Every town has a mystery man. In Winchester, MA, where I grew up, there was (is?) a dapper, elderly gentleman who was often seen walking around town with a great pipe protruding from his lips: the kind of pipe that you would find on a clipper ship during the Napoleonic Wars. The kids at my high school were so fascinated by this quiet and enigmatic town denizen that he earned two nicknames. To many of us, he was known as “Pipe Guy” and to others, he was the “Walking Smoking Man.” But none of us ever ginned up the courage to say hello and try to have a conversation with him. I suspect we were all intimidated, intrigued, and satisfied with being intimidated and intrigued.
This is actually one of my biggest regrets from the teenage years. While I was a bit of a shitkicker back then, and not a very loquacious one, I wish I had learned the name of our mysterious smoking man. I wish I had introduced myself and found out what was behind the pipe and the unmistakable Hitchcock-esque profile. Maybe it’s not too late! Thanksgiving is next week, and I’ll be spending some time in Winchester. But the thing that reminded me of our local mystery man wasn’t the advent of the holiday. It was a recent hike I took in the rolling hills west of Hartford—a hike to the rumored dwelling of another mystery man who befuddled the small-minded townies. With fiery results.