The middle of winter and the temperature was in the seventies. It was a beautiful day for a bike ride. I climbed aboard, rode down my driveway, and turned to ride past the apartments on the corner. I noticed a man sitting on the curb writing notations on a clipboard. In fact, it seemed as though he was watching the traffic and counting cars, but of course I was probably mistaken.
I say this because it usually happens I am mistaken about things, something that to this day baffles me.
For some reason, though, this guy fascinated me. Although he was sitting on the curb, he looked to be around my height and wore a bright yellow shirt and some old, ragged jean-shorts.
I wore a plain white t-shirt and jeans. Truly I am a fashion plate.
The guy with the clipboard also wore a pair of well-worn sandals with white socks. Sandals and white socks is something that also baffles me, almost as much as flip-flops and white socks. But then again, I am probably mistaken.
Flip-flops, by the way, are usually worn on the way to the beach or swimming pool. White socks worn with flip-flops are a sure sign the wearer is an American.
But I digress.
This guy, a kid around twenty or so, also had a bright shock of orange hair. For some reason this did not baffle me. Go figure.
Curiosity won over reason, as it usually does, and without thinking I rode over to him. He quickly looked me up and down, then seemed to be distracted as another car drove by.
"Good afternoon," I said, leaning over his shoulder to look at his clipboard. He was covering most of it so I couldn't see it all, but from what I could gather he was indeed counting cars. "Counting cars?" I asked, smiling.
"At this point in time, I am cataloging them," he said, hunched over the clipboard. "Not counting."
"Cataloging?"
"Yes," he stood up and showed me the clipboard. "See? I watch the cars and write down the make and model and, of course, the color."
"Of course."
He looked at me for a moment, squinting. "You're that guy who lives in the house around the corner, aren't you? The one from the Middle East?"
That guy? Great, I thought.
"Right. A long time ago, though. Not recently."
"All the nuts live out there," he said, looking me up and down again. It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.
"Oh, you've been there?" I asked, nodding my head and laughing. Apparently he'd been there before.
"At this point in time, no. It's just something I've heard."
"Oh," I said, nodding. Once again, I was mistaken. I was wondering about the at this point in time business, but figured it was the least of this guy's problems. I mean, geez, here he was counting cars for cryin' out loud.
"You don't look like one of them," he said after looking me up and down.
"Them?"
"You know, Arab."
"I know," I agreed. "Must be the Americanization process. Or something in the water."
"Oh," he said, nodding. Sure, I thought, he knows what I'm talking about. "My name's Alpha," the guy went on after a moment, making sure no cars were coming. He stuck his hand out.
"Michael"
"Excuse me?" he said, tilting his head. "Michael?"
"Right."
"That's an odd name," he went on, moving back to the curb. At this point in time there were no cars coming, but he sat down anyway and seemed to get ready for them.
"And Alpha isn't?" I asked.
"My father was an astronomer," he said, looking up at me with this look that said why can't you understand two plus two equals four?
"Of course."
"He had a thing about Alpha Centauri," he continued.
"Of course."
"So he named me Alpha."
"Oh," I nodded. "At least he didn't name you Centauri."
"What kind of name is Centauri?" he asked, again with that look. That look was, at this point in time, starting to bother me. It was very similar to the look I have received numerous times, usually while at a store. It was that service-industry look, the one everyone gives you when they're giving you their version of service with a smile.
And yet, I wondered . . .
"What do you do when you aren't counting cars?" I asked innocently.
"Cataloging, "he corrected.
"Right."
"At this point in time I work at Bank of America."
"Hey, wow, that's my bank!" I said, at this point in time somewhat excited. Why I had no idea. "Are you a statistician?" I asked, nodding toward the clipboard. Obviously someone who spends his free time cataloging cars was a statistician or accountant or something like that. You know, as opposed to a loan officer or teller.
"At this point in time I am a teller."
"Oh," I said, at this point in time mistaken. Once again.
"What's wrong with being a teller?" he asked me, giving me that look again. At this point in time I noticed a blue Ford coming down the street and nodded to it. He turned, made a notation, then turned back to me.
"Nothing," I said. "I work at a drug store, so I know what it's like working with the public."
"We don't work with the public," Alpha corrected me. "At the bank, we hold all of their money so the public can pretty much go to hell."
I was somewhat stunned to hear this from a teller at my own bank, to be sure. And yet, I always had the feeling that banks in general (and tellers in particular) treated people like dirt because, as he said, they hold all the money.
And it took someone with the name of Alpha to tell me this. Go figure.
Something I was to learn in the coming days and weeks is that there are different levels of the service industry. Most people, when they think 'Service Industry', think of working with the public. Most people don't realize the subtle yet important differences between a bank teller, a waiter and, say, a police officer.
Well, police officers have the advantage because they are allowed to carry firearms and clubs, but you know what I mean.
"Well, it's nice to have met you, Alpha," I said, truly meaning it. It isn't often I meet someone who is intriguing in a way, yet that was the word for this orange-haired, sandal-and-white-sock-wearing car-cataloging person.
"Same here," Alpha said, bending back down to his clipboard. "Maybe one day you can help me catalog cars."
"Well, actually," I said, "I have very little free time these days."
"What do you do when you aren't working?" he asked, turning to me. He looked me up and down. "At this point in time are you a slacker?"
Slacker, I remembered, is the Austin term for loser.
"No," I said, riding away. "I hope not, anyway."
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