Tips on Trapping the Boo Radleyesk

It was not that long ago that I had a beard. Not a literal beard mind you, but a figurative one that swayed as low as any Taliban may wish to have. I remember hearing the callers on the local AM radio cursing and denouncing these Taliban as well as the liberals who, in the uncallaced daytime AM mindset, supported their cause. ÒIf the liberals had their way the Taliban would take over this country in no time flat. Before you know it weÕd all have long beards and our women would be wearing burkkas. IÕll tell ya those people will suppress freedom at every chance and try and force their culture on us.Ó Of course these callers are the same ones who called in a few months later after we had taken over that country and justifiably rejoiced with all the Afghanis who were shaving their beards freely. At the same time they were crowing over the captured prisoners who were forced to shave theirs in disrespect of their beliefs, not worrying in the least about any forced cultural habits.

When Rebecca and I moved into our current home the house next door was immediately intriguing. Located on the street corner, it was dark and as over grown as sleeping beautyÕs castle. Kudzu covered a large portion of the house, the windows were boarded up, and every exterior ornamentation was rusted and covered in virginia creepers. Many people over the months have asked if us it is for sale, and truthfully we have asked ourselves the same question, loving the location it would prove a dream house to own. However, it is not abandoned. On the first week we stayed at the apartment we were sitting on the steps of the front porch late at night and we saw a man come out. He had on shorts, and a blue shirt, a ball cap, and in the nighttime light I saw a long black beard clinging to his face. He got on his bicycle and peddled into the darkness. When my brother moved in next door, he asked me if any one lived there, and my answer was immediate, Òjust some bearded freak.Ó

I felt justified in giving this answer because I know the persecution of living alone in the world, and seeming on the fringe of society from when I had my beard, we know our own. Only late at night ridding our bikes back from the bars do we ever see lights on in the house. And early in the morning when IÕm going to work, I hear classical music. This confirmed my theory that this person must be a freak. The reason is obvious, at that time NPRÕs Morning Edition news program is on public radio, leaving out the possibility that he just left the radio on and classical music happened to be playing. Therefore he must be listening to his own stash of classical music, and is, on this evidence alone, in the eyes of the majority of society, a freak.

Later when my brother got a rare good look at him in the daylight, he noticed something else peculiar. ÒHe doesnÕt have a beard.Ó He reported to me, Òwhat the hell are you talking about?Ó

ÒWell it sure looked like he did to me. How am I supposed to know.Ó I was indifferent to my presuppositions of this individual. Even if this person didnÕt have a literal beard I knew the truth. Macbeth said it succinctly when he encountered the witches which would seal his fate, ÒI would say that you were women, but your beards forbid me to interpret you so.Ó The beard is, in these instances, the striking identifying mark that shows that you are a stranger to normal social interaction in the given culture. To this day he is refereed to in our house as ÒThe Bearded FreakÓ.

When I had my beard I lived in a carriage house behind a house divided up into seven or eight apartments. I lived there for five years sometimes in a very secluded manner. I talked from time to time to the residents of the main house, with little success. At times I had few friends in the city and the lack of communication due to this, plus my solitary work environment, gifted me an awkward social presence. When people would move into the main house I would watch them from afar, behind the wall, or around the corner to get an idea of what they were like, not seeming to realize the movie like stalkeresk appearance of these actions. I would then spring myself on them with a well-rehearsed introduction that was stumbled through at a great rate of speed. The reception to this was usually rather cold. The people whom I was greeting saw my beard immediately. It made them uncomfortable and they generally gave a polite snubbing to my efforts to rejoin society. The rejections smarted, and I would simply returned to my cave like dwelling in the back of the house head hung low, beard dragging the ground.

Solitude has a great beauty and rhythm all its own. But if you desire companionship, platonic or amorous, it is a hard habit to break. Some people want to break it, and all they need is the proper encouragement. Some people are quite happy in their solitude and would rather not rejoin the larger culture, for any number of reasons. I, at the time, greatly enjoyed my solitude and still look back on it with fondness. But, eventually I did break my rhythm, and become a more gregarious creature. I realize now the reason itÕs so hard to get out of that way of life. ItÕs the beard.

Not too long ago the doves started dying on our block. Every day when I would go to my car there would be at least on more carcass on the road or sidewalk. There seemed to be some sort of plague going around that effected the birds of peace. Speculations ranged from west nile virus to the plants across the river and the vast amounts of pollution they undoubtedly dump into the river.

One day I had come out of my house to get something out of my car, and as I rounded the corner where I parked, there was The Bearded Freak in all his clean shaven glory holding a shovel. It was almost shocking to see him in plain daylight. He looked up at me and said, Òcan you believe this?Ó I was thrown for a loop at first, because the neighbor at the time on the other side of our house used that corner as a latrine for her dog. The piles of its waste had become quite a topic of conversation in our house, as we were forced to step over them to get into our cars, and there were many missteps. But as I looked down, I saw in the curve of the shovel, a dead dove. A quick conversation ensued in which we seemed to get along famously. I discovered he liked old German Lutheran hymns, and we discussed the need for greater environmental responsibility in society. He told me that if I had any problems with the birds, not to hesitate to knock on his door. At the end of the conversation it came out that he might indeed be looking to sell his house soon. I bit my lip in anticipation. He said no price, and claimed he hadnÕt even started his homework yet, but he would tell us when the time came, so we could look into it. I gathered from this conversation that he deserved the moniker Òbearded freakÓ. I noticed I the rapid pace of his speech, the same hurried attempt to get it all out that I displayed when it was I who wanted to reconnect with society after so long an absence. The way in which he interacted with me as another individual was obviously far from comfortable for him. But he seemed to be reaching out and I got the feeling that if we were all nice to him, he could, in time, become part of the community of friends we have gathered here. Of course, with our eyes set on his house the motivations of such an initiation were suspect.

When I told my house of this there was rampant excitement over the little I knew about the situation. Plans were hatched all around on how to befriend this man, gaining his confidence in order to gain his property. Much like Macbeth the beard mattered less when something was perceived to be acquirable from the outsider.

Rebecca and I went the overgrown stairs to his house the next day and knocked on the door. The pretext was to talk about the bird problem. The reality of the situation though was a reconnoiter. We were testing the waters, trying to snare this man into our friendship, and thereby putting ourselves in a better position in terms of worldly gain. I knocked a second time and a third after a long pause. No one seemed to be answering. ÒLetÕs go, he must not be home.Ó I said, realizing that it was fairly foolish to knock on his door during the day light hours anyway.

Patience is a virtue, and haste is a form of violence. I knew that if I bided my time, I could slowly draw this recluse from his domain with kindness and thereby advance my chances at gaining his friendship. A few weeks later I walked up those over grown stairs again and knocked on that door. This time it was night. Friday night to be exact and one of my thrice weekly shaving nights. My white chin gleamed in the streetlight as I waited for a response. My pretext this time was to invite The Bearded Freak over for a musical session in our courtyard. Often our house gets together in informal groups, and we play our various instruments. I figure if this guy liked music, he should hear an acoustic base, acoustic guitar, and clarinet trio and judge for himself whether itÕs worthy. I had waited quite a long time before I decided for plan B. I was not going to give up so easily as last time. I went round the street corner to the side of the house. Sure enough the lights were on, a good indication that he was home. I went to the side door and knocked, paused, knocked, and repeated. After an extremely long duration I decided to go to the front of the house and knock one more time before giving up. The house was extremely still. There was no sense of movement throughout the whole time I stood on the little stoop. As I reached the corner there he was bolting by on his bike from his house. He saw me and I laugh out loud at what seemed to be the shear coincidence. Then I saw that the look on his face was that of a trapped animal. He blurted out immediately, ÒI thought I heard someone knocking.Ó Though it was obvious that his intent was not to come out of his front door on his bike to drive past the side of the house while investigating any noise. His intent was escape. Sweat was on his forehead as I approached him and tried to put a nonthreatening look on my face.

ÒI was just going to ask you if you played an instrument? I know you said you might go back to school for music last time we talked.Ó I asked in the most non-committal way I could.

ÒWell, no . . .,Ó he said. ÒI actually . . . to make a long story short . . . do . . . play a little classical guitar.Ó He was stumbling over his words and constantly looking around. He had had no time to prepare his speech, I could hear it in his voice. He seemed to have the feeling of a doomed man. I realized quickly that I needed to let this guy flee as fast as it was possible for his bike to carry him. But I had to do it in a way that made him feel I didnÕt pick up on the fact that he was desperate to escape.

ÒWell, we were gonna play some music in our courtyard,Ó I said explaining the situation and inviting him to come on over if he wanted to play. I said all this with large and inviting smiles on my face, wanting to make him feel comfortable. But, after I said it I noticed a look of absolute pain on his face that I recognized as a five-foot beard. The conflict in his head was that of wanting to meet people, and being afraid to accept the invitation. I guessed that in the deepest parts of his mind he wanted to come over, but the immediate problem was that he had had no time to psychologically prepare for such interaction with other humans, and act which is monumental for a recluse. Because of all this I now had a problem. How could I let him know that it was all right to reject the invitation, without feeling he blew his chance to make some friends? In the days of my solitude I remembered going through this dilemma constantly. Any invitation to a dinner or gathering that same night was like a death sentence. But if I rejected it I would berate myself in my solitude over not going out Òin the worldÓ and trying to reintegrate to the greater society.

I put another smile on my face and diffused the situation as best I could before he gave any type of answer. ÒWell I see youÕre on your bike . . .Ó I said, leaving off my suspicions of exactly why he was on his bike. Ò . . . You must be going somewhere. If you want to come by later tonight, weÕre going to be right back there.Ó I pointed to the alleyway leading back to our courtyard. You can come by if you want.Ó

ÒOkay.Ó He said, still nervous but relived. ÒI would at least like to hear how you play.Ó

I did not expect to see him that night, and I was proper in my lack of expectation. I also gave up expecting gain from coming into friendship with this man. I realized is I was being a bit over machiavellian and using friendship as a means to a lesser end. The counter productivity of this in reaching true good would, in the end, be more detrimental to me I believe than the gain of a house. I reevaluated my approach to The Bearded Freak and realized that I was trying to control the situation a bit much. Especially given that one of the variables is so random. One simply cannot waltz into a place not his own and begin shaving beards left and right. This man was obviously still a bit attached to his. I figured that more time was best. I donÕt say I wonÕt offer avenues of interaction in the future. But, time is a factor of importance. If The Bearded Freak wanted to gain friendships weeks if not months, to psychologically prepare might be needed. I hope to have all the time I need on this earth to achieve that. Perhaps IÕll just slip a note in his mailbox some time in advance next time I want to invite him to play music.

Phillip G.

Literature