Coprolite
One time, as I was waiting on a bus, I found myself standing outside of a grocery store when I looked up and saw an older man looking at me. He was studying me, his eyes narrowed and tired with deep circles, shielded from the morning sun by a dirty baseball cap. His hair was white, his beard was long and yellowed around his mouth.
“I like your coat,” he said to me as he took a drag off of the cigarette that had been dangling from his mouth. He held the cigarette and I thanked him.
“I'm an archeologist,” he said to me after that. “I have a PhD in archeology.” he said this matter-of-factly. He raised the little burning item to his mouth and inhaled the smoke once more. He talked to me, for what was roughly thirty minutes, with his sentences punctuated by the smoking and lighting of new cigarettes. He told me of dinosaurs that they didn't have when I was a child, how they just discovered them but they weren't on the news. He knew about them, though, because of his three PhDs, and his connection with the archeology community.
He told me about the wonders of coprolite, whose status he informed me directly, as though it was a commonly-known fact. I listened intently, he seemed as though he knew what he was talking about, telling me about the mating habits of the giant lizards that stomped across the landscape before any of us were alive. When he spoke, he gestured with thick, yellow fingernails on dry hands and pointed at me with his smoking cigarette as though I were accusing him of something I hadn't even been aware of at the time.
He scratched his beard, and I watched as his hands fumbled through dirty, ripped pants pockets to find the money needed for the bus as it pulled up next to us.
“It was good talking to you,” he said to me, “Remember the things I told you, they'll do you good when you're older.”
I wondered, to myself, what good the knowledge of fossilized poop would do me in time, but I said I would remember it all the same. I took a few steps back, and raised my arm to flag the next coming bus, the one to take me home. Afterward, I paid my fare, sat down next to a window, and wondered what the next conversation I had would be.
“I like your coat,” he said to me as he took a drag off of the cigarette that had been dangling from his mouth. He held the cigarette and I thanked him.
“I'm an archeologist,” he said to me after that. “I have a PhD in archeology.” he said this matter-of-factly. He raised the little burning item to his mouth and inhaled the smoke once more. He talked to me, for what was roughly thirty minutes, with his sentences punctuated by the smoking and lighting of new cigarettes. He told me of dinosaurs that they didn't have when I was a child, how they just discovered them but they weren't on the news. He knew about them, though, because of his three PhDs, and his connection with the archeology community.
He told me about the wonders of coprolite, whose status he informed me directly, as though it was a commonly-known fact. I listened intently, he seemed as though he knew what he was talking about, telling me about the mating habits of the giant lizards that stomped across the landscape before any of us were alive. When he spoke, he gestured with thick, yellow fingernails on dry hands and pointed at me with his smoking cigarette as though I were accusing him of something I hadn't even been aware of at the time.
He scratched his beard, and I watched as his hands fumbled through dirty, ripped pants pockets to find the money needed for the bus as it pulled up next to us.
“It was good talking to you,” he said to me, “Remember the things I told you, they'll do you good when you're older.”
I wondered, to myself, what good the knowledge of fossilized poop would do me in time, but I said I would remember it all the same. I took a few steps back, and raised my arm to flag the next coming bus, the one to take me home. Afterward, I paid my fare, sat down next to a window, and wondered what the next conversation I had would be.