An Odd Exchange

This appeared on July 16, 2006


Recognizing that many of you readers are pressed for time today as you get ready to make appearances at both the annual Turk's Head Music Festival (Motto: "We Sing, You Sweat") and the Grand Opening ceremonies at West Goshen's new Robert E. Lambert Park, I'll try to keep this as brief as possible.

West Chester is by its nature not a singularly odd place. It was first inhabited, I think, by Quakers, and despite what you've heard, that group of people is about as edgy as sugar free vanilla pudding.

Nonetheless, there are times when curious events occur in our fair borough, and one has to be ready to face them.

Case in point: On Friday, I was taking care of a few errands on my way to work when I found myself at the intersection of East Gay and North Matlack streets, confronted by a group of somewhat disheveled men.

In case you are interested, I was on my way to the post office to send off the latest issues of "Rolling Stone" magazine for my two nieces out in Cincinnati. Their parents won't get them a subscription, so it's left to me to provide them with the latest news from the world of rock 'n roll debauchery.

And yes, I know that I am slowly but surely corrupting them by doing this. But I would rather it be me that corrupts them than say, ex-Philadelphia Councilman Rick Marino. After all, I'm not going to climb to the top of City Hall if the feds catch me.

So, I'm stopped at the traffic light at Gay and Matlack and looking right at me are these three guys sitting on a stoop there.

Now, let me say I don't like to judge people. But while I may not like to, I do it anyway. Sort of like flossing, or talking to politicians. And I judged these guys to be of the "street" variety, a class of borough residents I generally have little interaction with.

But one of these guys shouts out, "Hey! Yo! Mister!" obviously in my direction, and I am forced to ask myself, "Do I maintain my "I-don't-see-you-I-don't-hear-you-na-na-na-na-na!" bland facial expression and stare straight ahead, or do I respond?"

For whatever reason, I turned and looked at him, and he said, "Yo! What do you get when you multiply one half times one half?"

So I blinked for a nano-second or two and, after giving it some thought, replied, in a vague, yet casual, sort of way: "One-quarter."

"THANK you!" he said, sounding as though he was glad to finally meet an educated man, then turned to his mates as if to say, "See? What'd I tell you?"

The light changed, and I drove off.

As I got out of the car at the post office, I thought to myself three things:

*What could the conversation among those three street guys possibly have been about that they had to ask a passing motorist to settle a math equation?

*How in the name of all that is holy did I remember how to multiply fractions? After all, I proudly maintained a straight "D" average in math all the way through 10th grade, when I gave up its study forever.

*No way am I going to the Lambert Park opening Sunday. It's too much fun here in the borough.