I don't know why the word 'eccentric' is most commonly applied to old people. After all, the most eccentric person I know is four years old.
This week, Sully has assumed an alternate personality, one which he embodies whole-heartedly and without breaking character for hours at a time. His name is Sullivan Barclay Krause; he is 22 years old and lives in BC with his wife and two children (who are, coincidentally, 1 and 4 and named Scarlett and Sullivan). He is fairly deadpan, speaks to me as a fellow adult, drinks americanos, likes jazz, and takes his kids to the park, like, all the time. He even asked me for my number so we could hang out sometime.
Today, he came for lunch. I asked him how his day was and he sighed deeply and said, "Welp. My car broked down. AGAIN."
I said, "Oh? What happened to it?"
"Welp. I was just going to the guitar store to buy some picks and a bad guy comed up and started punching it and it broked." Here, he rolled his eyes and shook his head and his little shoulders rose and fell and he let out another massive sigh.
"That's terrible," I said. "Just for no reason?"
"Oh no, he had a reason," said Sullivan Barclay Krause (never only Sullivan or Sully). "I just don't know what his reason was."
"Ah," I said. "You're probably right."
"I am," he said sagely.
"Hey, Sully," I said, clearing the table, nudging a blanket that had been left in the middle of the floor with my foot, "would you—"
"Sullivan Barclay Krause," he reminded me. "I'm 22. I'm an adult."
"Right. Hey, Sullivan Barclay Krause, would you mind putting that blanket back on the couch?"
"Sure," he said. "Where's your couch at?"
I pointed to the couch, and he nodded approvingly. "Ah," he said. "It's a nice couch. My wife has the same one."
"Ah," I said. (We say 'Ah' back and forth to each other so much when he's 22, apparently.) "Would you also mind putting those pillows back on it? My son's always throwing them on the floor."
I said this very pointedly, but Sullivan Barclay Krause was oblivious, neatly stacking my pillows on the couch that is the same as the one his wife has. And then, rolling his eyes again, he said, "Yes. My daughter is always doing the same thing."
"Ah," I said. "Do you want some coffee?"
"No," he said. "I've got coffee at home."
"Okay."
He stood in the middle of the living room and put his hands on his skinny little hips, surveying it. "Yep, yep, yep," he said, making a very grown-up sound out of the side of his mouth, the kind you make when you're in a pause in a conversation and you don't know where to go with it. "I see your husband likes to play video games."
"He does," I said. "What does your wife do?" I thought maybe he'd tell me his wife was a writer or a mom, since she seemed loosely based on me from all he's told me about her this week.
"She works at Suds. The car wash," he said. "She runs all the brushes."
Anyway, it went on like that. I just wanted to write this part of the conversation down verbatim before I forgot it, because 22 year-old Sullivan Barclay Krause is my favourite.
This week, Sully has assumed an alternate personality, one which he embodies whole-heartedly and without breaking character for hours at a time. His name is Sullivan Barclay Krause; he is 22 years old and lives in BC with his wife and two children (who are, coincidentally, 1 and 4 and named Scarlett and Sullivan). He is fairly deadpan, speaks to me as a fellow adult, drinks americanos, likes jazz, and takes his kids to the park, like, all the time. He even asked me for my number so we could hang out sometime.
Today, he came for lunch. I asked him how his day was and he sighed deeply and said, "Welp. My car broked down. AGAIN."
I said, "Oh? What happened to it?"
"Welp. I was just going to the guitar store to buy some picks and a bad guy comed up and started punching it and it broked." Here, he rolled his eyes and shook his head and his little shoulders rose and fell and he let out another massive sigh.
"That's terrible," I said. "Just for no reason?"
"Oh no, he had a reason," said Sullivan Barclay Krause (never only Sullivan or Sully). "I just don't know what his reason was."
"Ah," I said. "You're probably right."
"I am," he said sagely.
"Hey, Sully," I said, clearing the table, nudging a blanket that had been left in the middle of the floor with my foot, "would you—"
"Sullivan Barclay Krause," he reminded me. "I'm 22. I'm an adult."
"Right. Hey, Sullivan Barclay Krause, would you mind putting that blanket back on the couch?"
"Sure," he said. "Where's your couch at?"
I pointed to the couch, and he nodded approvingly. "Ah," he said. "It's a nice couch. My wife has the same one."
"Ah," I said. (We say 'Ah' back and forth to each other so much when he's 22, apparently.) "Would you also mind putting those pillows back on it? My son's always throwing them on the floor."
I said this very pointedly, but Sullivan Barclay Krause was oblivious, neatly stacking my pillows on the couch that is the same as the one his wife has. And then, rolling his eyes again, he said, "Yes. My daughter is always doing the same thing."
"Ah," I said. "Do you want some coffee?"
"No," he said. "I've got coffee at home."
"Okay."
He stood in the middle of the living room and put his hands on his skinny little hips, surveying it. "Yep, yep, yep," he said, making a very grown-up sound out of the side of his mouth, the kind you make when you're in a pause in a conversation and you don't know where to go with it. "I see your husband likes to play video games."
"He does," I said. "What does your wife do?" I thought maybe he'd tell me his wife was a writer or a mom, since she seemed loosely based on me from all he's told me about her this week.
"She works at Suds. The car wash," he said. "She runs all the brushes."
Anyway, it went on like that. I just wanted to write this part of the conversation down verbatim before I forgot it, because 22 year-old Sullivan Barclay Krause is my favourite.