There's a man who lives in the building across the way from us.
I met him as I walked toward the mailroom and hesitated just a moment on his appearance before smiling back a "Hi" and fumbling for the mailroom door. I can't say how old he is - no wrinkles to point the way. In their place is a smooth, stretched scar, the color of chicken flesh in parts, covering three quarters of his face.
He was leaving the main office of the complex when our paths crossed. I rarely actually look at people I pass, walking head down, looking up only to check for obstacles. I saw him only as a distant figure to walk around. I had already calculated that we would be within speaking distance as I walked across the grass to get the mail, and in my usual fashion, altered pace to avoid having to dance that awkward dance of who goes by on which side.
I didn't alter it enough. When he was five feet or so from me, between the clanks that I later saw the source of, he spoke up a friendlier "hello" than I get from most of the people at work. I looked up to return the stranger's gesture, my gaze sliding upward from the ground to his legs. The clank I'd heard - a metal left leg and accompanying cane. My split-second thought: war veteran. And then my eyes reached his face. Silvery white scar tissue ran marbled across his hairless pink skull and slithered down his face across what may have been a nose and down over his mouth. It was a lipless mouth pulled, however uncomfortably, into a surprisingly lovely smile.
My only thought at the moment I saw his face was, "I should be more bothered by this." And yet I wasn't. I smiled back, let out a higher-than-usual "Hi," and looked back at the ground, my feet closing in on the mailroom door. As I fumbled for the key and reached for the knob, a man from inside burst out, nearly knocking the keys from my hand.
"Oh, sorry," he said with an almost caustic air.
"No problem," I smirked back.
And then I realized the friendly stranger was coming for mail as well, and in what I felt could be my only course of action, I stood back, holding open the heavy door, and said foolishly, "Here you go."
"Oh thank you so much," he replied in a sweet small voice and moved past me, clanking into the cube of little numbered doors.
As I crossed the parking lot walking back to my apartment, I felt a contrasting concoction of emotions: regret, sympathy, admiration, and silliness. In a moment, the thought, "What a wealth of feeling and experience that man must be," was followed swiftly by a, "Why? He could be just another boring asshole. The way he looks shouldn't make him a better person." My mind was confused, muddled in hypocrisies and mixed feeling. I only knew for sure that I was missing out on something but that I probably wasn't worthy of it.
By the time I reached my door, I turned to see him reaching his across the way. What an estranged existence I lead, I thought. Maybe some day I'll say "hello" to strangers I meet on paths. Maybe.
