Stranger friends

I've mentioned him before; the man over the railroad tracks, across the river, and on the other side of the highway. I don't know his name. I've never met him. But he built his home there some four years ago, and comes and goes as he pleases. He has a red sports car, and last summer he built a large garage beside his house.

Leaning out of the windows in my study room I can see his house, and it was in this fashion that I introduced him to my roommates the other day.

I call him the Professor, for the one thing that I do know about him is that he teaches at the highschool in town (what he teaches, I don't know). And late at night, his lights shine through the mile wide darkness and I know I'm not the only one awake at that hour. Perhaps he is grading tests or papers. Perhaps he is reading Homer, Dante, Shakespeare. I dont know what he does in the early morning hours, and perhaps he wonders the same thing about me. All I know is that he stuck it out with me many a late night as I poured over my books at NSA and photography class. We've been through Aristotle and Socrates together. We've listened to Michael Buble and Jamie Cullum together. We've watched Community and Lost together. We've watched snow drift and fields burn, clouds rain and leaves fall.

Two per window, my roommates and I stood looking out over the carport below, and I told them about the man across the train tracks. The story never takes long to tell, but its an interesting one. He's a mysterious man and a comforting presence at the same time. He is a friend, yet a complete stranger.

He is my stranger friend.