I feel the deep voice from across the room before I comprehend exactly what he’s saying. He’s a large man, with large hands and a bellowing tone that must be how lions talk.

He’s seen better days. At least that’s what I tell myself. For all I know I’m seeing him at his best. I really hope that isn’t the case.

He’s telling his life story. Or some version of it. Aren’t we all, I think to myself as I try to focus only on what he’s saying. It’s crowded, busy, I let the bustling hum of other people blend it’s chaotic fragments into a harmonious blur in the background. They don’t matter now. Only he does. Only his story.

He speaks from authority and from experience. You have to decipher the content, if you dare, but you can tell from his tone how easy it is for him to tell his story. He’s probably done it a thousand times, I’d listen a thousand more.

“That’s why McDonald’s came to Canada.” He rubs his hands together more out of habit than anxiety. I wonder if he knows what anxiety is.

“To make Walmart sell everything to China. That’s why people own things.” It’s either a mystery or incoherent, or some beautiful mixture of the two.

I wonder where the story is going. Where it’s from. I’m so curious about this man. I lean forward casually and see that he’s alone. There are no people by him, no people in the same area even. Completely alone. Telling his story to anyone who’ll listen.

So I listen.

“I was cursed by the Illuminati person who gave birth to me. That’s the thing.” He looks up and sees me staring at him, from under his toque I see his big smile, his eyes almost closed. He’s harmless. For now.

He shuffles his feet and starts rubbing the back of his fingers, one at a time. It’s as though he’s trying to rub some infection from his knuckles all the way through his fingertips. Maybe he is.

“Those kids aren’t eviler right.” He shakes his head no. He repeats the line and shakes his head no again. There’s a profound sadness now, I can’t tell if it’s his sadness or mine or the world’s. I can’t tell if he’s emanating it or he’s just tapped into it and now I am too. Is he a conduit or am I? Aren’t we all, I tell myself again.

“They’re basically…they’re parentless.” He says after a brief pause. “Parentless,” he says again as if he’s just realized it. He stands and heads for the exit.

Come back, I think, I want more. But, it seems he’s had enough.