When Karma Reverses Roles.

"What are you reading?"

I looked up from my book and saw a young guy looking at me with anticipation. I sat up and said, "The Short Stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne." The guy got up and walked over to me. He was young, maybe 19 or 20. He had faded jeans that ended with black converse and a v-neck light blue shirt that hipsters wear nowadays. His hair was a mass rich dark brown with a slight curl that made him look like the creative type. He sat down at the table next to mine but in the chair across from me.

"What's Nathaniel Hawthorne written?"he asked.

I told him Hawthorne's most famous work was The Scarlet Letter. He gave me a look of pained recognition that I had grown accustomed to when discussing this novel. He recounted to me how he had read the book in high school and hated it, a similar tale I have heard from nearly everyone I encounter. I like The Scarlet Letter, though no one really believes me. I've even been toying with the idea of getting a tattoo of my own scarlet letter on my shoulder/back area, an intricate P for Proud.

My fellow reader, whose name I would learn is Nick, began telling me about how in high school he hated reading. But he recently started to read again. He commented on how he loves reading Chuck Palahniuk. My ears perked at the name. I love Chuck.

"I love Palahniuk," I said. "I've read everything he's written except for his book Fugitives & Refugees. I haven't been able to snag a copy."

Nick, seeing he had a fellow Palahniuk lover, began to discuss why he loved his work. He went on and on about the ideology of Palahniuk's work. His ideas were basic, but I attributed that to his age. If he was going to school, he would've been a freshman. His eyes were dark brown like his hair and would occasionally light up with excitement. There was a pleading look in his eyes I couldn't explain at the time, as if he wanted something that was always out of reach.

He then began to talk about how he had been really really depressed for about a year and he'd lock himself in his room and read book after book. He hated his father, who abandoned him and his mother when he was five, and he hated his stepfather. I became uncomfortable. I don't like strangers with this kind of honesty. He didn't even know my name and yet was going into depth about his abandonment issues. I tried not to show my discomfort. I remembered what I had read about conversations in How to Win Friends & Influence People. I had read it because I found a old copy of it with my granddad's name in it. I respect my granddad so I wanted to read it. I kept eye contact and responded to what he was saying.

Eventually he got back to discussing books but it wasn't a real discussion. He was the only one talking. In fact, he didn't stop talking. I couldn't get a word it. Even when he'd finish one thought and there would be a slight pause, he'd pick it back up with another thought.

I was confused. Why would someone talk this much to a complete stranger? Then it occurred to me. Maybe this guy, this kid really, doesn't have many people to talk to. Maybe he goes for days without having any meaningful conversation. So when he does have the chance to talk, all of his stored up thoughts come bursting out at once. He didn't realize he was doing this. He just wanted interaction.

This was how I was a few months ago. I'd talk someone's ear off just because I hadn't talked to anyone in so long. I felt bad for the kid. I knew exactly how he felt, like he wasn't alone but he felt overwhelmingly lonely. I kept listening. Karma had reversed my role. I had to pay back the kindness I had received.

After an hour, I had to leave. I had my film class to get to. We were going to watch Spike Lee's Bamboozled and I didn't want to be late. I stood up and thanked him for the conversation. He thanked me with real sincerity. He asked me my name. I extended my hand and said, "Kelly." He smiled and went back to his seat.

Love you.
Mean it.