Kyle couldn’t tell if the old hippie had emerged from the woods or if he had made his approach from the far side of the empty field. Kyle was sitting crossed-legged in the grass of Golden Gate Park, covering his eyes with both hands when he heard the voice. It was a voice that was ancient and innocent all at once—like a baby who had transitioned directly to raspy manhood. The hippie was already close enough to cast a shadow across Kyle’s face when he started to speak, leaning on the thick knobby branch he was using as a walking stick.
“How’s the meditation going?” the old hippie said.
Kyle lowered his hands and squinted from the grass. The man looked like one of the graybeards who were clustered at the entrance to the park: frayed blue jeans, torn flannel shirt, red bandana. There were dozens of them sprawled across the lawn listening to hand-me-down iPods. The old hippie was better put together than his compatriots. Sturdier, more muscular. Even the walking stick seemed more like a prop than a necessity—a gnarled scepter to mark his place among the anachronisms.
“I wasn’t meditating,” Kyle said. “It’s my new contacts. They’re killing me.”
“New contacts,” the old hippie said. “That’s funny.”
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