Don’t Touch That

I combined two recent vignettes Theater Magic and Mysterious Straw to become this one.

I was five years old, and my sister and I were visiting Grandma for the
weekend. We took the tiny elevator down into the lobby and walked out
into the sun. We walked under the boardwalk, passing through the striped
shade on the way to the beach. I looked down and saw a straw poking out
of the sand. I reached down and plucked it out. "Don't touch that!"
Grandma said, "some dirty old man put that there!" I still wonder what
she meant. Was it a fear of germs? Or are there old men who get a kick
from licking straws and placing them in the sand each night for little
girls to pluck?

Last night, at a gathering of musicians, I saw a man with huge bright
eyes, worn red skin, and a pointy goatee. He looked like an engraving of
a man from a different time. He asked me, in a strong accent, if I spoke
Russian. I asked him if he was a magician. He kissed my hand and gave me
his card and invited me to his house to drink vodka with him and his
wife. This man had a hypnotist's face. I will stay home instead and write
about his Russian blue eyes. I found his silver tobacco pipe tool under
my shoe just as he left. Remembering Grandma, I gave it to the hostess
for her to return.