Strangers

I watched the speech today in a restaurant with three great friends in the City. I watched it with about a dozen strangers too and a TV crew there to tape a regional cooking show. We were the "studio audience" and production broke for an hour so the host and the chefs and the rest of us could stand around the bar to watch the TV above it.  

I am never at home when historic moments happen -- never, so this seemed both bizarre and perfectly normal. It was bizarre not only because I had makeup on during the day but because I was standing at the edge of a huge oak bar with a gaggle of strangers thrown together at this one weird and amazing time. It was normal because all I could think was "what are they thinking?"

I imagined the full lives of at least four of those strangers even before we huddled around the screen. I summed them up by their parts -- her tailored suit, his longish hair, the way she gnawed her fingernails, how he hung back and lowered his eyes. I created full personalities for them and their lives away from this place and I did it to entertain myself and also, because I can't seem to help doing it. I can't help it: the most fascinating person is the one I stand next to in a line, the one I will never meet, the one whose name I invent in my head to make a stranger less strange. For one small (or gigantic) moment, I make these people a part of my life in the realest way I can.

I am not sure why I do this, except that I was a curious kid so I guess it's in the genes. And after 9/11? I started to think that the stranger standing next to me might be my hero in some crazy split second or that I might be there's. I figured that at least we should know each other's names. Even if they were the ones I made up: which were Sandy, Jim, Dahlia, and Mike.

So Sandy in the grey suit with the one stray thread (the only thing about her out of place) will be the stranger I will remember most from this day. The way the pattern on the bar seat was worn where thighs had rubbed it over and over will be the thing I will remember most of how the place looked. I should know (by now!) that the details and unknowables seem always to enchant me, to entice me, more than the bigger picture. I get knocked about by the trees; I need time and space to even know I am in the forest.

So this day, this one of at least four "where were you whens" that I have had, it is seared in my brain thanks to the tiny details I keep. When someone asks, I won't tell them about Sandy or the nail-gnawing beauty, but I will remember every minute of this day thanks to them. They will become my mnemonic, my touchstone, my photo: I owe them more than they will ever know.

To be continued...