First Day With the New Head

There's a guy who walks up and down our street a few times a day. "Good to see you," I'll say, "Good to see you" he'll reply. His untied over-sized boots make a flopping sound as he walks. His hair is wild and his beard is overgrown. His outfit is always the same, a dark T-shirt and dark slacks that he holds up at the waist with one hand. The hems of the slacks are tattered. "You must be freezing!" I'll say on a winter day. "It's not bad," he'll reply. He harvests cigarette butts from the Walgreen's parking lot. The other day he came right up to me. He had a brand new pack of Newport cigarettes in his hand. "M&M's. I had a brain transplant," he said. I wasn't sure what to say. There was a pause. "Nice to meet you," he finally said. "Nice to meet you," I replied, and he continued on his way. I told my husband about this exchange. "Sounds like he got new meds," he said. "Those are the M&M's, and it feels to him like he has a new brain."