He was a compact man of medium height, with an air of undeniable “Bad Boy” toughness about him. He stepped into the room bearing an aura of male superiority, and authority. Odd because the situation didn’t call for an attitude, though one swirled around him, wafting heavy pheromones in steroidal waves. He had on the bad boy shirt too, proclaiming some smart-alec sexual taunt. He wasn’t a young man, but rather well seasoned, clad primarily in black; ebony shirt, obsidian boots that rose above a crisp manly heel, to a level several inches below his knees.
His body was trim and wore those dark clothes well, I observed, dispassionately. To complete the ensemble, he wore a black cowhide jacket, minus fringe; fitted blue jeans taut against his thighs. The dusky, worn straps of his leather motorcycle chaps shouted ‘daily use,’ not window dressing. An 8-inch swath of chain snaked between a belt loop at his waist and disappeared into his pocket, leaving the observer, like myself, wondering to what the sturdy shining links were attached. Visions of knives and other accouterments of the street fighter, or gang member came unbidden to mind.
He had a circle of graying hair, manacled tightly by a small rubber band, below a pink glistening spot slightly off-center on his scalp. His face was dominated by a hooked, hawkish nose; below which stubble of a beard erupted and spread out past the two lips, set as one in a straight line, unsoftened by the slightest indication of benevolent good humor. Usually, this is a late night look or very early morning, but hardly one expected at the genteel hour of 12:00 noon, Sunday. One round table held a solitary chair, and he sauntered over and sat down, looking neither right nor left for a familiar face.
His right arm narrowed downward toward a serviceable black-banded bold-faced watch. Surprisingly graceful and elegant fingers appeared atop generously large hands His squinty eyes narrowed, a bit wearily, though there was a quick intensity with which he surveyed the room about him A hint of threat wreathed about him, significant enough to stay any person intending to question him. I remained aloof and observant, tensed, slightly on guard.
On the floor, trapped between one boot and a chair leg was a leather briefcase, lambskin soft from the look of it, the deep sooty color contrasting with the patterned carpet beneath. I wondered at the incongruity of the picture. A renegade attorney. I tried on that image. A gentleman playing brawler; that one might have fit, except for the air of calm and confidence about him. Perhaps better, a brawler-playing gentleman. A terrorist? His costume matched his demeanor, with that hint of intimidation, or perhaps it was danger. I briefly flirted with the notion of some risk of terrorism, or other malevolent intention.
I watched, with the fascination one usually reserves for the slightly “special” children or adults that one tries to stare at undetected. His table was placed to my left, and his profile angled toward my own chair and table of eight. He appeared totally at ease, with himself, and with his tablemates; though they didn’t chat, and were a bit separated in their chair positions. As a speaker began his talk from the dais, Ivan the Terrible, as I named him, reached down into his briefcase, and slowly, surely, dipped his hand into the zippered compartment directly in the center, next to, and behind the pocket designed for easy access and removal. I held my breath and wondered what, without a glance, he was going to extract. Could I duck beneath the table quickly enough? Where could I run?
He reached into the case, long fingers dipping unerringly to his target, deftly unzipped in one motion, took out his material and began, without a flickering change of expression, absorbed in his intention. His eyes remained focused on the speaker at the front of the room. He removed a circlet of yarn, as fine and dark as a crow’s wing-feather; smoothly taking out an instrument hidden in another pocket, grasping it between those graceful fingers of his left hand, he began to crochet, using deft strokes, and a sure touch.
My eyes watered as I let out the breath I had been holding. I laughed, at first without a sound, then gulping air behind the napkin placed close over my mouth. I attempted discretely, though belatedly, to recompose myself. My eyes remained attached to him and monitored his work for some minutes. He never noticed my presence in his arena, never saw me in his field of vision, never turned toward my fascination. I, however, altered.