Met a man from Idaho today.
Sitting in the cafe at Barnes & Noble drinking coffee I don’t need, looking at books I don’t intend to buy.
Dressed all Brooks Brothers, he passes my table.
He sees me.
I see him.
Seeing me see him, he nods at the piles of books cluttering my table and says something like, “See you’re building a library there.”
I nod back and say something like, “Amassing a collection.” And, “Bad addiction.”
He laughs. Looks at a couple of the titles in front of me and asks, “Are you a writer.”
I tell him I try.
Awkward moment of silence where neither of us are sure where to proceed, so I ask him where he’s from and he says, “Idaho.”
“The potato,” I say.
He smiles and nods his head and says, “Yeah. The potato.”
I ask him how long he’s been here, and he says, “About two years.”
Before that Wisconsin. Also about two years.
Before that Idaho. Since birth.
Idaho makes me think west makes me think Colorado makes me think of my favorite horror film (The Shining) makes me think I would murder my family in a mountainside hotel to get back to the mountains of Colorado for always and forever makes me ask him, Does he want to move back to Idaho?
The potato man, he smiles and nods his head and says, “Yeah.”
I smile and nod my head back at him.
And then he tried to sell me Amway.