A quarry to be pursued

Ryan’s heart is kind and pure and is both augmented and offset by creatively thought out and tended facial hair. We are direly in need of haircuts as well, as we both tend to be both sides of the ocean, and both sides of the ocean we both tend to attract unwanted advances from God’s children that we try to play out the best we can. For example, our bear-like appearance—substantiated by the fact that we randomly shift into bad German and Deep Southern accents and our bloodshot eyes from using old contacts that we should have disposed of months ago but don’t because they still work and we’re really cheap—tends to encourage young people to ask us if we have any pot. We do not.

Now this is not to say that there are any people in the world that we do not want to talk to—everyone is one of God’s children and, being that, deserves to be loved and heard out!—just that everyone of these children has many facets to their personalities and there are certain facets we would prefer were not enlivened in our presence. For example, an elderly man may find the advances of an eighty year-old woman entirely positive, perhaps creating an air of enticement in the room, the heart-drum sounding out both parties’ nervous energy in faster and faster strokes, until it rolls like it hasn’t in years… but such enticement is lost on a twentysomething who isn’t used to this sort of flirtation from anyone, who sees in this person his grandma, and responds: “Uh… Thanks?” And we are flattered, just not used to being flattered as plainly as a woman hugging Ryan the other day and longingly saying, almost unconsciously, “Beard!!!!... I haven’t felt one of those in a long time…” Awkward, but flattering.

For me, I see the pot requests, the fixation of old ladies, and have to look up and say, “Um… do I give off this impression?” Adding to it, ever since working in Dupont Circle I tend to get hit on by random dudes, whether it’s as simple as a random Spanish dude subtly dropping his number on my table or a guy at Starbucks reaching across the counter because I forgot to shave off the soul patch for work and the dude wanted to touch it and I wasn’t paying attention. While some folks would jump at the chance for this attention, I don’t quite understand why I enliven this in people. I think creative facial hair and crazy regularhair has something to do with it, but at least my chill grooming habits—both in the States and abroad—doesn’t set off police intuition…

So Ryan is in the Bourne Post Office, this little building in the middle of a sleepy little town of residences, coaching inns, and stream-borne ducks and swans. I’ve headed home, and am wandering around looking at the black swans who sleep humorously balanced on one foot with their long necks twisted back, resting their heads on the pillows of their wings, but Ryan has dropped into the Post Office to send a quick Valentines note to his mom when two police officers slide up beside him. “Sir?” one officer asks, startling our bearded protagonist, who fears he has been loitering. The officer continues: “Have you been knocking on doors?”
Our hero replies: “No, sir, I have not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir, I’m quite sure…” All that’s on the card so far is “Happy Valentines Day, Mom, Love, Ryan” and the other folks in the Post Office are listening curiously.
“When you finish, can you step outside so we can talk to you?”
“Well, when I finish, can I get postage and mail it?”
“Sure…” The other officer buts in, “Sir, from your accent, I gather you’re an American?” he asks.
“Yes I am, I’m from the States. Do I need to show any ID?”
“No, no ID,” and they leave.
Less than a minute later, a third police officer comes up and asks, “Do you know where Victoria Place is?”
“No,” says the bearded hero, much confused by now.
“We have a match of you CCTV.”
“What match?” the Florida bear says, startled.
“Blue jeans, blue jacket, backpack, and beanie.”
Ryan swallows. “Did he have a beard?” he asks appropriately--an appropriate question for any occasion--“or long hair?”
“No, we didn’t get any of those descriptions.” Then he leaves as well.
The three officers stand in the doorway of the Post Office, and a policewoman outside gives him a solemn wave. There is the voice of another beyond the window. Five officers. Later, Ryan relates their stances to mean, instead of just checking up on what’s going on, they are standing, saying, “I’m hunting you.” That is, until one says, “Well, I’m not gonna bring him in.” The woman shakes her head: “I don’t think it’s him, guys,” she says. The third adds: “He’s writing a Valentine to his mom,” then they go outside.
Finally, when Ryan exits the shop, he is the only one there apart from the random passerby. The police have all left.

Turns out, Colin says, that they were probably all community service officers and would have no authority to make arrests, probably just responding to someone going door-to-door asking for money as tends to happen in Bourne, which Ryan would not do. Yet in the States he has been pulled over several times and not charged, like when he swerved to avoid an armadillo on a deserted road in New Smyrna the police officer called for three cars’ worth of backup. It was innocent then, as it was innocent now, but one wonders, is it the beard, or do police officers, as well as old ladies, feel the need to take part in his humble awesomeness like children to sugar candy or bees to doing the waggle dance?