Andy and I met at a self-help seminar. He was a fellow beat-nik, (the mo-hawk was a dead give-away) who was there to research a hot lead for inspirational characters for his up coming novel. I opened conversation with a question:

“What shoe size do you wear?”

“Um, I don’t know what kind of impression you may have gotten but–”

“Oh no,” I said, “they’re giving away shoes. . . they only come in one color but it’s free! See, they got ‘em in boxes over on the table,” and pointed through the jumbled crowed to the stack in the corner. “I already put mine on, looks pretty sharp, eh?”

“Sure, swell. . . but you might want to tie ‘em so you don’t trip over the laces.”

“Yeah, I never got the hang of that. . . “ I said while admiring the style: they went well with my overalls.

We got to talking over punch and we exchanged life stories. At first, I was offended when he asked if Gobo (from Fraggle Rock fame) was really my uncle or if I had just made that part up.

“So, you’re telling me that your “Uncle Gobo” gave you a set of bed sheets with his face on it when you were 16. . . and he requested that you sleep on them in the nude. . . and you didn’t find that at all strange?”

“Maybe a little, Uncle Gobo always had this thing about how underwear decreases circulation in the lower extremities.” I said in a hushed tone while darting my eyes around the room. Once I knew the coast was clear, I whispered “His hair isn’t really green, ya’ know. . . he dyes it.” and gave him a wink and a nod.

“What were you looking for just now?”

Just to be safe, I took one more scan of the perimeter “Pop n’ Fresh. . . he’s the enemy.”

“You mean the Pillsbury Dough Boy?!?!”

“SHHHHH!!!! Keep your voice down.” I said.

Andy wrote something in his notebook and was asking me about my parents when someone passed him the fig-tree pruning shears. . .

“What am I supposed to do with these?,” he asked.

“Oh, that’s for the castration portion of the seminar, its a buddy system thing to promote trust. Wanna’ be my buddy?”

He asked how I knew this and I explained that I was here last week but came back for the free refreshments.

“But that would mean. . . never-mind. . . “

Andy seemed to be getting a little nervous at this point and I felt it was my duty to make him feel more at home.

“Cough syrup?” I said, as I took a swig off the bottle from my back pocket and offered him a nip.

“No thanks, listen, it’s not safe here, how about we get something else to drink? Perhaps we should go for some coffee and you can tell me a little more about your life related ordeals.”

We left chatting about birth orders, how I felt about my father, and the Pop n’ Fresh menace. . .

While walking down to the local Starbucks, Andy had asked me quite a few questions and I was compelled to return the sudden interest.

“So what’s this novel you’re writing,” I asked.

“It’s more of a documentary; I’m investigating resurging American cults and the mindsets of the people who join them. For instance, what made you want to join this neo-faction of the Heaven’s Gate Society?

“What made me do what?”

“The cult, you know, the place where you got the shoes. . .”

“OH, you mean the seminar. Well, I was about to take nap when I saw this ad in the paper that offered free haircuts. So naturally, I rolled off the park bench and set my feet to moving in the proper direction. When I got there, there was all these friendly people. I’d come back every week and every week they’d give me new stuff. They even offered me a cot and asked me to stay but I didn’t want to freeload. . . I got my pride, you know?. Although I would take an occasional shower.”

“You may want to consider taking that “occasional shower” in the near future, I’ve been meaning to tell you, you got a green stain on your chin.”

“oh,” I said. “Well, I was hoping this wouldn’t come up, but my uncle has this . . . bargaining system” my eyes fell down to the passing lines of concrete slabs that made up the structure of the sidewalk as they passed below my feet and thought, ‘these shoes really DO go well with my overalls.’ “He sometimes gives me a lift in his car as long as I do something for him in return. I – I – I just feel so ashamed abo–“

“DUDE, JUST SHUT UP! it’s PUNCH, you’ve got a kool-aid stain. . . !”

“OH, whew – how embarrassing,” I replied, “for a second there I thought it might have been hair dye.”