Max liked strange. Had spent all his life trying not to be strange. Trying to fit in with the normal crowd. He had done that decently in high school. Carried it out even after graduation. Then over the years the desire to fit in had faded as people drifted out of life. He didn't talk to anybody from those years anymore.

Being in a bigger city like this with people in strange outfits, and he imagined even stranger lives made him feel a bit of remorse. Max had never gotten to be strange like them. Some of his friends went to college and had some wacky experiences. Much more interesting experiences than flipping hash and frying eggs at the diner.

he could never afford to have such experiences. But he could drive over, order a coffee, sit down with a book and be around others who were having that experience. He was happy for them vicariously. This probably meant that he wasn't a psychopath. That he could be happy for others who had what he couldn't have. This made him smile as he walked over to the book store.