He Could Have Been the Man

“You’re always answering to someone.” That was the sentiment offered to me in an elevated tone by a man I did not know, a man standing on a corner of a busy intersection in red pants and red sweater, green shoes, and a large, furry top hat, also green but a shade closer to a pine forest under a cloudy sky. The cold wind whipped his large black-and-white scarf which hung loosely around his neck. The left side of his face was a sour red — from the weather or from disease, I couldn’t tell. When the light changed, I decided I was more interested in this man than in moving forward. “What’s that?” I asked. I kept my bicycle still, sat up straighter and let the other cyclists glide by.

“No matter who you are,” he continued, “no matter what you do. And I’m not talking about God. I’m not religious. I’m not talking religiously here. Well, yes, I am talk religiously. But I’m not talking about God. God has nothing to do with this.”

“Unless money’s your deity,” I said. “Unless you worship at that particular alter.”

“No. That’s incorrect.” He adjusted his furry hat and turned to finally look at me, albeit peripherally. “It’s all about results.” He poked a finger into an invisible antagonist in front of him. “Results. Results.”

“Then who do you answer to?”

“To whom do I answer? Is that what you mean?”

“Said differently. Same thing.” I pulled the right pedal of my bicycle up closer to the top of its revolution, rested my foot on it, eyed the red light and the traffic crossing in both directions in front of me.

“It is not the same thing,” he stammered. I could see his teeth, the white and yellow. “Dangling preposition. Whom versus who. Object versus subject. Some do the action, some receive it. See? Results. It’s all about results. We’re all looking for ‘em.” He paused, looked up, looked backed down. Looked up again. “That’s a cloudy sky up there.”

I didn’t know what else to say, didn’t really understand my own intention. “Is that hat big enough to keep you dry?” I offered, not buying my own humor.

He turned to look at me squarely, finally offering his full face. His was an ordinary face. He could have been the man who sells me stamps from behind a bullet-proof window, who pours my pints, who fixes my locks. He stared at me as if I were a room that was too dark for anything inside of it to be seen. He turned back to the invisible antagonist, poked it two more times. We both waited. Maybe for the same thing, maybe for something entirely different.

“Nature,” he finally said. “I answer to nature.” He looked up at the sky. His hat tiltled back, threatened to fall off, like a cartoon boulder teetering on the edge of a cliff. “So, yes. I guess, I do, answer, to God.”