Orin Friend

He told me to put on a hat so I grabbed the first one I could find. It was a light grey, just slightly-oversized cowboy hat. I think he thought I was making fun of him, but I wasn't, it was just the closest hat to my hand. We went out and I guess it did look strange, two men in cowboy hats north of the Mason-Dixon, but Orin had a trouble with people and perception. He needed the validation of strangers on a mostly constant basis, most likely to make up for the rest of us who tolerated him because we thought the others liked him. And all a sudden it's too late to end the friendship.

We were getting looks. Orin had on a tuxedo shirt, which didn't help. He wore things like that; tuxedo shirts, two-tone snakeskin loafers, army surplus cargo pants, 70s ties, the cowboy hats, he was all over the place. He changed his name to Odin, it was of his own desire. One day it was after some movie character, the next after some friend, the next after a god that I'm not sure exists. There's Orion, there's Odin. Then there's Orin. At one point I knew him to wear watches up and down each arm. We're talking about a man who has a picture of the Arby's roast turkey Rachel Reuben sandwich as the desktop wallpaper for his personal computer. This is not a well man.

I got the feeling, as we were getting the looks, that this was the feeling Orin got on a regular basis. I couldn't tell if he was immune to it or not. If he wasn't it sure didn't show. But I don't think he knew. I don't think he knows. I don't think he thinks that any of this is strange. He goes about his business and he rubs people the wrong way and ultimately he means well, but it's not enough. There are always going to be people like me around, people who are his friend just because it's too late in the game to say get lost. But, then again, I was wearing the hat. And I caught a glimpse of myself in a window, and I have to admit—I looked good.