My Lydia Davis Encounter

       

The  Telegram  Review   Sept.  24,  2013    

  Walking  down  the  avenue,  I  look  over  and  see  a  worker  from  the  drugstore  outside  the   shop  cleaning  graffiti  off  the  side  of  the  building.  I'm  impressed  how  well  it's  coming  off   with  his  tissue  and  cloth.  I  wonder  who  put  it  there  and  why.  I  wonder  if  he  appreciates   how  easily  it's  coming  off.  A  big  truck  drives  up  and  blocks  my  view.  Shifting  my   attention  to  my  side  of  the  road,  I  suddenly  see  a  group  of  people  walking  towards  me   on  the  sidewalk.  They're  finishing  up  a  scavenger  hunt.  They  all  have  papers,  folded,   crumbled,  nearly  ready  to  cast  off.  The  group  is  a  little  tired.  Some  one  takes  a  photo.   She  says,  "but  we  still  need  'graffiti'!"  Anxious,  surprised,  delighted,  I  immediately  look   back  over  my  shoulder  as  they  pass  me.  All  in  an  instant  everything  collides,  but  nothing   converges.  Like  the  gears  of  a  smooth-­‐running  machine,  like,  dare  I  say,  two  ships   passing  in  the  night.  The  truck  has  only  just  arrived  at  the  corner  and  is  waiting  at  the   light.  Nothing  to  be  seen.  No  worker  in  sight.  No  drugstore  in  sight.  The  group  is  moving   up,  up,  this  side  of  the  road,  finishing  their  own  work,  seeing  nothing  but  a  truck,  as  they   carry  on.  And  that  graffiti  is  coming  off  very  nicely.