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Nowhere Man
Nowhere
Man
I
didn't know
Wes. I haven't
ever seen him
in fact. I do
know
of him, simply
because the
facts surrounding
his life and
death were related
to me and made
me wonder whether
there was more
to him. And
now neither
I, nor anyone
else, will ever
know what he
was really like.
Famous
people leave
trails of documents
so that their
admirers
can truly know
them. Their
private diaries
and
correspondences
somehow become
public property
when they die,
and their fans
learn their
innermost thoughts
and feelings.
It is almost
as if these
people anticipated
their own fame,
and helped it
along by ensuring
posthumous records
which, in the
very process
of shedding
mystery, make
their lives
more enigmatic.
But
your average
Joe, the guy
you pass every
morning on
your
way to work,
the person in
front of you
in the grocery
line— these
people live
out their lives
in silence,
rarely give
voice to their
inner ramblings,
and even if
they do, nobody
will ever know.
It makes one
wonder how many
brilliant thoughts
are lost for
lack of anybody
to share them
with.
Wes
was the type
of guy you see
every day, but
never
notice.
That is, until
you don't see
him for a while.
And that's all
there
is. I didn't
see him every
day, of course,
only about twice
a year, but
the people he
rode the bus
with must have
seen him every
day, sometimes
even shared
a seat, sat
next to him
in the bar,
worked next
to him, and
never really
knew him. Nobody
ever inquired
about his life—because
he had (presumably)
nothing interesting
to say—no kids
to complain
about, no grandkids
to brag about,
no house to
bemoan the replacing
of shingles
and shutters,
he was extraordinarily
ordinary.
I
must cross paths with people
like Wes every day, and
never really realize it.
After hearing his story,
though, I don’t think I’ll
ever pass a stranger unwittingly
again.
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