Lunch with the Crazies

The other day I excused myself from writing press releases for the Southeastern Council for a nice, mundane excursion: lunch. Wandering around outside and going on a friend's recommendation, I tried the quite unhealthy yet satisfying Chester's Chicken (steer clear of the potato wedges, my friends--the grease alone will drown you) and then saw a lovely park nearby.

Walking to the park (hey, I'm entitled at least an hour for lunch, I wasn't playing hooky--not really) and nearly tripping over those ridiculously complacent, chubby pigeons, I came upon a concert. Apparently Woodruff Park hosts "Wednesdays at Woodruff," an outdoors lunch-hour jam session featuring local bands. It was absolutely picturesque: sitting on a stone wall with an enchanting fountain right in front of me, listening to fun, peaceful music by talented artists. The crowd was noticeably motley; there were clumps of white-haired business gentlemen in the "Southern uniform" (navy blazer, red tie and khaki slacks); elegant ladies in tailored suits sitting primly drinking Starbucks; a group of Army boys chilling in the shade; and all around the edges of the park, down-on-their-luck men in ragged clothes, looking grateful for the concert-seating.

One of these fellows decided to share his joy over this event with the crowd; he danced right up next to me, stood on my stone wall a foot to my right, and began cha-cha-ing in slow rhythm whilst waving a flag. He also starting murmuring a happy, nonsensical tune the likes of which I've never heard. He later went up to the flagpole in the center of the park and let out a mighty roar. It was something akin to Robin Williams' "Mighty Yowp" in Dead Poet's Society. Quite impressive, and rather frightening in its audacity.

Well, following the concert's end, I was approached by a clean-cut fellow in white pants and pastel shirt--he told me his name was Rodney, and he felt he should come over and say hello (It really proves my INCREDIBLE lack of discernment that I didn't think this was strange at all). He told me he was from New York and was a doctor at the local Grady Center. I asked him about his specialty, and he told me he treats patients with psychological diseases. Unsure what to say to that, I told him it "must be interesting work." He was clearly encouraged by this statement, and asked me where I was from (Me: Oh, just a little town you've never heard of) and invited me to go to Screen on the Green on Thursday night (Screen on the Green in Piedmont Park is a weekly movie showing, this week will be Ferris Bueller's Day Off.) Suddenly it clicked that this thirty-ish fellow with the nicely coiffed hair, suspicious lack of New York accent, and strangely unmarked business card (yes, he gave me his card--had an AOL address on it and no street address--odd, I thought) was asking me out.

I stood up to shake his hand and walk past him, the pigeons and the Rastafarian to the safe building, and I was a foot taller--funny how you don't notice things like that when you're sitting. I plan to exercise much more caution in my outings--my mom was most disturbed by this turn of events (another piece of advice to avoid acting idiotically: don't call your mom if you think something like this is funny-she likely will not agree). I can't figure it out though; was he just a nice man exercising hospitality by welcoming a single girl new to Atlanta to a movie with him and his friends? Was he some sort of sneaky, conniving rapscallion with a fake MD-ID? Who knows. I welcome comments if you've got any wisdom for me.

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