Norman

It was a beautiful day yesterday, and I had a couple of hours to myself.

I was waiting for my wife and daughter (Cathy and Brynne) by the Strawberry Hills movie theatre (they were watching Iron Man III, which didn’t appeal to me). I spent about a half-hour at Chapters, discovered a few books I might like to read but didn’t buy anything, and then I went outside and walked until I found a bench in the shade where I could sit and peacefully puzzle through a few pages of Riddley Walker.

I was making some real headway through the novel (either I was beginning to catch on to the language, or it becomes easier as the book progresses) and was reading with a studious intensity, but I eventually realized that a pair of legs was stopped in front of me, and I looked up from the book and into a smiling face.

© Craig Hitchens, artist

A man stood in front of me, waiting patiently for my attention. He was dressed in apricot kurta and shalwar, and wore sandals on his feet. His white hair and beard were close-cut. I think he was a bit older than me, possibly in his mid-sixties (although when I look in the mirror I think I look older than me too).

“Hello,” he said. “I saw you sitting here, and came over to meet you.” His accent was thick, and it was difficult to understand him over the roar of traffic that was only a few dozen meters away.

I stood to shake his hand, but he waved me back down: “Relax,” he said with a smile.

We chatted for a few moments, communicating somewhat effectively. He did most of the talking; he was sharing his philosophy, his approach to living the right sort of existence.

“You’re a nice person,” he told me, which made me feel pretty good. “What is your name?”

I told him, and asked for his in return. His name was long, and although he had me pronounce it one syllable at a time along with him, I was hopelessly lost by the time he had finished. He flashed a wide smile and said, “I have many friends who cannot pronounce it. They call me Norman.”

The name seemed anomalous, but oddly fitting: “Okay,” I said, “it’s nice to meet you, Norman.” We shook hands again (he liked to shake hands; we must have performed this ritual a half-dozen times during our conversation).

We talked some more; well, he did most of the talking, and I did a lot of nodding, but managed to toss enough thoughts into the air to prove that I was listening, understanding, and that we were, for the most part, of one mind with his philosophy. We certainly agreed that God isn’t a single, separate entity; God is everything.

Norman spoke with a quiet passion; I didn’t get everything he said, but he talked about positive and negative forces (whether he meant right and wrong, or something similar to yin and yang was unclear, but I nodded), being in accord with God, and many other things.

Soon, it was almost time for the movie to end, and I said my farewells to Norman.

He shook my hand and said, “Think, and you will be rich. We will meet again, okay?”

I said, “Do you want to make plans to meet?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “We will meet again.”

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