South Street Stories: Chapter 1
Across the square from our townhome lives a cordial gentleman commonly clad in a white undershirt and black exercise shorts. While he holds onto charicteristics of youthfulness, he cannot be much younger than 50. During the summer he frequents the grounds of SouthSide Square, a group of apartments and townhomes set in a U-shape around a grassy, shaded lawn. As one walks to the mailboxes, he is inevitably hunched over the sidewalk, tediously pulling up the weeds and offering a quick, pressured defense explaining why he does this to avoid use of harmful pesticides by the groundskeepers. I do not know much about him, other than his infatuation with plants. The stoop behind his first-floor apartment is drowning in nurtured overgrowth, thriving in its full summer bloom. Due to his anonymity, we affectionately refer to him as “Plant Man.”
Ed was caring for our two green-leaved creatures on the front porch when Plant Man came around the corner, weeding the gravel driveway as he went. He cast a sideways glance as his curiousity began to overtake him. We waved and he inched closer to say hi. Wether it is due to the current pandemic or his timid nature, he naturally stands bending slightly toward you with one foot pointed in the other direction as if to provide him an escape should the conversation turn awkward. His aviators made his eyes unreadable, but his quick smile was neighborly enough. He asked our names just as a few cars started zooming past. South street is a main thoroughfare between two main hospitals in town and can be quite noisy. Plant Man wanted to engage in conversation, but would not move closer. As he continued to talk, we could only agree and smile, hoping he had not asked something important. Between cars we could make out patchy sentences referencing pesticides and plant health, as he seemed to have no problem carrying on a one-sided conversation regarding these topics. Had we not been actively repotting our own plants, we would have moved closer to him for better conversation.
After a couple minutes of us nodding in what we hoped to be all the correct places, he edged closer and offered Ed a small plant clipping to add to our collection. With little-to-no explanation offerred, we like to think it was a test of our plant-parenting abilities. A couple days later I was coming down the sidewalk after class and watched from a distance as he inched onto our porch, peeked into our planter to make sure his gift was surviving, and then darted away hoping he had not been seen. I like to imagine he has a jungle inside his apartment and spends hours of his time nurturing every leaf and blossom. I can picture him dusting off the large leaves of a monstera plant, testing the room’s humidity to make sure the fall air doesn’t dry out the soil, and talking to each plant as he waters them. Plant Man may have found the key to returning to nature, apartment-style.
