherwise my brain would explode from 'moment overdrive.' I just saw a picture on my friends page of myself holding a baby alligator by its tail on a fishing trip. I remember certain things from the trip but do not at all remember holding an alligator. All I know is my hair is thinner than it was then and at some point on that trip or perhaps the one the year before, I was 'feeling' a lot. Not touching mind you, but feeling. 

 Now I am taking in new memories, new moments in my life that will also be forgotten until I'm an old man and my stories stem from thoughts as abstract and slightly fictional as the things I write. Then, I'll die, and the people I leave will remember me for a while, then they'll die and their children will have maybe heard of me, but never have met me and then they'll pass on and I'll only be a branch on a family tree. Not that this is news. This isn't the first time I've realized life is moving and will eventually pass over me, leaving me underground. It's just one of those strange experiences where when you leave wherever you were the night before you feel like you should cry on your walk home, only to make the night more memorable. Something to stake the thought into your subconcious lest it leave with the rest of your youth. I will grow old, I will grow bald, and I will sag. I'm relegated and at peace with this truth. But I don't want to forget anything else. I don't want to forget the alligator in my hands. I don't want to forget wanting a rat-tail because Brian Perona had one. I suppose the more the special moments of life start to fade from my mind the more I desire a longer moment. Something lasting and shared. Not a heavenly eternity, but something shared--something where two people are reminding each other of this or that. "Do you remember when..." and so on. Hopefully the answer being yes. if not, what was the signifigance of the moment ever existing, and in that case, if we dare go so far; what was the signifigance of my existing in the first place. 

 There once was a man who at age 21 baked bagels for strangers. He smoked a pipe and drank his beers and died when he was 91. I baked bagels when I was 21 too. I hope if I live to be 91 I can remember that. Or at least that there will be someone there to remind me.