He sat down at the table in the strange rainy teashop. He had strolled in fast, looking like he knew the place well. The floating owner of the strange showroom looked the quick patron over and dismissed him as time unwell spent. Another customer recognized him and turned the other way. The counter girl gave me a look that said “watch yourself.”

I settled in, shuffling through my bags, looking to see what was wet, trying to find something warm to change into. I put journals and books on the low table beside my oriental chair. I looked to see what the visitor was up to. He shuffled table objects like they were at his house.

I had plenty of choices to make, but an immediate one was whether or not I would put up my force field when he came to call. I was capable of talking for hours with guys like this. I was also capable of stonewalling them as hard as any citizen.

He eventually strutted by, played with his unwashed hair , put a bandana on, took it off, put it back on again, and picked the chair next to me to behave as if he weren't socially interested.

I started the conversation. He would have had one going with the air in a moment, if I hadn't. I decided to keep doors open, even though it was cold outside, on many levels.

“I hate Sarah Palin,” he said. “I mean she’s smart, and beautiful, and I know all about her charming family. But don’t let them fool you. They cheat with their fishing lines.”

I wasn't planning on letting anybody fool me.

“They think you’re gay here, if you work out. Just because a guy wants to keep his body in shape, they have to put labels on everybody.”

I kept my cool.

“My skin used to not look this bad,” he said. “It was the fire I went through. My father burned me, but nobody wants to hear about that.”

He was partially right.

“If you were to feel my skin, you could tell by the oils, that I used to be young, and that my melatonin is coming back nicely. I found the key to rejuvenating. It’s all in how you eat and how you sleep.”

I did not want to feel his skin.

“You can touch it, right here. It’s like leather now. But it’s softening up every day.”

I declined, but asked about where he had lived before this town. He told a story about jaunts through Texas, Illinois, Arizona and then all the places when you’re looking for metros that welcome the homeless.

“How did you lose your way,” I asked him.

“My family was right wing. They were uptight. Nobody understood me. My father hated me.”

“That must have been rough.”

“Oh I've got a thing or two for them. There are plenty of ways to show people your intelligence. And it’s not just revenge when you let them know how small they are. It’s education. Self-promotion.”

“Have you met any friendly folk along the way?”

“People want you to believe they’re friendly. But the news and the secret academies and the automobile pageantries they make sure to keep the smart one’s down. You can’t be too deductive or they’ll press you right in the dirt. That’s why I don’t let em know. Let those f’ers think what they want if a person wears a dress when their body tells them the genes are wrong.”

“But what about a person you really thought actually cared about you?”

“Oh plenty of those in the churches, till they find out you don’t toe the line. That you don’t buy the whole hook and sinker. I’m going to sue em for how they burned me.”

“Who was it that burned you?”

Subject change.

“What about you? What are you doing here this summer?”

“I’m taking some time to see the world. I came to find sea otters, bears, eagles, whales if possible.”

“Did you get up to the park? See any great elk? These people hunt their caribou by helicopter.”

I poured him some of my tea and split a cookie. “Do you have friends?”

“You can’t trust friends,” he said. “They’ll steal your f’ing heart out before you know it stopped beating. You got to beat them down before they get theirs.”

“What do you do to keep. . . . happy, alive, you know warm and well?”

“I work out. See here,” rolling up his sleeve to show thin, somewhat muscular arms. “I do 40 pushups a day. And they don’t know how fit I’m staying.” He slaps his tummy. “Like steel. They’ll never know what hit them.”

“I see”

“Do you think I’m attractive. Most people think I’m gay and trying to come on to them. What are you doing around here? Are you alone? Do you like to go out?”

“Can I pray for you?”

“What for? Are you a preacher? You don’t seem like a preacher.”

“I sometimes like to pray for people when it seems they are down and out. They sometimes like it. It sometimes helps them.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve got to find a place to stay after my landlord throws a fit. I can survive in thirty below. Don’t you worry about that. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again. Ain’t nothing but a thing.”

Silence.

“What were you reading. Before I came over?”

“A crazy book about spies and wolves. About the end of world. About crashing satellites.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“The airport. I’m not very good at socializing on trips. So I buy a book somtimes. You reading anything interesting?”

Thoughtfulness.

“Yeah, you could pray for me.” Hesitation. “I suppose it’s going to be Jesus again this time.”

“You’re pretty good. Yeah, it’s going to be Jesus again this time.”

“Sometimes I think he’s stalking me.”

“You could be hunted by a lot worse.”

“What would you pray about?”

“I don’t know, whatever comes to mind. Mostly probably about sadness, and healing, about friends and forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness is for weaklings. And I ain’t one of those.”

“I’m a weakling. I’m a total f’ing weakling.

“You’re interesting, I’ll give you that much. Different.”

“We’re all different. I’ve got problems, might be bigger than your’s, for all we know. Only God sees it all.”

“You seem alright. Kind of different. Kind of kind. Like you understand. That’s the reason I’m telling you any of this. I don’t let most people know my crap.”

“I know. Most of us don’t. That’s why you got to grab the bull by the horns when you can. Shall I pray. Is that alright.”

“You sure you don’t want to pray to Isis, or the Athena, or the great Energy, or something more nebulous and outside of the box.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

Hand on leathered arm. “Dear Jesus . . . . .