I needed a break from myself and others. I was tired of being familiar with neighbors and acquaintances and other people I regularly encountered. I rejected the idea of a destination where I’d be identified as a tourist or traveling to a small town where my presence could arouse curiosity. I did not want to be asked my name or where I was from.
I drove across the state line to a city of 100,000. I stayed in a chain hotel and ate at chain restaurants. No one cared who I was, and no one struck up a conversation about why I’d come there. I took walks in this bland place, unburdened by my so-called identity. I was aware that my break from myself and others was unsustainable. I sought to be unseen only for a while, to be a temporary stranger.
On the third day I was enjoying the air on an uncrowded sidewalk when I saw a man who’d come out of a café staring at me. I tried not to let my eyes rest on him, but he pursued me and began walking slightly ahead of me, looking back and squinting.
“Do I remember you?”
He asked if I was a certain person, saying that person’s first name, a common name shared by millions of people. He did not look familiar, and I had no interest in answering any questions or in explaining my reasons for not answering. I kept going as if he hadn’t spoken, which triggered him. Raising his voice, he said his first and last names. I showed no reaction, avoided eye contact, and picked up my pace. Why should I have to account for myself to this man or have to deal with whatever ideas were jerking him around? I resisted an impulse to tell him to get lost. He appeared to have led a hard life: scars, bloodshot eyes, evidence of drinking to ease his pain, though I told myself not to conjure a story based on how he looked, an inclination I found annoying now that I was on the other end of it. Still, I needed to assess someone I perceived as an intruder. He then parked himself in my path and pointed his finger into my face.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
I had not heard what he said and was not going to ask him to repeat it. I stepped around him.
“It’s been over forty years and you’re still ignoring me. Too good to say a word or look me in the eye. Don’t fall into a hole in your head.”
I kept walking, the memory of him on my back. I turned a corner and sat on a bench to catch my breath. I watched the corner to see if he might be following me, imagining him telling me off inside his head. I did not see him pass, but soon, I heard two voices angrily shouting in the direction I’d come from. The voices stirred me to my feet, and I went directly to the hotel. All the way, I felt the weight of him and his anger churning up stories about me.
The best way to get away from my memory of him and his memory of me was to return home. It would be a limited relief to be on the road.
I drove back into the thick of me.
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