Eavesdropping
Every time I take a walk through the downtown area of The Very Large City, I run across some person or another who, let's say, operates at the fringes of our society. Homeless people, obviously mentally ill people, people who talk to themselves or whomever will listen. One of my walks takes me by a Greyhound station, where many of the people who operate on the fringes of our society seem to gather.

The people on the fringes are individually very different, but most share a common theme. There's the woman who sits on the steps of Tony Roma's and repeats, " 'Scuse me ... 'scuse me ... 'scuse me ... " over and over, in almost a rhythmic fashion. Nobody stops for her anymore, except the tourists. There's the guy who's usually in the middle of the intersection of Ross and Market, carrying something that looks like a Bible and hollering at the top his lungs about our NEED for REDEMPTION at the HANDS of ALLLLL-MIGHTY GAW-DUH. There's the occasional person who asks you for "a dollah for the bus" or "my car's outta gas out on the freeway" or "do you have a lighter?"

I have always believed that everybody has a story to tell. One of these days, I might ask one of these people to tell me their story. Maybe.

Anyway, I found myself oddly disturbed by today's Person who Talks To Himself. He was in the McDonald's, carrying what appeared to be all of his possessions in a faded green canvas duffel bag. He was probably in his late 40s, judging from his appearance and figuring in the factors you have to figure when you're estimating the age of a person on the fringes. He had made his way past the security by not being incredibly disheveled and not incredibly aromatic. He was part of a large crowd of people at the drink dispenser, filling a large green plastic thermal mug with water.

While he got his water, he was speaking in a quiet monotone, not trying to attract anybody's attention but not trying to be unheard, either.

"Do you know ... COBOL?" he murmured to no one in particular. I thought he might be talking to me, so I looked up from my ketchup-dispensing.

He wasn't talking to me. Nor, apparently, to anybody else. I decided I had probably mis-heard him.

He put a little more ice in his cup. "Do you know. Anything. About computer science?"

I sometimes carry a technology magazine to lunch with me. I double-checked to see if I was doing so at this moment. I wasn't. He was not talking to me.

Then, as he snapped the top back onto his mug, still facing the drink dispenser, "Do you need a compiler?"

I was probably obviously staring at this time. He most likely didn't know I was there. He briefly regarded his reflection in the big red "Coca-Cola" logo on the drink dispenser. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder, took a drink of his water without looking at anybody else, and walked toward the door.

I know enough about computer science to know that COBOL is a nearly defunct programming language and that a compiler is something a programmer uses to, well, compile code.

I have a feeling that, at least at one time, this guy knew way more than that.

I'm going to be thinking about this guy for days. I don't exactly know why. But I know I will.