When I first met Adam he was picketing cigarette sales outside a convenience store. When I think of him now, I think of his bulging eyes, sweaty stubble, the smell of aniseed as he leaned in confidentially to whisper something he thought must be a secret, but back then he was clean shaved and suited and not prone to whispers.
“You got a light?”
I didn’t.
“That’s great, just great. You know how many kids those mofo’s send into chemo. Pain and suffering. We need to stop this. It’s the kids, we can’t let this happen.”
The boardroom haircut and ostentatious shoes threw me off for a moment, a pause. His look contradicted his sheer earnestness and sense of comradery, like we’d just fought our way up the hill and now had to dislodge the machine gunners below. Which would have been the end of it, but as if reading my intention to walk off, this strange strange being flicked a cigarette into his own mouth and lit it.
“Hypocrite.”
“What do you mean?” as he blew the smoke into my eyes.
I walked off. But I saw him again, and a few times watched him accosting other pedestrians. Some people walked off unperturbed, others were lit up by discussions and arguments, and sometimes when the crowds were awash around him, he would turn unprovoked into a raving madmen, cursing and promising retribution.
