a letter to the curbside boombox guy

Since the middle of March - when our city first began to shut down - I’ve been keeping a daily COVID-19 journal. To be clear, I’m not sick, but even those of us in good health have been remarkably affected by it, and this was my way to quietly process, vent, take notice, and circle back to the innately positive person that I am. Some people know about it, but only one person has read some of it. I’ve been purposefully private (and plan to continue to be for now) out of respect for those who are suffering far more than I am, but I’ll say that when I was asked if I was enjoying the process, the enthusiasm in my answer surprised even me. It has been one of the most gratifying, if not entertaining, writing experiences I’ve had in years. BUT even pleasant experiences can have a shadow side. I’m seventeen days into it, and in that short amount of time, I’ve found myself stumped for words regarding any other topic, and not for lack of trying. I’ve edited and unedited one post for nearly two weeks, now, and my notes from this weekend’s 4x48 run challenge are still just that: notes; so, when this message from another writer landed in my inbox regarding the 30 Day Isolation Journal project, I pounced.

It’s just like it sounds: 30 days of journaling, but each morning, you’re provided a new prompt. For someone who prefers to write outside the lines, if you will, I’ve found a spark within the parameters given to me. Of course, I’m only three days in, but the rerouting of my mind and fresh display of words has been… revitalizing, maybe? Many will stay hidden, because publishing them would be like putting my actual paper journal on display, and I’d rather pet a cockroach, but some - like the one below - I’ll share. It’s true, and it’s sincere, but it’s not cockroach-petting terrifying. One day, maybe… the publishing-in-full bit, that is. I’m definitely not petting a cockroach.

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prompt: write a letter to a stranger or someone you’ve seen in passing telling them anything
April 1, 2020

Dear Curbside Chronicle Boombox Guy,

I realize that this is coming out of nowhere, but I’ve been running by you for years, now, and the most I’ve given you has been a side smile or a little wave, and, really, that’s not fair. For, you see, you’ve given me inspiration, and inspiration deserves more than an acknowledgement in passing. I first noticed you in spring of 2017 when training for Moab. You were standing on the corner of 5th and Walker in Midtown, green smock on, magazines in hand, a pup tied to a pole, and what I imagine are your most treasured possessions displayed on the sidewalk. And you had a boombox. Like 1980s John Cusack, Say Anything boombox, but rather than trying to court someone with In Your Eyes, you were entertaining everyone with Sweet Child of Mine. “A person of my era,” I thought as my feet began to follow Guns N’ Roses’ rhythm. Though this was a snapshot in time three years ago, it’s a permanent addition to my collection of memories. I can still picture the cloudless sky and the little sprinkling of flowers - some call them weeds, but whatever - that lined the sidewalks. I can hear the hum of cars heading to coffee or meetings or wherever people go at 9am on a weekday. I can still feel the beat of Steven Adler moving my legs. I can still watch myself reroute so I could share in your music, once again, before untying my shoes. Your boombox has made Walker a regularly traveled path for me, now.

Curbside Chronicle Boombox Guy, I know a couple of your colleagues. I’m lucky to call them friends. Bob hangs out at Elemental, and we chat seasonally appropriate footwear (really it’s him telling me it’s too cold for flip flops) and weather (me telling him I’m ready for warmer days). I can always find David at 10th & Robinson, and sometimes I’ll let a couple of red light cycles pass before taking off on foot again, so that he can finish his story. Country and his human hang out at 4th & Robinson, but they’re not much for chatting, so I’d probably call us acquaintances. I’m not sure why I’ve never stopped for you. Maybe it’s the music. They say it has an ergogenic effect, you know? That’s a joke, by the way. I mean, the ergogenic effect is true, but that being the reason is subtle humor. In any case, I promise to stop next time. Until then, this letter will have to bridge the gap between a side smile and a verbal thank you, because, after years of giving me inspiration, at the very least, I owe you an unsent set of words.

Be well, Curbside Chronicle Boombox Guy. And always find the beat.

In gratitude,

Adi

note: For those non-local readers, the Curbside Chronicle is a publication created to provide employment opportunities for homeless (and those near homelessness) individuals in OKC. It provides a source of income, a support system, and a voice for those in need.