Wednesday, 30 January 2002 | Man with the floppy hat

He works in my building and strikes up conversations with me whenever he sees me. Actually, I think he strikes up conversations with everybody, but I can't be sure. Tall and lean with a soft southern drawl, maybe early 40s, he usually wears jeans and a big, floppy hat, and appears to spend most of his time outside or by the snack machines chatting, commenting, teasing, telling jokes. He tells me about his daughter or his young, wild days, his dream of living in Nashville, old jobs, country singers, tricks he likes to play on people. I'm not sure what he likes about talking to me, since I usually do more absorbing than sharing. Maybe all audiences are equal, as long as they're polite.

Today he stopped me while on my way to get a drink.

Him: It feels like summer out there. It's gonna git cold again this weekend. Next weekend I'm goin to the Grand Ole Opry. You ever seen that on TV?

Me: No, I haven't.

Him: Well, it's real...oooh, my leg's gittin hot. [He steps away and starts patting his pockets.]

Me: Yeah? [I shuffle off to get my drink, wondering how to take that.]

Moments later, he explained that he had a lighter and a battery in the same pocket, causing his leg to heat up, which inspired not one, but two stories about how he detonated fireworks in a car he was sitting in.

Him: Had I not had my wallet in my back pocket, I woulda hurt my rear end real bad. And I couldn't hear for two weeks after that.

This is where I was supposed to insert my own fireworks horror story, but I don't have one.