A long toll bridge near the Delaware Water Gap had been raised to let several sizable sailing vessels navigate under it. This event forced me to bring to a stop the fully loaded touring bicycle I was attempting to ride from Maine to Florida. Now I would have to try to enjoy the sights and sounds of a brisk morning along the eastern seaboard. I should have seized the moment as a chance to stop and smell the roses or, in this case, the cherry blossoms along the river.
The problem was, I had just managed to coax my sore legs into a steady cadence for the first time that day and wasn't exactly thrilled about the holdup. It's hard to get away from routines and schedules, even on an adventure. But one cursory glance at my surroundings revealed that I would most certainly have stopped dead in my tracks, no matter what condition the bridge had been in that morning.
Sitting atop a three-wheeled contraption-which had once been an oversize tricycle of the sort many retirees along Florida's Gold Coast gingerly pedal to and from the store in the afternoon heat-was a shocking abberation of a man.
From his scalp, a stalk of red hair grew wild in every direction, like an abandoned rose garden sprawling over an old mansion. His face, starting to wrinkle in places, was that of a boy. A broad set of shoulders supported a ragged blue pea coat, the type worn in the navy, but this one was far from standard issue: Pinned to every inch of the garment were buttons- hundreds upon hundreds of buttons.
Buttons advertised everything from Bazooka Joe bubble gum to Marlboro cigarettes, Delta Airlines to Dunkin' Doughnuts. Some buttons had cute sayings and pop-culture slogans like "Make My Day", "Only the Shadow Knows", and "Why be Normal?" Others depicted cartoon characters, movie stars and political figures. Gumby was smiling next to Marilyn Monroe on one sleeve while Malcolm X was pinned beside a Mouseketteer on the jacket's lapel.
One thing was certain: The full spectrum of political and social beliefs was represented. I tried to figure out if there was any sort of pattern to the assortment of buttons- a method to the burly man's madness. Was the smiley face exhorting people to "Have a Nice Day" placed next to the National Rifle Association membership pin for a reason? And what did a picture of Gandhi have to do with a cartoon bubble button above him, saying "Don't worry, be happy"?
Studying the man's attire was similar to pondering a stunning piece of modern art, while it's creator still inhabited his work. Button Boy's rig was no less amazing. It resembled some sort of Frankenstein marriage of a shopping cart, a tricycle and a chopper. Modifications to the tricycle's frame included replacing the original seat with a bucket seat from a 1965 Mustang fastback. The red vinyl chair even reclined, which was the position Button Boy was in when I pulled up. He might have been sleeping for all the response he gave to my arrival. Metal baskets had been welded or otherwise connect to the trike and were filled with every imaginable item, from musical instruments to board games. A wooden platform had been assembled across the back of the vehicle to accommodate even more gear. It looked like someone had emptied his closets of random possessions just before the house burned down.
Button Boy had to be lugging a couple of hundred pounds of extra weight. As I grinned at my good fortune to be carrying less than a tenth of that on my own rig, the button-covered coat spoke.
"Are you enjoying your ride?" he asked through a thick Irish brogue.
This was interesting choice of questions. Why not ask me where I was coming from, how many miles a day I averaged, if I got lonely on the road, or what my final destination would be? These were all standard queries I had grown accustomed to from curious well-wishers. The question caught me off guard, and while I gave it some thought, two fresh-faced Mormon cyclists arrived on their matching bikes to wait for the bridge to go down. I shared small talk with the two guys, suggesting to them that they might think about wearing helmets, then listened quietly to their message about the Mormon religion.
"I believe in God!" Button Boy bellowed, bringing his bucket seat to a full, upright, and locked position. His presence came as a shock to the Mormon gentlemen, who up to that point must have thought the tricycle was abandoned. They flinched as the hulking mass of red hair and buttons continued: "Sure do, Most days I know he's around 'cause I can hear him having one big laugh at the rest of us!"
Button Boy looked like he was going to jingle harmlessly back down in his seat, but then the guy nearly lunged from his trike in an effort to finish his thought.
"But I got the Big Man's number, 'cause some days . . . I laugh back!" And, of course, he began hooting and cackling to the heavens.
The Mormons went quite pale and I must admit to a bit of an adrenaline rush when I realized I was within striking distance of the burly man. But the mood quickly changed when this fiery guy announced, in a most endearing Irish accent, that we should try to make some music to show God what a glorious morning we thought it was. No one said a word.
But Button Boy's eye's glistened with such sincerity that resistance was futile. He mumbled softly as he searched the trike's compartments and lower holds, then pulled out enough instruments to outfit a full orchestra. When the band was assembled, Button Boy was gripping the neck of a fiddle, one of the Mormons was in possession of a worn but nicely tuned guitar, while the other missionary and I formed the percussion section.
Button Boy led the group, fielding requests, but honoring none of them. He would count to four, then launch into a lively jig or a soulful ballad, and we'd try our best to keep up. He was rather patient for a madman, and the Mormons found his style and tempo a few bars into each song. I did what I could, but was under no misconception that I was born with rythym.
As we sat together on a low wall overlooking the river, our music connected us to the moment and one another as few things can. What none of us was prepared for was the voice that came from a place buried but unguarded within Button Boy when he broke into a rendition of "Deep River".
Think of Celtic Spirits embracing a powerful baritone who has been quietly biding his time in the back row of a gospel choir. For a few minutes, the Button Boy of Delaware Water Gap let his Technicolor coat fall to the ground while he found the strength to laugh with his Creator through the notes of a song. The experience left a hole in my heart that fills in only only temporarily when the right combination of voice and music meets.
I hung around for a while after the bridge was lowered. A few tattered photos of family portraits taped to the trike's handlebar's hinted at a life interrupted. Button Boy said he was thinking of heading out west, maybe finding a little more space. That was over a decade ago, but I still keep one eye out for the big man, if only to give him an answer to his question.
Yes, I am enjoying the ride.
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