Sampson
Sampson was set apart from other
hipsters by magnitude alone. His eyes were protuberant and locked in the
incessant, methodical gaze characteristic of the persona, and yet he lent it an
almost alarming degree of intensity that suggested that the probe went deeper,
both ways, than the confines of casual conversation.
I must have supposed, as I still
do, that it was commonplace for hipsters, maybe even by definition, to mistake
their mask for truth.
I don’t recall how, but somehow I
found him sitting across a table in the Community College cafeteria that had
probably been deserted when I arrived.
Inexplicably, I now found myself a
witness of the kind of flirtation typical of a college boy and girl intent on
rubbing egos before any thing could ensue.
Apparently, nothing is so effective
a tool to boost one’s ego as an ego-transcending experience. He began to brag
about all of the psychedelics that he had done, and there was a familiarity
between the boy and girl that transcended their anonymity.
The girl’s eyes had a sad but
assured look in them, and she smiled a rabbit smile with a timidity rivaled only
by her self-assurance.
When she departed, I asked him
about drugs.
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