Jam was in fine form today.
His orange shirt glowed bright as an autumn leaf in the afternoon sunlight and his boom box was precariously balanced on left shoulder, a silent stream of music blasting from the speakers and straight into his ear drums. He stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk on Grover Street and moved his body to a beat only he heard, bending knees, gyrating hips, and keeping up a continuous rhythm that exuded a joie de vivre.
I don’t know Jam’s story. I don’t even know his name. But I want to. I wonder where he was born. Was it here, in this small-town? Or further afield in a big, nameless city? What life trajectory left him here, on a hot sidewalk in a Southern city, dancing before an oblivious audience? While the rest of us march forward, surging onward to jobs and errands and grocery shopping, he is simply caught up in the joy – or need – to dance.
These are the stories I want to collect. These are the stories I want to tell.