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I went to college with this person.

His name is Anis Mojgani.  I admired him so much I often went to the coffee shops and other dark, small places where he spoke his spoken words, but I never talked to him.  I went to his one man show.  Three times.  I saw him at parties sometimes and went to stand near him, but I never talked to him.

Until one time.  It was maybe two or three am.  I was on my second floor balcony smoking cigarettes in my underwear and a t-shirt, which was not uncommon.  The city was Savannah and it was asleep.  There was a mist that hovered just around knee height, and the lamplight bobbed pinkish and ghostly.  Anis Mojgani rode up my street on his bicycle in no particular hurry.  He wore noise canceling headphones.  When I saw him I jumped up and called out, “Anis!”  He stopped just on the corner a few feet past my house and looked up.  I wanted to tell him that after I left his shows I felt like it was important to try to be better at the things I was good at.  That I had become a better writer after seeing him perform for the first time.  I wanted to tell him that I thought him brave and beautiful.  I stood on the edge of my small balcony, behind an unevenly spaced picket rail, and all I could manage to say into the empty, damp and echoing street was, “I’m not wearing pants.”

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