“Uhh hello, can I talk you?”

This guy wouldn’t leave me alone. I spotted him from across the park when I first got there, watching him when he made the decision to walk my direction. I tried to ignore him but it wasn’t working. He was nothing if not persistent.

He had the heroin eyes, those black circles, pin-pointed pupils, totally disconnected from humanity and completely ok with it. His arms were covered in track marks, his right arm with bruises from times he missed the vein, a righty shooting up lefty. For a moment I wondered how he got here. I wondered what choices he made in his life that wound up leading him right here, right now. It made me wonder if I looked like I fit in amongst this crowd. I didn’t see too many people doing double-takes in my direction.

“Can I talk with you,” he asked.

Again.

“Hello? Can we speak?”

“Nah, man,” I told him, showing him my open palms, the international sign of ‘I don’t have shit for you.’ “I’m good.”

“I don’t want money,” he explained. “Only talk.”

I looked him in the eyes with an expression that begged him to just get this over with.

“It’s your future,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and began walking away, completely unimpressed. Living in Italy I’d grown accustomed to most of these scams. The one where the woman with 15 kids distracts you with a newspaper while her little ones pick your pockets. The one where a guy “gives” you a gift, only to come at you for money once you touch it. The one where an attractive female tries to get you to follow them down an alley or into an apartment. I knew this guy’s scam. He’d tell me my future in bad English for free, only to ask for a sizable tip when he finished.

“Nah, man, look, I told you. I-DON’T-HAVE-MONEY-FOR-YOU. Nothing.”

“Jason, listen me.”

“I said I don’t ha- wait, what the fuck did you just say?” I looked directly at him, head cocked sideways. “What did you say?”

“You must listen me.”

“No, you said my name.”

“Yes, I can talk?”

I looked down at my chest, just in case someone had mysteriously attached a name-tag to my shirt, a preposterous concept, but no more preposterous than what was actually happening.

Mouth open, not sure of what to say, he took my silence as permission to continue.

“Jason… it be ok.”

“Wha- How do you know my name?”

He paused, looking at me to make sure the words sank in.

“Jason… it is ok. Always, ok.”

“Wait, what? What be ok? What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked, looking around the park.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Everything.”

“Huh?”

“You ask what be ok?” he said, waiting for my nod to continue. “Everything. Everything will be ok.”

I just stared at him, not really sure if there existed an appropriate response to any of this.

“You don’t believe in me,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“No, what? No. Believe in you?” I asked. “No. No I don’t believe you,” I told him, not really sure if I meant it. “Or in you, whatever that means.”

“Your father. He have…” his voice drifted upward, as if he was struggling with his English. “He have pigeons?”

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. There’s no way he could have guessed that. He did not just say that.

Growing up, my father took up the hobby of racing pigeons. Seriously, such a thing really exists. The bane of my mother’s existence, my dad had a collection of about 100 pigeons, who, once a week, would be dropped off miles from our house, and find their way home, while racing other pigeons who found their own way home.

And this fucking guy, in a random park, in a random city, in a random country, on the other side of the globe, just told me all about it.

Seeing the look — I suppose it was fear mixed with surprise mixed in with a little anxiety — on my face, he set out to once again reassure me.

“Jason,” he said, “it’s ok. It will be, everything, ok.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” I asked, confusion mixed with frustration. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“You must remember, in your life, at the bottom, when it’s very bad… everything will be ok.”

“Bottom? What? Is shit going to get bad for me? Is that what you’re you’re trying to say?” I asked, tip-toeing into the realm of suspension of disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Hard how?”

“Jason, it will be, everything, ok.”

“Will I ever get married?” I had no idea why I asked that question, but I did. Perhaps there was a fear somewhere inside of me that I’d never find someone.

“Yes. Twice. One time in first half, one time in other half.”

“Half?”

“Yes,” he explained. “Your life have two halves.”

“When will I die?” I asked in a tone that was a total facade. I wanted to inquire while feigning an air of amusement.

He looked at me, reading something. “You don’t want this answer.”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right.

“But you will be old man. Not young man.”

I felt sick to my stomach, sharp, stabbing pains. The only thing I could think to do was walk away, back toward the train station, back, whichever way was away from Bern.

“Jason,” he said as I turned back toward him, “always remember — it is ok.”

Standing there, I wanted him to ask me for money. I wanted him to hit me up for a donation, just like the scams I’d seen countless times, so that I could chalk the whole situation up to a mind-fuck scheme magic trick. I wanted him to put his hand out, and give me that uncomfortable laugh. I wanted him to try and negotiate a fee for this experience.

But he did none of these things.

I didn’t thank him. I didn’t say goodbye to him. I simply turned away, walked past the junkies in the park, stepped over used syringes, kicked the little orange needle caps, and got back on a train toward Italy, away from Bern, a city whose center I never actually saw, and that I spent less than an hour actually visiting.