My Feral Man Child

Encounters with the wildness just beyond the edges — and within us all

Around lunchtime my feral man child with his heavy, purposeful gait and caveman hair comes down the long roadside hill near my money job, returning upward from the supermarket with a light plastic bag of groceries though more often just a personal-size pizza in hand.

One time my man child walked down the hill in an overly tight hot-pink t-shirt I could only surmise belonged to feral sister child or perhaps a girlfriend and he couldn’t be bothered finding one of his own before heading out the door. I know he sits on the couch and plays video games — no, the same video game — all night and all morning, shirtless man-boobs and all, and when Cheetosand Pop Tarts no longer suffice he has to rustle up some real food.

One day I was parked down behind the supermarket after lunchtime, gathering some thoughts. There was a rustling in a hedge of bushes and who should appear with a light plastic bag of groceries.

He’s going the wrong way… I thought to myself before he took a hard left onto the pavement I was parked upon and headed toward me.

We gave each other a little nod and smile as he passed.

“What’s up, man,” I said, kindred spirits after all.

Fin