My Jew*

His shoes were the color of his shorts, like they'd been washed in the same dust. They matched the tan of his legs. This made his socks, a rusty magenta, stand out. If I had to give you one reason why he seemed obscenely Jewish, I'd probably say the socks.

There is something about the supremely ethnic that dissuades stereotypical discrimination. Maybe it's that the supremely ethnic satisfy most of the criteria of the stereotype that attacking the person seems about as effective as assaulting a dolphin with a Super-Soaker.

I nodded, he nodded, the poofy mushroom of his hair moving independently of his head. "Nice socks," I said. He looked at his feet as if to say, "These old things?" and nodded at me again. Didn't stop. Half-smiled. I've seen him twice since.

Late afternoons of an Indiana summer are hot. The humidity eases off its midday peak like a beached whale being pushed into the ocean by the African Children's Choir. I usually see the strange-socked Jew around five or six, mostly near the library, on a corner between the two entrances that doesn't inform me if he's coming or going.

I make a right angle with the library, the Reformed Presbyterian Church, and the Post Office. Then over to 2nd Street, past the K & S Country Market, where I grab a 35 cent Faygo from the machine outside. Last summer its only company was a half-filled Coke vendor, with regular, Diet, and Sprite. They added an Adrenaline machine in late May. Adrenaline is an energy drink, each flavor named after a situation where somebody'd be likely to have a heroic 'rush.' My favorite is "Hip-Shot," though "Bungee Snap"'s berry flavor is nostalgic, with a taste like the fence where Grandma's vines twirled.

The sun doesn't really set till after eight, and the sky is light till around nine-thirty. Between six and seven-thirty the air is thick orange, a color I like to think is exclusively midwestern. It is early August now, which means leases are changing hands. It is difficult to determine who is moving in and who is moving out. The scents of marinated meat and ripe corn mix with the warm taste of charcoal in the air. In the last thirty minutes of daylight, I go running.

Despite the immunity of being supremely ethnic, I subject the Jew to private speculation. He's here for med school. Law school. Works for his father. I imagine his mother making matzo balls while asking why he never brings a nice girl home.

What would it take to know the Jew? I've never seen his eyes; he always wears long-lensed reflective sunglasses, the sporty kind that were big in the '90s. Somehow this confirms what the socks only hint at. I wonder if he ever recognizes me, or if the nods are just polite gestures toward a stranger.

A midwestern university town is a good place to live. A transient, impermanent student body allows for the distinct anonymity of a big city, while the small neighborhoods bordering farmland house the midwest's hospitable residents whom grandmas adore. I can be aloof without seeming queer, or I can be friendly without seeming handicapped. This duality often leads to having an Anonymous Friend, a person I see often enough to know**, but have never actually interfaced with. The Jew is my Anonymous Friend.

A commonly tricky relationship move is going from Friend to Lover or vice-versa. An equally common, but less acknowledged move is going from Anonymous Friend to Acquaintance to Friend. Acquaintanceship is never a desirable level. The Purgatory of human interaction, Acquaintanceship means you don't know a person well enough to care about him/her, but you know enough to have to pretend to.

After the run I walk through the park, counting fireflies***. The temperature is down to the 70s, and back at my subleased room the AC goes off, the window up. A fan is turned on, power level one. Crunches are done with shoes still on; dinner is cooked in nothing but shorts. I spend most of my waking hours in silence, as there is no one around to speak with. Aside from summer classmates, the Jew is the closest friend I have.

There is a definite difference between loneliness and solitude. Without reaching for a dictionary, I'd say intent is the dividing line. Loneliness falls upon a person, whereas solitude is his choice. The line is sometimes blurred, and staying in, reading, on a Friday night seems more like a capitulation to circumstance than a conscious choice.

There are many lonely people. The boom of virtual lives, of networking web sites, indicates a noticeable lack in interaction, not the other way around. They are empty plates on which we spill drips of ourselves trying to create desirable personae.

The Jew seems to be a complete person. I feel entirely removed from him, unable to identify in any way. I've never seen his favorite movies, never heard his favorite music, never listened to him explain his favorite books. I can't predict his tastes, whether right or wrong. Maybe this is what draws me to him.



*Most of this is made up, and, admittedly, incomplete.
**As in, during conversations when said person is mentioned, though you've never conversed, and have no biographical information w/r/t said person, you will inevitably say, "Hal? Goofy guy with mushroom hair? Yeah, I know him."
***Actually, I try to follow one firefly for fifty blinks.