Fred Aiken Writing

The strange man came out of nowhere. 

Though that’s not entirely true. To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention. I was engrossed in The Paris Review’s podcast, and was listening to the languid, though sultry, voice actors read an interview between Joan Didion and Linda Kuehl talking about fiction or nonfiction. Either way, I’m probably the worst podcast listener. It all sounds like white noise to me and helps me relax. Podcasts make me feel as if I’m socializing with people I’ve never met, even though I’m not part of the conversation, and if I started talking, then it might be something within me finally snapped.

The strange man, whom I now refer to as a Stranger, had wild brown hair with specks of distinguished gray peppered randomly. His facial hair looked unkempt, I noticed, before then noticing the rest of his appearance was also unkempt. As first impressions go, I have to say I got the impression the Stranger was homeless, or home deprived. 

His voice was rather mellifluous. He enunciated each syllable, each breathtaking word that he openly admitted was not his own but rather of another. No other than the Bard of Bandits himself, the Stranger quoted Shakespeare.

How delightful, I thought.

Not really. Not at the time. I thought the Stranger was putting on an impromptu show on the sidewalk in the middle of the night and just for my eyes and ears only, which, now that I spell it all out, sounds rather silly. But I figured he would perform his Shakespearean scene, I would hand him a small portion of loose change and bills I kept in my pocket, and the transaction would be finished.

Also, I know this might be a bit of heresy, but I’m not a fan of Shakespeare.

My dislike of Shakespeare, though, was soon reaffirmed, as it was soon disclosed that the Stranger was not performing a quick poetic scene from the Bard’s many plays. But rather, he was robbing me…while quoting Shakespeare.

I could not tell if quoting Shakespeare while mugging someone made the act better or worse, but then decided on the latter, since now not only were my pockets lighter, but my senses were also then offended by the plucky iambic pentameter of the Stranger’s crime rhythmically ingrained into my head.

All that glitters is not gold.