Make Them All Go Away

My seven-year-old and I walked out of the restaurant into the pitch black, bitter cold air. As we walked up the sidewalk, a stocky man moving past us at a fast clip turned back in our direction. We could see part of his head under a plaid hoodie. His whole face seemed to smile. His teeth were huge. His eyes were large and spaced far apart, looking just a reach beyond his control. He began talking about a television show from the 1970's, and how, because he was 43 and I was close to there, we both should be familiar with the program.

I did what I do in the face of questionable lucidity: I nodded in polite agreement.

My daughter looked up at me and laughed, "You're not 43. You're 68!"

I made him take her.