Kate, the mail-lady, would not drive up our half-mile long driveway to deliver what little mail we got. So every few days I took a walk to the main road and picked up what ever was left in the mailbox. Most of the time it was empty.

Walking back I heard singing and as I turned the bend I almost ran right into, obviously, our uninvited guest. I knew it was him. The Adidas gave him away. They seemed like very nice Adidas.

Having lived in San Francisco I was used to the transient population living under the overpasses to be in the style of The Grapes of Wrath. But here was something else. Mid-twenties, sun damaged hair, good-looking in a country way, he approached me with a confident swagger singing all the louder at the sight of me. He was clad only in rolled up jeans and he appeared to be a healthy, fit young man. Not at all what I had imagined stalking the yard.

I stopped walking and as he passed, he turned his head, looked into my eyes and sung as loudly and as passionately as he could. His eyes revealed far too much experience for his age. I figured the singing must keep his demons calm.

Due to my long experience with Randy singing loudly and passionately into my face I suppose I did not react as he anticipated. So, instead of continuing to walk on, he paused and then walked backward toward me, continuing his song but with a new quieter questioning tone. I thought maybe he would kill me.

Though he didn’t seem threatening I was very uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do other than throw open my mouth and belt out my own song. I sung “Constantinople” to him. He stopped singing so I stopped also. He smiled and walked away starting a new gentle song. I yelled out to him, “Nice shoes.”