Who would you like to chat with? If you could converse with anyone in the world, dead or alive, who would you like to sit down and yak with? Or, maybe you would rather lean against a bar or a counter and chew the fat, or drive and talk, or ride and shoot the breeze. Who would you like to have a conversation with . . . a one-to-one, a heart-to-heart, a tête-à-tête, a rap session, a discussion.
Hmmmm ???
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mcullen Post author
The Person I Most Wish to Talk with on this Cold Winter Day by Jane Person
I gave the man ten dollars this morning. He was stretched out on the grass of Petaluma’s Lucchesi Park as I walked by on my way to writing class. The grass was wet and the air, a damp and foggy cold. I was chilled even with a heavy jacket. The man had to be cold also. Before I reached him, I dug into my purse. I had both a ten and a twenty-dollar bill. I thought the twenty dollars might get him into trouble. He looked at first glance like he could be a drinker.
“Hey, you,” I said. No response came. His body was turned away from me. Maybe he did not know I was talking to him. “Hey, you, over there, on the grass.” A weak “yeah” came from the brown, grey, black clad body stretched out on cardboard.
“I have something to give you.” He lifted his head, turned toward me ever so slightly. “Here, for you.” I reached across what seemed to me to be a long distance. I was afraid to get too close. He raised his head just a bit more, stretched out his arm as he bridged the space between us. He took the ten-dollar bill.
I said that he looked cold. “Please get something warm to eat and drink. And please do not buy alcohol.”
He took the money. He did not thank me. His immediate and only words were “I don’t drink.” I walked away feeling a certain happiness about what I had just done. I never give money to strangers but this morning it just felt right. Maybe it was because I was so cold myself.
Later in the morning we were asked to choose and write about someone with whom we would like to talk. I knew that there were obvious choices, perhaps a world leader, perhaps a deceased parent. But me . . I just wanted to know the man-on-the-grass’s story.
At the beginning of every hour, what does time mean to him?
Can he feel his heart beat?
Is he a veteran?
Is he ill?
How does he feel about me giving him the ten dollars? Does he think me the fool? My guess is that he resents me for having ten dollars to give to him.
Does he have a bed to sleep in?
A friend or family?
Is he afraid of death?
Then what occurs to me is that he may have something for which my heart yearns.
Does he feel love?
Life this day goes on for the both of us—TICK, TOCK. His ticks and tocks and mine are the same. Our blood flows the same. We are each members of mankind—here together in this day and place. But he is on the wet grass and I — I walk upright, a little chilled but with ten dollars less in my purse.
James Seamarsh
I wonder what it would be like to chat with my dad. I’m not sure I will ever know. He’s 87 and I’m 60. Why can’t I chat with my dad? Is it me? Or him? Our us?
I’m not sure what I would chat about. Dad’s a bit of an egghead, not that his intelligence isn’t appreciated. I’m kind of an egghead, too. But do eggheads chat? Is chatting logical? Does it serve a purpose? Is it a reasonable use of time and energy?
Would a scholarly discussion about chatting count as a chat? Could we chat about chatting?
I looked up chat: “to talk in a friendly and informal way.”
I looked up the etymology: “late Middle English; short for chatter”
I looked up chatter: “to talk rapidly in a foolish or purposeless way; jabber”
This isn’t looking good.
Maybe I don’t want to chat with my dad…
~ James Seamarsh – just chatting
mcullen Post author
I just love the way you wrote about chatting, James. This is “feel good “writing . . . makes me smile and feel good when I read it. Thanks for posting.