Today I decided to take the scenic route home from the co-op so I could ride down my two favorite streets in Ypsilanti.  I did not, however, get the chance to do so.

Pedaling down River Street I spied a nice old wooden chair with a wicker seat on the side of the road sandwiched between a trash can and some other leftovers destined for the landfill.  Being the hoarder that I am, I naturally decided to carry the chair home with me.  Attempting to hold and ride it proved to be difficult if not impossible.  I therefore decided to bungee cord it to my basket.  

As I was struggling in the humidity to attach the piece of furniture I heard a man call out, “You beat me to it!”.  There were some streaks running down the right side of his face.  Waddling towards me was a clean, rather regular looking old man - short sleeved button down shirt, jeans, jesus sandals, a pair of reading glasses with the UV Ray Protection sticker still adhered to the left lens and oh, you know…the flesh on the right side of his face completely peeled off to expose the bloody, gristly, congealed mass of muscle tissue and bone beneath.  I’M SERIOUS.  

The right side of this man’s head was totally sans skin and he talked to me like it was no big deal.  He insisted that he was happy I took the chair, his car was packed anyway and was glad to see that it wasn’t going to go to waste.  He seemed so calm, so eager to talk to me - not too eager, just as eager as any 50 something man who is driving around with his eye open for junk on the side of the road would be.  He went into great detail about a table he had seen earlier that day near his house, pulled out a clean lunch-sized paper bag from the trash can and drew a map of how to get to the location of the table.  

As he drew the map, I discreetly examined the right side of his face.  His hair was white, fluffy on top like he had just taken a shower and the sun was beginning to dry it. The hair over the wound was wet, almost greasy looking.  The wound itself looked fresh, crimson blood, hardly any scabbing, white fat congealed near his ear which was fully intact, a mix of dried blood and fat running down his cheek.  There was no semblance of bandaging.  He talked with his right eye closed, presumably gone due to whatever caused the laceration.  His left eye was a beautiful watery blue that stared right at me through his dollar store reading glasses.

He also had a smell.  A musky, oddly sweet smell mixed with vaseline.

I didn’t mention the wound at all to the man.  I didn’t ask him if he needed help, which I’m feeling a little weird about.  His demeanor threw me off completely, he acted as if there was nothing wrong.  I didn’t want to be rude to the him, nor did I want to provoke him.  Growing up with prison guard parents, I have been trained to fear anyone and everyone.  He gave me the paper bag with the treasure map drawn on it, I thanked him and he apologized for taking up my time.  I assured him it was no big deal.  The man gave one last, “it’ll be gone soon though!”, referring to the table near the Taco Bell on the map.  I mounted my bicycle and turned around to take the less scenic, more populated route home.  And that’s what happens when I leave my house.