The Man With The Many Pages

I was walking through the mall, listening to my iPod, when I decided I needed to take a seat. Exhaustion suddenly setting in after this realization, I knew that any old seat would do just fine. A nice two-seater opened up near the card store, perfect for a lone person looking to rest their feet and do some studying. I sat down and settled in. When I began looking up, my eyes slowly darted from my own open book in front of me, to the floor in front of my neighbor's table. From there, my gaze traveled up slowly, taking in the set-up this man had going on. The piles of neatly folded and perfectly paper-clipped newspapers on the table's base, the pile of note paper, heavily noted upon, stacked on top of a filled-to-the-brim rucksack, the discarded and cut-up newspapers strewn messily on the seat opposite his, the pile of colorful paper clips littering the table top, the scissors and ruler lined up flawlessly beside his unmoving elbows, the neat stack of unrevised newspapers to his left, and finally the perfectly trimmed newspaper clipping he held in his perfectly still hands. It was quite the sight to behold. This man, quite obviously on a mission, held the newspaper clipping with such delicacy, as if it were the frailest of butterfly wings in the entire world. It was his duty to keep his fingers stable on this article as he read it, half out loud, and nodded to himself in what can only be described as immense passion and reminiscence. Once he had read through the whole article, carefully examining each word and meticulously trimming the already flawless edges to utter right-angled perfection, he folded the article in such a way that made the cards in the Hallmark across the way blush. He singled out four yellow paperclips of the exact same shade and size and clipped the four corners of the perfectly folded article in a way that seemed calculated and precise to a paramount degree only he could understand. He placed this paper-clipped wonder with the others on the pile at the base of the table like it was the most important thing he'd ever do, and returned to the top of the table. He took a moment to nod to himself, and then carefully unfolded one of the unrevised newspapers on his left. He looked over both sides of the page carefully, inspecting it like an ancient parchment in a museum archives laboratory. On one side was car advertisements, on the other, a picture of some chaos caused by what I assume to be some weather disaster such as a hurricane or a tornado. When his eyes fell on the picture of the weather-induced damage, his face fell with solemn determination, and he began to mark the border of the article and its accompanying picture with the ruler he had placed so purposefully at his side. Once the border was marked and the ruler returned to its original resting place, he took the scissors and began to slowly cut away the marked-off edges of this new-found treasure. Once cut, he held this article in his hands; once again as if it were the most fragile artifact known to man. And the same process ensued. As I sat there, watching this man work, I was overwhelmed by the glimpse I was getting into a life I had no understanding of. The woman next to me with her face buried in a romance novel, sipping on Starbucks coffee, and the man in my peripherals with his headphones in, rocking out to whatever jam was traveling down his ear canals...Those people I could understand. What was currently showing on the surface of the people around me, was also what was dominating their present lives in that very moment. However, I knew very well that what was unfolding, and re-folding - very precisely might I add - before me in the man with the many pages was beyond my understanding. There was something ravishing about him, striking, resounding. So loud that I felt compelled to both run away and sit there and observe for hours. I was torn between fleeing the unknown and allowing myself to imagine the possible reasons for such intricate behavior. It was obvious to me that there was something different about this man. Today, it would more commonly be referred to as something "special"; bizarre, retarded or creepy. However, I hesitate to call it any of those things for the simple reason that he, and all that he represented to me that afternoon, made me question what normalcy really was. This man was so absorbed in what he was doing, so focused, that not even the incredulous stares and oblivious onlooker's gazes were phasing him. He had a fantastic routine, and a purpose so strong that he was eager beyond belief to be doing whatever it was he was doing. How many of us can honestly say we've EVER been so invested in something. In our whole lives? Hardly anything grabs and holds our attentions like that in this fast-paced, judgmental world. As I continued to observe him, I wondered if maybe there was a great deal to be learned from him. I saw the stack of heavily-filled note sheets that he would consult once in a while, and even add notes to every so often. I saw the way he poured his whole being into every movement; every word he read, every time he counted the finished papers, every fold he pressed out, every shard of paper he trimmed off the edge of these insanely meaningful articles. He was committed to what he was doing, and nothing could stop him. And he was successful! After an hour, he counted his finished products once again, and the numbers 47... 48... 49 sounded quietly from his discreet mouth as he carefully flipped each article by the brightly-colored paperclip on the top right-hand corner. When I had first sat down, his current out-loud count had amounted to 15. Regardless of if he had started at zero or not, he had done this same meticulous process over and over 34 times since I sat down. Not to mention taking notes and stopping after every few articles to sip at his tiny McDonald's coffee.This man perplexed me. He mesmerized me. He fascinated me. I wanted to ask what he was doing, admire his work up close. But rational fear and proper conduct were still present inside of me. Every person who walked by wore that fear on their sleeves. They detoured around his table, even made snide remarks and laughed out loud. Every passing person who took a shot at him angered me. But he didn't even notice. That says something about dwelling... Obviously I lacked the self-confidence he possessed to be able to not give a single thought to anyone around him. There was just too much about him to question. His kind, warm eyes and the way he stretched out his arms and hands after every article, as if running a long-distance race; as if maintaining a finely-tuned machine for a big job. There was the way he spoke to himself, and made facial expressions for each and every single article he cut out. It was the way he place things with such care, and used his rough, somewhat stubby fingers to do precision work that even a seamstress would be proud of. There was so much... So, so much more to this man than what met the eye, and what met the eye was already pretty staggering to most who passed him. Finally, he decided it was time to pack up. As immersed as he was in his project, one glance at his watch at the perfect moment snapped him out of his incredible work ethic immediately, and clean-up began. He had a bag for everything, and a certain place for every single stack and tool he had been using. The scissors and ruler were tucked away in a special tool belt/pouch, the paperclips in a pretty blue box, the stacks of notes and folded articles each wrapped in two plastic bags, kept in re-usable grocery bags and then stashed purposefully in the rucksack. The messily strewn newspaper clippings were assembled in a neat pile - for garbage anyway - and put into a bag as well, which he then took care to discard in recycling. He packed everything up in a tight and organized fashion, and then proceeded to scope the bustling crowds passing the food court tables. He spotted an elderly couple seemingly looking for a place to sit, and escorted them to his seat. They thanked him and he smiled brightly, cracking a joke - in a totally normal and sophisticated voice, might I add - about saving them a seat every week if they were good. Then off he strode, with a coolness that was incredibly surprising for a man who had spent the past hour, at least, clipping newspapers with such control it hurt me to think about it. And just like that, he was gone. I was left to ponder what I had just witnessed and hope I could sort my thought process enough later to write about him. There was so much wrapping around my neurons that I had a lot of trouble sorting through my hypothesis. He was more than just an average Joe. There was something distinct about his personality and character that I couldn't quite place. And there was something immediately striking about his mental state. Raising all the questions circling around in my brain, I began to clumsily pack up my things. As I traveled down the escalators in deep thought, I felt like I had just been given a unique opportunity to re-evaluate some paramount misconceptions I had in a completely different light. I knew I had to share this experience, if only for the satisfaction of saying I did indeed share my thoughts on this perplexing matter out loud. The man with the many pages had knocked me out of my comfort zone, pulled me out of the fast lane and required me to think again. He was remarkable and noteworthy for sure.