I was feeling pretty low the other day — for valid reasons, I guess, but the persistent Portland grey wasn’t helping.
“Can I ask you something?”
A man was parked half in the street, leaning toward the passenger side of his rattling truck to call to me, the only person walking down the street. I came closer, but not much.
“I won’t bite.”
I’m trying to be more open to strangers, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I stepped one half step closer, wary of what would come next.
“I only have one leg. Do you see those balloons?”
I was ready for a couple of statements or questions, but not those two, together.
“Right in front of my truck. I don’t want them to cause an accident.”
On the curb, between two parked cars, was a bunch of about ten green balloons tied together in a bundle. “I see it.” I grabbed them and smiled at the driver.
“Do you you want them?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ll pop them and toss them,” I offered.
“Will they fit in the window?”
I gently fed the balloons through the open passenger window. He smiled.
So I walked on my way down the street. About a block later the man with one leg drove back by in his clattering pickup, cab half full of green balloons.
I threw my head back and laughed.