#w.cronin

Cronin hadn’t lived in the area long. He was living out of a motel for the past few months. He had a couple of bags with him consisting of a variety of clothes. He had several nice button down shirts, a few polo shirts and t shirts, nice jeans, stained jeans, khaki pants and black slacks. He also had a few books which he used to give the bag a flat square bottom. He never really took them out. Despite the variety of clothes he possessed he never did wear the t shirts and ever so rarely the polo shirts. He wouldn’t wear the slacks or the stained jeans. Those clothes were packed away in a different bag. The bag was never opened but it was brought down from the car nonetheless. He didn’t stay anywhere very long. He was constantly traveling. And therefore he was always alone. He never stayed anywhere long enough to get to know anyone or to give anyone a chance to approach him. He didn’t do much else other than spontaneously appear in classes and sit in libraries. If he was at neither of those places, he was in a diner. With maybe a couple of his journals at a time. He went regularly to a diner near the motel. The people who worked there were the only ones who knew his name. They only knew his last name assuming that when it was given it was his first name. Although they knew him by his last name, and knew his usual eating habits, they didn’t know anything else. Other than he was by himself. If he ever stayed at the motel room he was switching between news channels. He didn’t always take notes but he did occasionally make use of the small note pad and pen on the night stand that was provided by the motel. But this evening he was leaving. He had the TV on CNN and was packing. He took his clothes off the hangers and neatly folded them to fit it the empty duffle bag. Put the only journal that was out in his messenger bag along with the rest of the journals and his laptop. He put the three bags in the trunk of his car and went to return the key to to motel office. He received a small refund for leaving before the month was out. He didn’t really have a reason. He just knew that he needed to leave.

Cronin also made appearances in some of the lectures being given at both the community college and the university. Not consistently or for any real reason. He would attend intro courses to just about any subject. He just shows up. And not for the whole class time. But he will walk in and take out a pen and a spiral and take notes. The professors noticed him. But they never really questioned who he was or what he wanted. There was one, who stopped him once as he was walking out with the rest of the class. “Sir, may I ask why you sat in for my class today?” “Just wanted to know a little more about astronomy today.” And then Cronin walked out before the professor could ask him any other questions. The students in the classes were used to seeing him around the campuses. They didn’t talk to him, thinking he was a professor doing intense research because he was always mumbling to himself. They thought it better to not distract him. He always looked so intense. So focused.

He spent the day with all six of his journals. None of which were anywhere near filled. Perhaps three quarters of the way through with two of them, halfway through one more and the other three had maybe twelve pages written on. There were tiny pieces of paper that were frayed and poking out in the journal where he had ripped out pages and stuck in foreign pages. Those six journals and his laptop all splayed out on the tables of the public library. He didn’t leave for lunch. He didn’t get up if it wasn’t to get a couple of books. When he showed up at eleven his light brown hair was neat and tidily brushed to the right side. It was now fluffy and a tad bit messy from running his fingers through it so often. He was constantly mumbling to himself. Especially when writing in one of his journals. And it wasn’t just the public library. He paid regular visits to the community college and the university libraries. He didn’t try hiding anything he was looking at, or writing down, or drawing. But then again, his cursive was too unique and hastily written to understand. The librarians new Cronin well. Not that he talked to them. Just that they knew his face and knew he needed his own waste basket. They didn’t necessarily hand him a waste basket when he walked in. He just went to a table, set up for the day and once he’d get up for a book a waste basket would be next to his chair when he came back. The librarians didn’t want to make him feel bad for all his crumpled papers crowding around his table. So it was just generally understood that when he came in he’d stay until closing, needed a waste basket, and wasn’t leaving with any books.

  [There’s no real title for this; it’ll be under the tag W.Cronin]