Passing Glance

September 2014. I am walking down a narrow-ish pavement, dimly lit by old style street lamps. It is a quiet street devoid of any motor traffic. It is pleasantly warm despite the time of day. In the distance I can see a figure dressed in dark clothes approaching. Judging by the stature and clothing, I conclude that the person is male, about my height and build. He moves quietly towards me.

As we pass each other, we are both bathed momentarily in the lamplight from above. I can clearly see all his features in detail as he briefly glances in my direction, smiles in a non-committal manner at me, and continues past.

The most notable feature is that the man’s face is lopsided, with one ear completely mis-located, compared to the eyes/nose grid. He has busy eyebrows and the lamp-light is strong enough for me to be able to classify them as ‘grey.’ As is the thinning hair with receding hairline, and overgrown sideburns. Quite obviously, a creature dating back quite a number of decades.

I have this nagging feeling. Where Have I seen this person before? He certainly didn’t resemble any of my workmates, no-one that I have met in New Zealand, yet I have this strange feeling that I have met him. Or was it in a previous life? All this uncertainty takes a few mere milli-seconds.

I decide: Call the guy back, and go and ask him who he is and where do I know him from? It’s now or never. He who hesitates is lost, I tell myself.

I turn around. The pavement is clear for at least 50 metres behind me. I can see clearly and there are no exits, yet the guy has disappeared into thin air, it would seem. He has gone!

                                                          * * * * *

Sometime in 1953: Picture a barber shop chair with a wooden plank across the arm-rests, with a skinny wee young lad sitting high in that timber saddle, covered in a white cloak. On the floor around the huge base of the chair, lies piles of furry blonde hair. The barber wearing a white coat  turns to the lad’s mother, who is standing guard next to him.

“Is that Ok? You see I have to cut this side a bit shorter than that one, so that his head doesn’t look too unbalanced.”

Both the barber and the mother appear to be oblivious that the lad can hear their conversation, and at six years of age going on seven, has no problem in understanding what is being said. The barber could just as well have cut off one of the kid’s ears with his razor, why not?

“I’ve never seen a kid with such a skew head. Did you squash him like that, or did he just… fall?”

                                                              * * * * *

I have it in good authority that the kid did not change his name to Harrison Ford, either.

Footnote:
This post is based on true events, and the guy under the lamp-post has still to be traced… if indeed he even exists… And, yes, Harrison Ford does wear a stud in his left ear-lobe, but, no, he definitely wasn’t the mystery pedestrian.