The Bone Pendant

There was a man last night sitting at a table near me while I scribbled away in my nondescript red binder. He was an older man; he reminded me a lot of Mr. Miyagi if Mr. Miyagi hadn’t kept in shape for several years. There was a chain around his neck, and pulling it low in the front was a tooth or a claw or some kind of sharp bone that someone would wear to let everyone know he was a mighty hunter who had traveled the earth fighting dangerous beasts. I, however, was sure that you could find the same thing quite easily with twenty-five dollars and a few hours at various garage sales.

He must have known every third person that walked by his table. People waved when they passed, or said hello, or sat with him for a few minutes. They exchanged insincere prattle sincerely, the same way you’d talk to someone you didn’t know well but whose face you recognized vaguely. Casual small talk, specific answers to non-specific questions. So many people recognized him – at least in the sense that he had, at one point or another, struck up a conversation with someone he didn’t know and left an underlying feeling of obligation to be polite in the future. I felt almost out of place not knowing him.

So many of the people we meet in our lives are the same as this man. We don’t want to be polite, we just feel the obligation. There ought to be a national holiday specifically to allow people to actually be honest with others, with themselves. How many things do you do each day that you really couldn’t care less about? You tip-toe around home so you don't wake your roommate. You say good morning to a certain classmate you never liked. You try to stay friends with an ex. Just once a year, wouldn’t it be great to just walk past that man with the bone pendant and say nothing?