"It's a funny thing about birthdays." he said without preamble.
I was on the red line to the airport on my way to a red-eye flight to a meeting that everyone thought was a waste of time when he made his way up the car and sat down next to me. The one thing I hate about mass transit is random weirdos who want to talk to me. So of course, he chose me.
But I was bored and he seemed harmless. "How so?" I asked, feigning interest.
"Well, it's funny how not everyone has one," he said, looking at me expectantly, as if to gauge my reaction.
I chuckled. Oh lord, the people you meet on the proletariat chariot. "Well that can't be true. They exist don't they? They have to have a birthday."
"Well, you would think," he said, "but things can get complicated when you're dealing with irrational math." He was still staring at me a little too intently.
"Oh, of course, math ruins everything," I said good-naturedly. There was no reason not to humor him and by god that was tweet-worthy. "It's just that I've never met anyone without a birthday before, so I haven't thought much about it." I grinned, "And I certainly haven't done the math."
"Ah, you jest," he said, grinning widely, "but you would be surprised. You strike me as someone who doesn't think of birthdays much anyway, would you say that is true?"
I paused. "I suppose?" I admit, I was a bit taken aback.
"Well," he said cautiously, watching me, "that's because you don't have one."
I sat there for a few seconds, processing that statement, and then laughed. "Oh don't I? Of course I do. You know, I think I might have misheard you earlier, did you say you were good at math or meth?"
"Meth?" He held up a finger, "One second, please," and fished a curiously shiny smartphone out of his pocket and typed rapidly with his thumbs. He squinted at the display and then looked at me, "Ha, no not meth." he squinted at the display again, "You can tell by how good my teeth are." He gave me a big, toothy grin to demonstrate.
"Ah, well that proves it!" I affirmed, glancing at the arrival time. We were 2 minutes away from the airport. Saints be praised.
He noticed my glance. "Look, I know you think I'm crazy. And I promise I'll leave you alone if you just answer this question: What did you do for your last birthday?"
Finally, a chance to exit this conversation gracefully. "Well, that's easy, I . . . " I trailed off. What had I done? Was it drinks with Steve and Emily? Or had my sister made me a cake? Wait, maybe I had gone to see my parents? I honestly didn't know. I never thought about birthdays much.
"You can't remember, right?" He cut off my objection, as if reading my mind, "And I can tell you, it's not just because you're not the kind of person who remembers birthdays. Can you even tell me when it is?"
I sat there thinking, and realized with some consternation that I could not. The MAX had pulled into the airport station, and I started rustling around getting myself ready to leave, avoiding his eyes, trying my damnedest to remember my birthday.
"You can't, can you?" he said, not unkindly. "Look, I know you have a few minutes before your flight leaves, and I know you think I'm strange, but can I buy you a drink at the bar to explain?"
"Well . . . " I hemmed, I was pretty sure I just wanted this conversation to end, strange gaps in memory notwithstanding.
"I get it: this is weird, and you're upset that you can't remember your birthday. But aren't you curious why you never think about your own birthday? Have you ever wondered why no one else ever asks when yours is? Have you ever really looked at the birth date on your driver's license?"
Ah, of course, this would settle it. We left the train car, and stopped on the side of the platform. I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open, pulling out my license with impatience. "You see? It's . . ." I trailed off again. It was blank. The part labeled "Birth Date" was just empty.
The strange man who was ruining my evening let it sink in and then quietly asked, "Do you want to know why?"
