Sunday hugging is for believers

The unpredictable urge to hug strangers perplexed him, and grew little by little. It had been weeks since he’d been out, and something told him it was time. While it was hard to think of hugging as an addiction, the thought had crossed his mind. He rolled and secured, then packed two signs in his backpack, the tired but trusted original he handmade some months before, and a brand new manufactured one his daughter had commissioned for him for Christmas. He hadn’t been able to tell her, but he wasn’t sure he could use it. He worried it might appear too official, make him less approachable. He had a cross-town errand to run, and on his way home a bright spot on the waterfront esplanade caught his eye. As he parked Grace, his VW van and headed toward the river he had no clue that Sunday hugging is for believers.

Free hugs

He cleared off his cluttered desk, reached for a piece of blank paper and a marker the color and smell of licorice, giving no thought to whether or not it was weather-proof. Outlining large block letters to fill the page, he wrote, “FREE HUGS” and saturated the white space with the pungent ink. He could feel the adrenalin surge like he used to feel painting charcoal under his eyes or getting his ankles taped before a big game.

But he didn’t go that day. He didn’t go the next day either. On the third day he knew it was time. He put on his helmet, fired up his midnight blue Vespa and heeded the call of the urban university campus buzzing with the anticipation of fall quarter. It was a safe place, a friendly place where he might find huggers. His thoughts occasionally veered from the twelve miles of sunny road to worst case scenario. Rather than concern himself with being mugged or robbed, he worried no one would hug him.