Odd Is As Odd Does

I went through some of my old journals recently, and found this tidbit from when I was 18 or so and not yet in university:


There are so many odd birds in Winsted. I have been noticing them more lately, perhaps because I have resumed my old habit of walking on main street, and there are always people floating around. I am trying to formulate some sort of character sketch about at least one of them. Sometimes I can't help but stare. 


For instance, while heading out to grab some lunch at a restaurant down the street from my apartment, I noticed this woman coming out of the Register Citizen building. She was about 70 years old and had dyed her hair jet black. Her makeup was very thick, and I wondered if perhaps she was participating in a play somewhere locally, as it was difficult to accept that she thought it looked attractive. Blue eyeshadow, pancake-thick foundation, and ruby rouge, virtually circles on her cheeks, she looked like someone who might audition for a music video. I know my description borders on cruel, but believe me, I don't intend it that way. She was very beautiful in an odd way. All these people are beautiful to me in the odd way. I just wish there were some way for me to utilize this fascination. 


This place is so weird. I grew up here, and I should be utterly used to it, but I am not. Every day I walk down the street with a continued fascination that may outfit itself in either hatred or contentment. It always manages to be fascination, though. Confusion, even. 


This town used to be so lovely. Think of it; even Route 8 comes out in Winsted. Before the flood, this place was really something. Now it manages to be some kind of voluntary prison. There's no denying that this place sucks, but it holds a simple beauty. I intend to visit often once I escape.

Note that to say I "grew up" in Winsted is overstating things. I actually grew up nearby, in a much more beautiful and more rural place. Still, Winsted had the grocery store, the shoe store, and my father's small label business, so it's true that I did spend a good deal of time there. At 18 I had moved there temporarily, in with my father, in an effort to figure out exactly what it was I planned to do with myself.

If memory serves, I wrote this shortly before another, more intimate and more frightening encounter with an "odd bird."

There was a man I used to see around town. He was between 50 and 60, and he aways wore the same army green jacket. I assumed he was homeless. He always smelled of earth and alcohol. I'd see him nearly everywhere: at the pharmacy, the grocery store, and on the street. We saw each other so frequently that we eventually began to acknowledge one another with a nod and a smile.

One day, as I was walking home, he came up behind me and said, "Hello!"

"Hello," I said. We had never spoken before.

"How are you on this beautiful day?" It was cloudy. He used the few teeth in his mouth to smile like a politician.

"Fine. I've got to go," I said.

"Well, just wait a minute. You're usually so friendly. Don't you want to have a chat?" He was blocking my path. The street was empty, even though it was midday on a Saturday.

"Well, I would, it's just that I'm very busy," I said.

"You're so beautiful. Are you married?" he asked. It was then that I knew he was either stupid or nuts.

"Not yet," I said. In retrospect, I really should have said yes.

"How can someone so beautiful not be married?"

"I'm too young," I said. In retrospect, I really should have said, "Because I've got herpes, syphilis, and the clap."

"Can I give you a hug?" he asked. Yes, he was nuts. Too much alcohol had pickled his brain, and he'd retained his ability to speak but not his ability to think.

"Nope. Gotta go!" I said, and tried to walk swiftly away. I was only two meters or so from the front door. He grabbed me by the shoulder and ran his hand down the length of my arm. I froze. In retrospect, I really should have kicked him square in the nuts. Hindsight.

Then my father came out of the building with a garbage bag in his hand. He saw us, walked calmly in our direction and asked, "Can I help you?" He was addressing the man but it was, without question, me he was helping.

"Oh," the man said, his face falling, his head drooping. "You're already with someone, I see." Yes, he was nuts. Certifiable, in fact. Too bad that he had no one who cared enough to certify him.

I ran inside. My father stayed behind and talked to him for a few minutes. When he came in, he said, "That guy sends his apologies."

The strange thing is that I never saw him again. Perhaps it was because I avoided all of the places in which I typically ran into him. Perhaps my dad scared him into hiding, although I find that somewhat hard to imagine. Perhaps I did see him once or twice, and I just don't remember it. I'll never know.

That's actually just the most dramatic example of a few incidents in which I felt threatened while walking around in Winsted. Living in the country probably made a pansy out of me, but that small, sleepy town is not without its dangers. Nothing of that sort ever happens to me here in Lappeenranta. There are drunks here and everywhere, but they've never bothered me. Perhaps it's because I'm older, and perhaps it's because Finland has a far superior system by which to decrease poverty and desperation.

Isn't it odd, though, that I miss that place?