Elizabeth Alvera Mullock--Chance Encounters Of A Repetitive Nature

I had walked to the coffee shop near my home on a cold evening last year in late fall. After removing dead leaves from my shoes, I opened the door to the coffee shop and noticed two people standing in front of me. One was an older man. The man didn’t stand out to me at first. He was wearing a dark winter jacket, green t-shirt and blue jeans. The only thing about him that looked slightly out of place was the briefcase that he held proudly in one of his ungloved hands. Initially, I only glanced at the man. I did not see anything that drove me to want to perform a closer inspection nor did I feel a sense of recognition with regard to the man’s face.

It was 11:00 on a Sunday evening. Although it struck me as slightly unusual for a man of his age to be carrying a briefcase on a weekend evening, I thought little of it. I did notice the man’s open jacket and bright green t-shirt. The t-shirt was slightly faded, but the color was still vivid, almost an electric green. The man seemed to be over the age of seventy, with a normal stature and grey hair that had not lost any of its volume. Although I was aware of the man in front of me, to me, he was just another person in the coffee shop, looking to buy a coffee on a cold evening.

After I had stood behind him for a minute or two waiting to place my order, the man turned to me and said, “It’s cold outside. I’ve heard that it’s going to be colder next week. One can see that winter is coming. No escaping it now.”

It was November and I knew that the man was right. Winter would inevitably fall upon us in a matter of weeks and there was nothing either of us could do to prevent it.

“Yes, I read that it’s going to be much colder next week.” I replied quickly, eager to show the man that I was interested in his conversation, although I usually dislike talking to strangers. “I like the winter, so I don’t really mind the cold.”

“I like it too.” He turned away from me then turned back. “Well, stay warm.” The server gestured towards the man, indicating that he should order. He stepped towards the counter and ordered a donut and a small cup of coffee.

It was a normal conversation between two strangers in a northern city. In such cities, individuals have numerous daily conversations about the weather. In cold cities, we tend to bemoan the frigidity of the weather or sing the praises of the warmth and sunshine. Some of us northerners, however, find the winter to be a welcome respite from the heat of the summer. It is a season that provides ample opportunities for sport and bundling up comfortably. I am one such person and thus the November evening was not oppressively cold to me, rather it stirred my heart and body.

The day had not been particularly notable. A lazy Sunday, I had spent time with family and worked at a new professional skill that I was developing for work. At 11:00 p.m., I had decided to go for a walk as I was bored indoors and wanted some fresh air. A coffee seemed like a nice treat and I had brought enough change with me for a medium-sized one. After the man had received his coffee and donut, I bought my own coffee.

As I was walking home, gingerly sipping the hot coffee, it hit me that perhaps I had met the man in the green t-shirt before. Racking my brain, I tried to think of where it had been that I had first encountered the man. It was like a puzzle – trying to fit the man, the piece, into the puzzle that was my life. I noted that the man and I were nearly forty years apart in age; there were few places that we would have organically encountered one another. But still, I had the distinct sense that I had met the man before.

As I walked north back to my apartment, I passed a church on my left, St. John’s Anglican, and the thought dawned on me that perhaps it had been at that same church where I had first met the man. I was raised in the Catholic church; however, I had attended a social group at St. John’s Anglican over a decade earlier.

I was unsure and my thoughts were soon consumed by planning for the week ahead. By the time, I returned to my apartment, I had left all thoughts of the man behind me.

But the man refused to be ignored. A week later, I went for a run in my neighbourhood. I passed the tree-lined streets and descended into a nearby ravine. After running until the heat of my body overwhelmed the cold outside, and sweat pored from my pores, I emerged from the ravine and turned back towards home. A few minutes from my apartment building, I looked up and saw the man standing at the main intersection near my home. He was wearing the same outfit – dark coat, green t-shirt and blue jeans. He looked slightly disheveled. The identical briefcase was clutched in his hand and he looked to be crossing the street towards the subway. Perhaps he was going somewhere?

I stopped running and began my cool-down walk. I became increasingly convinced that it was true that I had encountered the man at St. John’s Anglican. Memories of meeting him I did not possess. But something about him and St. John’s Anglican Church resonated with me. The fact that the man had not changed his outfit made me wonder if perhaps he was in need of help. I wondered if he was homeless or maybe a resident of the nearby long-term care home. Perhaps he was a widower or had no family to care for him. He was older, but, at the coffee shop, he had seemed very alert and capable. I hadn’t noticed any signs of cognitive impairment. Asking myself if I should offer assistance to him, I wondered if I should walk back and talk to him.

I soon decided against approaching him because I did not want to intrude upon his life. Of note, I did not want to infringe upon his privacy and autonomy — I know all too well the dangers of well-meaning strangers who intervene in others’ lives. We must give all persons, regardless of age, skill or disability, the right to choose their own fates. It is often ill-advised for an individual, armed with a sense of physical or mental superiority, to try to intervene in another’s life. I resolved not to intervene with regard to the man unless I saw a real need.

A few days later, I was scheduled to meet a family member at our usual meeting spot, which was in a parking lot immediately across the street from St. John’s. We were to go for a walk. It was colder outside than it had been and I felt enlivened. I crossed the street to the waiting SUV, an older model vehicle. Once inside the remarkably well-preserved Subaru, I took off my hat and said hello to my family member.

“Do you see that man over there?” My relative queried, pointing out a person on the street. “I see him all the time walking around.”

I looked and saw it was the man from the coffee shop, still wearing the same outfit, although he had changed his t-shirt from green to blue.

“I feel like I know him from somewhere,” said my relative, who had also attended the same social group at St. John’s all those years ago.

“That is crazy,” I remarked. “I have the same feeling every time I see him. I think we may have met him at St. John’s Anglican, but I am not sure.”

Looking at the man, I could see that nothing had changed except for his t-shirt and the fact that he looked slightly less disheveled than previously. He continued walking and turned into the driveway of a house a few houses east of St. John’s. He walked up the front staircase and pulled out a key. Before he entered the home, he paused to speak to a neighbour who was raking leaves next door. I felt relieved to see that he had social supports in the community and a place to call home.

I still see the man around my neighbourhood, always in basically the same outfit with the same briefcase. I don’t know the man’s name and I don’t know his story, and I still don’t think it right to bother him or to intrude. I feel heartened knowing that he has a home and neighbours with whom to talk.

Elizabeth Alvera Mullock is a writer who lives in Toronto, Canada. She has a background in the law and grant writing, and is also a yoga teacher. Elizabeth enjoys exercise and spending time in nature.

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