False flags

You know who he is. Everyone seems to know him. He's a tall guy with a big smile and a hearty "hello." A retiree, you assume, a man of leisure, and a fixture on the dog beach you've visited every morning of every summer day you've spent in this southern Maine town. You'd recognize his face, if not his name, because you've crossed paths here for at least two decades. 

You've always been cordial in that way strangers are. We imagine the connections we share though we have little evidence that's more than circumstantial:

We are both here at the same time each morning. Letting our dogs play in the surf. He brings home-brewed coffee just like you do; you can tell from the open ceramic mug he holds in his hand instead of a white-lidded cardboard cup.

His old rescue and your old rescue never met their canine predecessors, but you remember. They were fast, and seemingly kindred. 

We both feel an ownership of this place that, let's face it, neither of us have. 

There's no doubt, THIS is the life.

You might feel that imagined kinship turn into a slight envy once this morning routine ceases for you at the end of the month, knowing it continues for him year 'round.

Until he started wearing that hat. You know the one: a red brimmed cap with white letters: Fighting words since 2016.

He notices the people who shy away, and he seems to walk a little taller, smile a little wider and make his greetings more ebullient.

His vehicle has a sedimentary layer of stickers, dated by year, proclaiming an ever increasing love for The Former Guy. And now, it showcases a total disdain for the current occupant with an expletive-laden flag tattered around its edges from being paraded around town.

He's not actively looking for a fight, but he seems prepared for one nevertheless. He plants his chair near the central beach access and keeps watch over his truck-shaped middle finger as he holds court.

King jester gestures.

I used to feel the rage he was looking for; I used to return his caustic cheer with narrowed eyes before I started avoiding him altogether. I didn't need to wear conflicting colors or sentiments for him to recognize my disapproval. I wore it clearly on my face.

But I'm so tired of all this rage. His and mine. I am exhausted by bracing for the absolute worst. It's all too much: this fear and loathing a few people have manufactured and sold to the populous at-large. It benefits no one, not even themselves.

Of course I don't know him. I've never seen him anywhere else but along this half-mile long strip of sand for fourteen mornings once a year. The only facts I know is that on occasion, people will engage him in friendly conversation while asking him about his dog as he responds in kind, and that no one ever stays with him for long. I can only assume he has people who love him despite his contrarian stance. I'm sure he has found others who may also enjoy a good argument over holiday meals. 

I know he seems to relish the reaction he gets since he's planted his solitary flag. I'm glad I don't have to know him or his rage. It's enough work to tame my own.