A Valentine for Orange Man

We were riveted by you as we rode home on BART on Valentine's Day. You gave us color therapy and laughing yoga, made the whole train car laugh. You were way better than a box of chocolates, although perhaps equally nutty.

We couldn't overlook you, a tall muscled man in bright ORANGE nylon piped shorts and matching hoodie, orange translucent knee socks, and your bright orange backpack. The tennis racket's handle stuck out with faded pink tape. You came bopping into the center of our train car, your hood barely containing your oversize earphones and permed poodle hair.

Who wouldn't love you, a tall, athletic secret Asian man. With your zebra skateboard and unbounding energy. You were kung fu-ing, boxing, and jiving all by yourself in the open space by the train doors. The tall talmudic Berkeley cyclist next to you lowered his head to get out of your way or not be laughing in your face. The dressed to the nines daters across the aisle ducked their heads and guffawed into their hands. We all wondered if you were part of the Jamie Kennedy experience or some other hidden camera deal.

My love & I watched you openly, artists appreciating your bravado, brio, and brawn. You did pull ups on the hang-on-don't-fall-over bar, and push ups with your orange butt and too much information in the air. The man in the seat ahead of us held his phone out to capture your solo, but I haven't found you on YouTube yet.

Orange Man, you lit up our night. At West Oakland, my love asked the spirits to watch over you as you picked up your board and exited. You didn't hear when I started the big round of applause as the train sped on. Some might have been laughing at you in judgment. But we felt the relief of being human, together. Appreciating that still, some people know how to let their freak flag fly. Go Orange!