A media friend of mine in the heart of Rochester had been waiting to receive a package from me for ten days. Everytime I told him that I would put it in the mail, of course, something always came up.
So Friday (yesterday), I say to myself, "You know - I just need to drive downtown and drop the package off to him in person."
But each time I tried to leave the house, again, something always came up. A phone call, here, a howdy to a neighbor, there.
Finally, I actually find myself in my car, driving downtown, into the city. I find a great parking space near the renowned Geva Theatre, which is located close to the office building I need to visit.
I exit the car, and walk past Washington Square Park, where in the late 1960s and early 1970s, my sister and my cousins, then hippies, used to smoke weed (don't believe I just wrote "weed"), and sang Beatle tunes with their fellow flower children.
I reach the crosswalk to the building I need to visit and, before me, are two dudes who decide not to use the crosswalk in the proper way.
Naturally, I try always to do the right thing in life (smoked "weed" only once myself, a very silly experience - as I found I got higher from life than from "grass" - don't believe I just wrote "grass"), so I made sure that I stayed within the lines (crosswalk).
As I happily walk the legal way, I hear some guy yelp out, "Herbie J!"
I'm like, "Uh?"
I look over to my right, and there's my cousin Mary Sue's husband, Don, a city engineer, fixing a city light on the street.
I couldn't believe it.
"Hey, bro," Don goes on to say. "How the hell are ya', man?"
Backtrack: Mary Sue and Don own the main home at Waterport, to where most of my family from my father's side gathered a few weeks ago (which see previous Walton's Mountain posts).
"Don!" I yelp back. "Holy crow! What's goin' on? Hey, listen - how long you gonna' be here? I gotta go visit someone in that building over there."
"About ten, fifteen minutes," he says.
"Cool. I'll be back."
I then enter the building close by, ask the lobby security guard about the location of the office I need to visit. Journey up to the 17th floor, drop off my package to a little hottie receptionist eating her lunch at the front desk. I then journey back downstairs and outside to see Don, fixing away at the light-post.
We get to talking, and he's like, "Hey, Dude - you know that bridge near that we all jumped off to go swimming?"
"Well, they just posted a sign that says we can't do that anymore."
"Hmmm," I said, and then silently to myself, "Well, I figured that. It really was kinda of illegal." And besides that, I continued to say to myself, "Magic like that only should happen once, or else it wouldn't be magic."
We talk a little more, and I then give Don my best. He says something about everyone meeting in Indiana for Thanksgiving, and I walk back down the street to Geva Theatre and my car.
I start to drive past Washington Square Park and, in a moment, there I am again, on Don's tail.
I beep the horn, and for a half-a-second he doesn't know it's his cousin-in-law, who he just saw moments before. I then wave, he waves back - and I return to my keyboard.
How 'bout that, though, you know? That I see Don, just as I decide to deliver my package at that very same second, at that very same location, after so many failed tries and mailings? Right there in the heart of Rochester - my city...