The city had its characters. But then there were floaters, like the portraitist. He was slim with jet black hair and looked thirty something. He sketched people without their knowledge or consent. He sketched me. I saw him for a few weeks on the stoops throughout town; pad, pencils, and eraser at hand. But I only spoke to him once. He showed me the charcoal pencil portrait. He was beaming and told me that everyone he showed it to said it captured me. “It looks just like you,” he said. I didn’t think so but wondered if maybe that’s what I really look like.
He told me he made copies because people asked for them. I didn’t know how to feel about that, but after a long minute, I thought, eh, I suppose it’s harmless. After all, it doesn’t even look like me. He asked if I wanted one. “No, thanks,” I said. “I know what I look like,” thinking, It’s not that.
It was a rude remark, but I was a bit disturbed that he hadn’t asked if he could sketch me and that there were copies? I would’ve said no, which was probably why he didn’t ask for anyone’s consent.
I didn’t get the impression that he thought it was a rude comment. He closed the folder with the picture inside and began telling me about his heroes, and about his love for art. He loved to sketch, but he particularly loved cartoons and animation. “I want to make people happy like Walt Disney.” he said. He admired him and shared that he read everything he could find that was written about him. “Did you know that Mickey Mouse was originally named Mortimer?” he asked. Only he pronounced it more-timer. I stifled my laugh. He seemed by then to be a kind soul. I wasn’t going to correct him. “No, I had no idea.” I replied.
I didn’t see him after our conversation. And I never saw any of the copies of my portrait. I don’t think there were any. He was a floater. I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know where he came from or where he travelled off to, but it would be nice if he ended up in a place where he could make people happy. With a cartoon character named More-timer, maybe.
They said they weren’t a couple. But you couldn’t tell by looking at them. They seemed as close as any two people dating. They held hands and leaned on each other. “Just really good friends,” she said. He was the son of a preacher and had shoulder length auburn hair. She had the most beautiful flawless brown skin. Tall and slender, they could’ve been models. They both had green eyes that should’ve sparkled. Instead, it was their green eyes, with small pupils, that gave them away. They clung to each other for support, trying to keep each other from falling deeper into addiction. Like the portraitist, they were floaters. They appeared one day and disappeared a few weeks later. If they stayed, their fall was inevitable. Heroin was as easy to buy as a burger downtown. They must have come for that. Did they leave for the same reason? Did they have the strength to flee from temptation? It would be great if they did.
For a few weeks, a petite, chirpy girl with short blonde hair came around. She lit up the area with her joy and genuine warmth. She lived a couple of towns away and took a bus to St. George Ave., then walked six blocks to downtown.
One day she showed up behind the wheel of a light blue Chevy Nova. The car was a few years old but in good shape. At first. The dings started showing up almost daily. That didn’t stop me from joining her on her rides to nowhere in particular. And, yes, parking wasn’t a skill she possessed.
Her parents bought the car for her birthday. Why didn’t she tell anyone it was her birthday? I had no idea she was turning seventeen. Did she know she was hanging around with a thirteen-year-old? I suppose, like me, she thought we were about the same age.
On each ride, like therapy, she unfolded her life; starting with why she didn’t tell anyone about her birthday. She wouldn’t know who to invite or where to have a party.
She graduated high school two years early. She had nothing in common with the older kids she shared classrooms with and couldn’t seem to connect to those her own age. She had no brothers, sisters, or cousins. She didn’t have a job. Her parents paid for everything, including a studio apartment where she’d been living for the past six months. The lease was in their name. Her parents were in their forties when they had her. They retired and bought a nice home on the beach but she didn’t want to move. “In the summer, it’s crowded. In the winter, it’s a ghost town,” she lamented. “And I’d have no friends there.”
Her chirpy personality seemed to be a defense against loneliness. She may not have had friends if she moved down the shore, but she didn’t have friends in her hometown either. The trips to the diner where we met started when she impulsively got on a random bus and got off at a random stop, started walking, and ended up downtown. She stayed around longer than the other floaters, so maybe the word drifter would describe her better. A short time after she got her car, she drifted to another place; one with good friends, hopefully.