There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.
And they all lived together in a little crooked house

- A nursery rhyme

Just a few minutes ago, I was walking up 45th St, back from a meeting in the University District. I walked up to an intersection, an on-ramp to a bridge or highway or something. Waiting there was a man who looked to be homeless, but it’s hard to say. He had dirty wispy white hair receding up from his hairline, a dull pink shirt, and leaned on a huge crooked walking stick. He looked like he was from another time or place - and just may have been.

I pulled up beside him and tried not to attract his attention. I was wearing headphones, but that didn’t matter. He pointed to his ears and motioned for me to take the headphones out. I did so, took a step closer and said to him, “What’s that?”

“How do you get to Fremont?” he asked me.

I knew the general direction, but not the specifics. “Well, I think you’re gonna go straight for a while - not sure how long, and then take a left.”

“So I go up three blocks and take a left?”

“Uh, no. You go straight for a good while, and then take a left.”

The man seemed to take offense, and as the light turned green, he said to me, “I don’t ever go straight. I’m a crooked man and I walk with a crooked stick.”

“Alright man,” I said, and stepped off the curb to hurry past him, putting my headphones back in and puzzling over the whole experience.

I wanted to talk to him more and find out what kind of crooked paths he’d walked, but he had a certain drunken negative aura that told me just to keep walking. I walked away (making sure to go straight) without turning back. The man, I’m sure, disappeared back into whatever storybook he’d come out of.