Traveling Philosopher

I spotted the man on a crisp Saturday morning, sitting on a chair on the sidewalk outside the cafe. He had a pigtail and long, pointy beard, and wore a hat, and faded brown trousers and jacket. He was selling his self-published memoirs, full of personal and philosophical observations, written when he was on the road all over the country a few years ago.

Several passers-by and those lunching at the cafe stopped at his table, chatted with him, and bought his books, priced at between five and twenty dollars, the latter referred to as "the cadillac of my books". I stood listening to a couple of his poems, which were mildly interesting. And ended up buying the "cadillac", which I did not want.

He was friendly and honest. On learning that I lived on the other side of the lake, where people lived in neat houses with lawns and went to malls on the weekend, he said he had never been there, adding good-humoredly that "they probably don't want rabble like me there, anyway".