Won't you be my neighbor?
Yesterday while riding the train home to Fort Worth from my office in Dallas, I saw a man who looked exactly like Mr. Rogers - like childhood television icon Mr. Rogers. Sweaters and singing and puppets Mr. Rogers.
I am being literal here when I say "exactly".
It had ben a very weird day all around; I was exhauted and had been fiddling with a spreadshee that just wouldn't come out right. All I wanted was to phase out and cold-dead-stare my way home. I sat by a window so that I could glare out at the giant thunderclouds that were getting bigger and darker the closer we got to ft. worth. It hasn't rained here in a while, and the clouds gave the whole afternoon a surreal feel that Texas doesn't normally have. (Louisiana always feels surreal, particularly near Baton Rouge and N.O.,where the landscape and foliage are like something from an incredibly exaggerated story. California is also surreal, but not in the same dreamlike way. Texas is mostly just what-you-see-is-what-you-get.)
So I'm staring out the window and everything on the train seem a little off somehow - like everyone is just as thrown by the weather as I am. They all seem a bit gloomy, or a bit off-kilter, like people do during the Santa Anas in L.A. but with less angst. And then all of a sudden this jaunty smiling middle-aged man gets on and sits in the seat across the aisle from me. And he has on a sweater. A powder-blue one. In the 102degree heat. And he has the same hair and the same shoes and I expect him to have sock puppets on his hands and oh my god he looks over and smiles right at me. A pleasant smile, just a "hello" smile but kind of familiar (rather than the creepy familiar that a person of female-ness often gets from middle-aged men on public transportation). And I send my friend Brooke a text that tells her who I'm sitting there across from and she sends one back that says "You should punch him!" and just as I am about to say "No I can't punch Mr. Rogers" I look up and he smiles AGAIN, like he's saying "It's okay, Sharon. I know who you think I look like. I know you think of me as your childhood friend."
"I can't do that!" I text to Brooke. "He just smiled at me. I think he knows me."
"Do you like my sweater?" The smile says. "It keeps my heart warm so that I can puppeteer for children."
"Isn't Mr. Rogers dead?" Brooke texts back. "Is he a zombie?"
I bet that's a movie plot not even the most dedicated zombie fan has thought of, I think.
"His skin looks healthy." I tell Brooke. "Maybe he had himself cloned."
"Just don't look straight into his eyes," Brooke says. "He might try to take you to his puppet kingdom."
"Those puppets always scared me," I say. But I loved them, I think.
"Won't you be my neighbor?" says the smile.
I love riding public transportation.
I am being literal here when I say "exactly".
It had ben a very weird day all around; I was exhauted and had been fiddling with a spreadshee that just wouldn't come out right. All I wanted was to phase out and cold-dead-stare my way home. I sat by a window so that I could glare out at the giant thunderclouds that were getting bigger and darker the closer we got to ft. worth. It hasn't rained here in a while, and the clouds gave the whole afternoon a surreal feel that Texas doesn't normally have. (Louisiana always feels surreal, particularly near Baton Rouge and N.O.,where the landscape and foliage are like something from an incredibly exaggerated story. California is also surreal, but not in the same dreamlike way. Texas is mostly just what-you-see-is-what-you-get.)
So I'm staring out the window and everything on the train seem a little off somehow - like everyone is just as thrown by the weather as I am. They all seem a bit gloomy, or a bit off-kilter, like people do during the Santa Anas in L.A. but with less angst. And then all of a sudden this jaunty smiling middle-aged man gets on and sits in the seat across the aisle from me. And he has on a sweater. A powder-blue one. In the 102degree heat. And he has the same hair and the same shoes and I expect him to have sock puppets on his hands and oh my god he looks over and smiles right at me. A pleasant smile, just a "hello" smile but kind of familiar (rather than the creepy familiar that a person of female-ness often gets from middle-aged men on public transportation). And I send my friend Brooke a text that tells her who I'm sitting there across from and she sends one back that says "You should punch him!" and just as I am about to say "No I can't punch Mr. Rogers" I look up and he smiles AGAIN, like he's saying "It's okay, Sharon. I know who you think I look like. I know you think of me as your childhood friend."
"I can't do that!" I text to Brooke. "He just smiled at me. I think he knows me."
"Do you like my sweater?" The smile says. "It keeps my heart warm so that I can puppeteer for children."
"Isn't Mr. Rogers dead?" Brooke texts back. "Is he a zombie?"
I bet that's a movie plot not even the most dedicated zombie fan has thought of, I think.
"His skin looks healthy." I tell Brooke. "Maybe he had himself cloned."
"Just don't look straight into his eyes," Brooke says. "He might try to take you to his puppet kingdom."
"Those puppets always scared me," I say. But I loved them, I think.
"Won't you be my neighbor?" says the smile.
I love riding public transportation.