Sometimes stories fall into our laps. Meandering the streets of your neighborhood or city* keeps your lap friendly and inviting. Streets teem with people who have a story to tell.
It’s hot here in Kansas City, which means daily walks to the QuickTrip for a gargantuan-sized iced tea, my armament against the cloud of heat that gathers and settles in my attic office by mid-afternoon. Today, with tea in one hand and leash in another, I crossed the street to avoid passing another dog-walker. Big Dog is mild-mannered but weights 110 pounds, and my flimsy plastic cup is no match for even one of his cursory, lazy-dog tugs. (Like corporations, politicians, and Godzilla, the bigger the QT cup, the harder it collapses.)
As we drew abreast of our fellow pedestrian, he turned and—street-between-us-be-damned—started talking. He’d seen us at the QT, he said. And then, strolling across the street, he let sail his story of his recent operation, buoyed by that pressing compulsion everyone has to recount details of scary or monumental (same thing, right?) health incidents.
He’s not a complete, complete stranger. I’ve seen him outside his house; his front porch is filled with strange objects that sorta work as art. Like a hubcap hanging from a chain. He has a long strangly beard and teeth newly cleaned and restored by a tough go-around with treatment for gum disease. That was the precursor to the heart surgery he wanted to talk about, an operation that took place less than a week ago. He’s 49 and fit and already walking to QT, but the medications threw him for a loop. More accurately, they made him loopy.
“I couldn’t believe these oxycodones. I was looking out my hospital window and saw tractors driving by. They’re doing construction at the hospital but I was on the 14th floor! Then a crane would glide by. Maybe that was real? I couldn’t tell. Especially after vines started growing up the walls and across the tv screen. I did plenty of mushrooms and LSD in my day, but this was crazy.”
He went on to tell me about his son’s recent experience with mushrooms. The son and his girlfriend took them while they were camping.
“With nothing but the big sky to focus on,” my neighbor said. “I could never have done that. I need stimulation. I’m a city guy. Tripping out in the country would have driven me nuts. My son said it did them, too. Bad trips for both of them.” He seemed to feel genuinely bad for them. He understood.
He’s a rough-looking character, a trucker by trade who wears t-shirts with sleeves cut down to the waist. His vibe couldn’t be further from the impression his appearance makes, and the brief conversation made me happy.
He slowly crossed back to his side of the street, talking as he did so: mention of his girlfriend, a quick description of his incision. It’s a cut that revealed the heart of a kind, interesting, and sweet man. As we parted ways, the world seemed just a little bigger.
 
 
 
*Go read Alfred Kazin’s /A Walker in the City/. Then go take a walk. Then tell me how it went.