Miles run today: 5
Temperature at 3:45 p.m. (in January!): 63
Stars I give to Carrie Rubin’s novel, The Seneca Scourge: 5 (It was so good. I know, I’m late to the party.)
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m a little miffed I wasn’t recruited for the CIA.
Back when I was 10 or 11, my friends and I often wrote up elaborate spy missions. We devised long forms with official-sounding terms: Location. Description. Activity. Conversation. Action to Take.
We brainstormed about who we could shadow; someone who, when overheard, would provide scintillating tidbits for us to scribble in our notes.
My sister, four and a half years younger than we were, was often the quarry.
We would crouch in the guest room, the one next to hers, waiting for her to say something. Anything. But as she was usually alone, the espionage forms remained blank for long minutes, and our legs developed cramps.
Location: her room
Description: age 6 1/2, brown hair, brown eyes
Activity: combing her doll’s hair
Conversation: N/A (I learned that one from my mom filling out medical forms at the doctor’s office.)
Action to Take: Find a new subject. Who says stuff.
By high school, we were more mobile.
We drove to the MARTA station and took the train to the end of the line: the Atlanta airport, one of the busiest in America.
Back in the glory days of air travel, random teenagers from the ‘burbs wandering through the terminals weren’t considered a security threat. Out of sheer boredom, we watched families arriving from Europe, couples reuniting after long absences, and business travelers in rumpled suits retrieving their suitcases from baggage claim.
Sometimes we would play, “That’s Your Boyfriend,” a game that today seems horribly cruel but provided us with hours of free entertainment.
You would find the most unwashed, outdated, grizzly man at the airport and present him to your friend as a gift. “Hey, girl, That’s Your Boyfriend.”
To our credit, we never pointed.
When my dad found out about it, he was horrified. “You do know that those men are other people’s fathers, don’t you? A group of teenage girls looking in his direction, giggling? The poor men probably think their zipper is unzipped or something.”
Now at the ripe old age of many of our “That’s Your Boyfriend” subjects, I still watch people and wonder about their lives.
People are curious about other people. It’s in our nature. And if you are a writer, you’ll understand that we want to know why, and how, and what makes her tick.
A few months ago, I was standing in line at our local warehouse store. The man in front of me, age 50, brown hair, mustache, stubbly facial hair, jeans circa 1995, logo t-shirt, was fascinating. I wanted my old Spy forms back.
Here is what he bought:
One case of Corona
One 55-pound bag of dog food
Two 20-pound bags of Dixie Crystals sugar
I’m sure you can imagine what I wanted to ask him: what time is the margarita party, and how many limes will you need me to pick up first?
Was the dog food thing just to put me off the scent of the real story here? I imagined a Mel-Gibson-in-Lethal-Weapon existence for him.
Or maybe he was lonely and baked homemade brownies for the homeless each Tuesday afternoon while sipping a beer.
Or maybe he and his dog filled up a plastic swimming pool with colored sugar water and splashed around on warm days in late fall.
Or maybe he baked large cakes for prisoners with nefarious tools hidden inside.
I kept my mouth shut.
But I am glad that I’ve found a career and vocation that allows me to ask a lot of questions and then write about the answers.
With each person I meet, with each person I interview, I find I gain no more insight into what makes people tick. But I do gain compassion: I never, ever play “That’s Your Boyfriend” anymore.
And I gain many more questions than I’m able to answer, which makes me happy.
Do you people-watch? Where is your favorite place to go to wonder about people’s lives? What was your biggest surprise while people-watching?