Strangers On This Road We Are On

I miss the late-night weekend streets.

There was a time, not so long ago, where I was a frequenter of nighttime sidewalks.* Basking in the street lamp light. A silent observer of the not-so-silent crowd of merrymakers, pouring out of various establishments. Making the pilgrimage home from an evening of friends and frivolity, in the period following the witching hour.

In an era of readily available transport (and a higher disposable income), I don't often travel on foot. Especially not so late, when I'm already up well past my bedtime. It's easier and faster to have someone else drive my lazy bum, so I can get to sleep sooner. However, every once in a while I still find myself hoofing it.

Cue a Friday evening farewell gathering. The main event having dispersed, and the beau having already voyaged to bed (he had to work at dawn the next morning), I set my sights to a rendez-vous with a friend at a nearby bar. Upon arrival, I discovered she had already moved on and was now across town. There I was, at 1 am, without plans. But instead of calling for a car, I turned my feet towards home and started walking.

A majority of the entertainment was still confined within the local pubs. With an hour of flowing libations remaining, few were opting to depart any drier than was needed. The occasional gaggle of smokers dotted the walkways, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Bass-beats and indistinct conversations floated out the occasional door, as a patron stumbled into the night. And I strolled along.

As I rounded off a main bar street, towards the gap leading to the next strip of taverns, I noticed a man  on the opposite side of the road. Gangly at best, he was wearing a beanie hat but no coat. What drew my eye was not his appearance, but that he had jumped up on to (and was attempting to climb) a tree. In this particular case, the road verge was fairly new due to recent construction, and the tree in question was in fact... a sapling. Somehow he managed to mount it and made a scrunched, awkward "climb" six feet up to the top. Luckily, it was still pliable enough to bend with his weight and instead of snapping,  it sprung back into place as he leapt off it again, like a cat jumping off a countertop.

Still walking, I watched him take the same approach with the next tree, and the one after that, and the one after that. He continued to launch, climb, and dismount his way down the boulevard until coming to an intersection. We both turned left, but he crossed the street. Leaping about, clearly disappointed by the lack of shrubbery on that block, I couldn't help but wonder if he was taking some sort of amphetamines.

A car pulled up as he pranced, and hailed him with a drunken invite to ride. With a sweeping arm gesture, he hopped into the strange car and rode off. Now ten minutes into my route, I stared, bemused, thinking my standard paranoid phrase, "And that was the last we saw of him..."

Well isn't that just fitting?

Sprinting through a less well-lit area, I was soon to the next series of gin joints. Several more minutes afoot, and I was over halfway there. Smiling at the lively drunks, I suddenly saw someone dash out from an alleyway a few yards up. It was the same guy.

"Hey!" I called, as he zig zagged along. "HEY YOU!" He glanced back and paused his stride as I demanded, "Are you the guy who was climbing the trees before?"

Keeping pace next to me, we continued down the block as he confirmed my suspicion. I asked him why, to which he said, "What are trees for, if not for climbing?"

"Well, couldn't you pick some bigger trees? Those were pretty small, you could've uprooted one of them." I laughed.

Looking at me as if the notion had never occurred to him, he explained how of course bigger trees were more convenient, but the purpose of any tree was not just to produce oxygen, but to be climbed, no matter the size. He made a comment about a nearby forest with good trees, saying he didn't make it there frequently enough so had to make do. I stared ahead, wondering what kind of loon I was getting into conversation with.

As he spoke, he made elaborate motions with his hands (due to the Speed?). It was then I noticed and exclaimed, "Oh my god, your hands! You must have cut them up pretty bad on the trees, there's blood everywhere. You should really take care of that..."

Offhandedly, he said it wasn't blood, and held up a large industrial marker. Ink, only ink, he claimed. Putting together the pieces, with the mad dash out the alley, I said, "You don't happen to be the guy tagging Forein on the east side?" A slight hesitation in his step and a shit-eating grin, and I knew I was right. It was him. For the past several months, someone had marred various street signs in our neighborhood. With only the word Forein,** and occasionally an arrow or placement "pointing" to the next tag, it's not street art (which I love), but a discreet "I was here" note of sorts... And it has really pissed me off.

"That fucker," she thought politely.

It's my part of town, and I don't appreciate it being defaced. So, I made it my personal mission to cover them up. Slapping stickers from local coffeshops over the graffiti. And here he was, the guy who had no clue I regarded him as a secret menace. The climbing made sense now, as he mostly wrote on signs above my reach.

As we meandered, I recounted my tale. He laughed and I had to laugh back. How ridiculous that of all the people in the world, this tree climber and I should find ourselves together, chatting, at 1:30 in the morning, about how I hated him.

"I'll admit..." he said, his eyes wide and a tinge crazed, "I think I did cut my hand climbing. The ink stings like hell." I asked if he was almost to where he was going and he said yeah, it was just a block back. He just had enjoyed talking so had just kept walking. I told him to get the hell home and waved him off as he turned down the next block.

"Don't forget to tend to those wounds!" I shouted.

"Try not to get any yourself!" He yelled as he took a few backwards steps and made an elaborate hat tip gesture. Then he turned away and was off. An anonymous local celebrity, bouncing down the middle of a deserted street. Shrouded in darkness and mystery, probably on drugs, and happy as a damn clam.

I smiled the rest of the way and as the sleeping beau groggily asked about the night, I told him I couldn't wait to tell him who I'd met. The next day I recounted my an unplanned journey with the total kook. I may not like his hobby, but I definitely give him points for effort on the tree climbing. It just goes to show, even if people don't agree, we can find common ground : underfoot. Cheers to making the world a little friendlier and to conversations with strangers.



* Note: not a street walker, but a walker of the street. Big difference there. 
**  Often tagged on top of a white postage sticker and not on the signs themselves, which I assume takes down the misdemeanor charge since you're not permanently defacing anything -- if anyone's a cop or a lawyer, let me know if my guess is right!