The Gift of Jacks Time

I met Jack on the square in Fayetteville, tucked behind any of the action, where I was hiding and hoping to get some focus time to work. I could hear the Bluegrass band playing on the corner and people laughing and talking, but this spot was nice and hidden - out of anyone's view but close enough for me to stay engaged. I pulled out my laptop hoping for quiet - I had hours of work to get through. The purity of the Ozark Mountain air gives me good energy like nothing else.

Then I noticed him circling. Slowly, almost nervously.

Please don’t come over. Stay focused. Keep your eyes down.

“Mind if I sit?” Jack finally asked.

“I do, unfortunately. I just got here and I need to focus. I just started writing," I said, feeling bad but feeling good… I like when I’m clear with exactly what I need.

“You write? What kind of stuff do you write?” He cocked his head to the side, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but not facing me - yet. Unsure if trust could exist in the space between us.

Same, buddy. Stay right there. Listen to my words, and don’t get closer.

“I’m sorry, I really need to write. I don’t want to talk.” The words felt robotic. I winced at how cold they sounded, even as I said them.

Robot or not - Jack didn’t care. He told me he writes too - short stories, mostly, but also a pesky novel that just won’t quit. He was annoyed at himself as he shared this, and embarrassed with me, ready for judgment.

“Maybe it’s not finished yet,” I offered. “You have a lot of life to write about I'm sure.”

That was all it took. He moved closer and stood at the table now, standing over me, towering, but not yet sitting. He told me about bed bugs and the forced clean-up at the Salvation Army. He told me about the gang stalking him - but I couldn’t connect his experiences to mine. Inch by inch, he kept trying to get close to me.

“Sit down. Stay over there. You don’t need to be that close to me,” I said, trying to keep the boundaries clear.

He listened. Pulled out a chair. Sat, bashful, like a boy who knew the rules but wanted to bend them. He was scheming.

“What are you doing up here? Why come all the way from Little Rock?” I asked, shifting in my chair, deciding to meet his gaze head-on. My posture softened, opened, sending a signal. I’m with you, dude. Let’s just have a conversation. But don’t fuck with me.

Jack was cool - for a while. Fifteen minutes passed. We talked about writing, about cities, about the weight of living, about his Kappa Sig father and the honor he wanted to bring to his family, and Fayetteville being “the worst for people like me”. Then he went hard into talk about gang stalking, some drug and sex party on Porter Rd that takes place with busy executives in town - according to Jack - and then he moved in closer, asking for my phone.

“Jack, I need you to leave now. I am busy, and I need to get back to work.”

I needed my space back, but I was grateful for the connection.

That’s when he reached behind the bush. He had roses stashed there - fake ones - and held one up in front of my face.

“Here you go, my lady. I hope to play pool with you someday, if you’re up for it.”

Funny - just last week, I told a colleague how badly I wanted to be a pool shark but I don't have the face for it - gives me away every time. This put a huge smile of remembrance on my face, grateful for the small interactions that seem universally connected - somehow.

“Perhaps I’ll go someday,” I told him, taking the rose. “Thank you for the beautiful gift.”