If you look on your life at this moment through the eyes of the person you were in a former time, what happens? Do you feel intense gratification and astonishment for experience never thought possible; or, do you feel a foreboding sense of urgency and guilt? Inexplicable situations flash at us more than we will ever know; relentlessly traced by perception’s arrow, haunting us with a Freudian-like regret. This unpreventable aspect of time, which unites us with perceived failure and achievement, tragedy and miracle, exemplifies an often overlooked boundary to our lives. Perhaps a gentle repression is all that we seek.
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Hitchhiking is a common practice in the remote maritime regions of Acadia. More often than not, the seeker is elderly and alone in more respects than just their isolated presence on the road. They tend to haunt the pavement, only manifesting to individuals of belief. Not helping their cause is the illusory sense of floating along the road created by the transfer of energy from my tires to my now deceitful eyes. People in this land are generally sympathetic to the needs of these outsiders, but overlooking is still common practice and reflects more of a desire to avoid inconvenience rather than a lack of trust. Once you see the setting and individual for yourself, it is not a difficult task to divest these previously engrained defense mechanisms. As this came to be, I allowed myself to see through the ghost and identify the old man.
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It has been cold and rainy the last few weeks, yet the highway continues to plague the old man who wears his red flannel and blue workpants regardless of weather conditions. Every time I pass him, his thumb comes out and I catch a glimpse of his grey hair and worn skin. As our relationship dictates, my volume remains unchanged, he continues dispassionately down the road. I have never actually seen him picked up, but with the frequency our path’s cross, I have to believe that not only do the locals help this guy out, but he is also one of those elusive characters every community seems to have. However, where this might benefit such a character by providing a sense of identity and subsequent charity, the old man is only unique to my perception. The reality is I see hitchhikers every day up here. It is a way of life for many locals who have no family and live completely off of government welfare – routine. Yet, where He is one of many, the old man is a singular embodiment of surrendering to life in order to reclaim a sense of freedom from perception.
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As is typical of my post-workout mentality, I stepped out of the gym and cut through the depressed maritime fall with a climactic sense of clarity. Nothing much bothers me in the time adjacent to this feeling, which was perhaps the spark that prompted my meeting with the old man. Like so many times before, it started as blurred redness in the distance and, as it came into focus, I could make out the slight crowning of a head eclipsed by a disproportionately slouched back. You could say my judgment for the apparition increased with our closing distance; I could now attach a fictitious story to the elusive character. Like so many times before, as I approached, the man indicated he would like a ride, I indicated ignorance. Only this time, possibly attributed to my increased levels of dopamine, I slammed on the breaks, pulled over and waited. In my mirror I could see this hunched figure half attempting to run the stiffness out of his obviously worn body. Unfortunately, it was such an unnatural movement – obviously stemming from gratitude - that I could not dissuade a sense of superiority over him.
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The old man climbed in the jeep and thanked me in his out-of-breath French. The contrast he introduced was frightening and did not just result from our physical inconsistencies. It certainly did not help how his sack of apples and three homemade cigarettes sticking out of his shirt pocket stacked up against my ipod, blackberry, running shoes and protein shake. However, it was the implied stories behind his sack of apples and say, my blackberry that presented the disconcerting differences. I felt ashamed, arrogant and gratuitous. He felt tired, relinquished, but thankful for the ride. “Je na parle pa France.” This extent of my second language indicated to the man that I would not understand him from this point forward. Without taking his glassy eyes off the windshield, he pointed in a general direction; I continued without further inquiry....
til next boring time
