Dave
I ran into Dave years later in the financial district McDonalds. When I asked him what he had been up to, he said that he had been in space.
"In space?"
"Yeah, the international space station."
He said that he had been the supply officer, which meant that his primary task was to take care of the supplies. They launched him from Kazakstan.
We dug into our meals, him the quarter pounder value meal with a side of Chicken McNuggets and a large cola, and me the value menue cheesburger and a glass of water.
"Wow, what are you doing here?" I asked him.
"You can only do that kind of work for several years. It's like you're a gymnast. You're training really hard, and then after you just can't work your way back up to that peak performance level."
"Wow, that's insane," I said.
"Being in space takes a lot out of you. It's not natural."
Dave was looking fairly prosperous, with a nice button down shirt and slacks. I noticed some graying by the temples. I knew he had been a hard worker, but I never imagined he would ever go to space.
"Good luck with everything!" he said after he was finished.
Lance
I ran into Lance years later on the Q train.
"Lance, is that you?"
I couldn't believe it.
"Garret?" he asked.
Lance, someone I knew from Margaret Perrywinkle's Academy for the Exceptional had gained, like, 300 pounds. His ass was spilling over three seats. Plus, he was wearing a swiss alpiners hat with a big peacock feather sticking out of the brim. He had an amazing handlebar mustache and a long beard that had been waxed into a sharp tip. Aside from that, he was dressed in a fairly nice suit.
"Wow." I said.
Since the train was largely depopulated, we were free to talk. Lance was just returning to Manhattan from his warehouse in Sheapshead Bay. Turns out, he made a fortune in the manufacture of Swiss alpiners hats made by unemployable hassidic Jewish religious fanatics.
"You know what the secret to work is? Do what you love..." he said.
"And so you love hats."
"Not just any hats," said Lance, "Fine crafted swiss alpine hats made by the hands of fanatical Jews."
"Wow," I said.
I had to get off in canal street to buy dollar dumplings. Lance said that he was taking the train up to the upper east side where he had an expensive apartment. He declined to give me his phone number, but said that we might bump into each other again.
I was bowled over. I watched as the train departed, Lance, larger than life surrounded by everyday people.
Steve
I ran into Steve years later, if you will believe it, while I was at on a layover in Salt Lake city on my way to visit my mother.
"Dude, check this out."
He showed me a picture of his wife.
His wife was a knockout.
Steve was just someone I knew for some reason. I'm not sure why. It was as if the sole purpose of my previous experience with him was to establish the basis for our chance encounter in the Salt Lake airport.
"I, like, buy her plastic surgery. She'll get anything done I ask."
"Really?"
"When we met, she was just average looking, but I got her a boob job, a butt job, a nose job..."
"You basically got her all the jobs."
"I got her all the jobs, and now look at her."
She was really good looking. Steve had a bunch of pictures of her in his wallet. There was a picture of her in a swimsuit on the beach, a picture of her taken from behind walking through the streets of some city.
"She likes it," Steve said.
"Likes what?"
"Likes body modification. Were thinking about getting more extreme."
"Wow," I said.
"That's my flight. Good luck with everything!"
I watched Steve board his flight to Miami. He was looking good.
***
At some point in my 30s, I began to bump into all sorts of people. One thing these encounters had in common was that the people told me what they were doing, but never asked me what I had been doing. Was I just a good listener or something?
Susan
I bumped into Susan years later in the Union Square Barnes and Noble. We were both browsing the biography section.
"I'm actually looking for my book," she said.
It turns out that Susan had become the world's foremost authority on Alice B. Toklas.
"Here it is," she said.
The book was called, "Being Toklas."
"Wow," I said. "Impressive."
"I'm actually lecturing at the Sorbonne right now. Columbia has me lecturing out here. I've done more traveling this year than ever. I'm so sick of airports. Did you know Scott and I are married?"
"Scott?"
"Yeah, Scott Swank?"
So, she married Scott Swank, another person I knew. I had no idea.
"We have seven adopted Chinese children now," she said. "Scott has immobile sperm. Read my book!"
Then, without saying goodbye, she turned and walked away. Wow, I thought. It felt like she was the barer of news about her life that was at once commonplace and yet mildly mind blowing.
B.J.
I was somewhere, some kind of theater in the round. It was dark, except for the stage. There was a guy on the stage sticking needles through his face. Then I realized, it was B.J.!
His act was an extreme must see. Lots of needles, some feces, blood, pool balls. According to the flier, he had spent years in Amsterdam. He had come straight from Amsterdam to New York.
I waited outside to say hello. "B.J.!" I shouted as he passed, draped in some kind of white silky material.
He didn't recognize me or if he did, he simply had no time to say hello as he was bundled into a limo and swallowed up by the city.
