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Rated: E · Short Story · Folklore · #1600190
Part 4 of a collection.
It was late when I came to the house.  It was dark, and all light was from the moon's reflection on the sea.  Coming through the tree line, and around to the front, I came to the front.  I came to the sight of a little old man, on a little old bench.  He tended his little old fire, with his little old dog. 
"I don't mean to intr-"
"Sit down. You're probably tired and you look like shit."
Taken aback by his upfront manner, I couldn't help but listen to him.  Sitting down next to him, I had a better view of my host.  He was indeed very old.  His wrinkled face, creased with years of too much stress. Too much love and too much hate.  He had a soft smile and a hard brow.  His hair had traces of blonde left over.  He was probably German.  Maybe Russian.
"I'm sorry, sir, but-"
"Not sir. I'm not your teacher, your father or your king."  The look in his greying eyes told me different.
"Well then, friend, what do I call you?"
"Friend, eh?  I like that."
We sit in silence again. The little old dog rustles in his sleep, chasing dream cats.  The small fire flickers in the ocean breeze, and waves crash on the shore.  They echo back against far trees and further cliffs, and create a humming din like a god's lullaby.  The humble home rumbles with every crash, but my host is unbothered, and so I.  He reaches into his coat and pulls out an old pipe.  He smiles at it like a childhood friend, and puts it in his mouth.  You can tell that the taste of tobacco on his lips is already a comfort to him, as he pulls a small bag out of a different pocket.  He fills it, perfectly and professionally, with the steady hands of someone who's been doing this for years.  Springy but firm.  He strikes a match off of his pants and takes a deep pull.  Smoke fills the air around us as he lets out a genuine laugh.
"You, my guest, are too skinny to be a burglar, too stupid to be a conman, and too ugly to be an angel.  So what the hell are you doing shivering here on my doorstep?"  How could you help but like him?
"Well, that's the question of the hour, isn't it?" I said this with an air of one not trying to reveal too much.  I think my guest realized my shady answer, and the smile left his face like sight from the blind.
"Don't mince words with me, speak plain."
"Well, I'm looking for something..."  I don't know this man, why should I tell him anything?  I began to get irritated at his attitude.
"You deaf, boy? You won't get any help doing any finding if you don't tell any people what you're goddamn looking for! It's irrelevant anyway.  You need a bath, and you're probably half-starved."  Who's dodging the subject now?
"I'm looking for answers."
"Bah!  Answers are just more questions. The more answers you ask, the more questions you have.  Curiosity breeds curiosity.  You think of all the men who's job it is to think.  All killed themselves, haven't they?  Better to live your life, and not get mixed up in shit like that." And he meant it.
"Well friend, what's your life?"
"Her."  I could tell he wasn't giving me much else.
"Your wife, sir?"
"What did I tell you about that 'sir' shit? And damn you really are dumb.  My wife...the ocean, boy!  I've lived my whole life there, taking what I can, and paying plenty in return.  She cradles me safely during the day, and lulls me to sleep at night.  She's a caring mother, and a dangerous lover.  I've lived there, and I'll die there, I suppose."  He trails off for a moment.
"But, what about-"
"Oh, don't get me wrong. I was a young man once. Beautiful women and adventure.  I loved it and I lived it, but that was all too long ago for me.  I'm wending to my end now.  Not too many people care to have me around anymore."
"But why say that?  You seem to have plenty of life in you."
"Ha!  All the quick wit and sharp wits in the world won't do much for you, once your body starts to give."
"But surely you don't believe that mindset has no effect on your physical body!"
"Of course it does!  Do I look stupid?  My mind is telling me I've done all I can do.  I've been around the world and back. I've eaten the best food, drank the best wine, and made love to more women than you've ever even met.  I've lived a man's life over and over again. I'm content."  And I believed him.  He seemed impossibly old to me, then. 
"Have we met before?"
"I'm sure.  If not in this life.  I'm probably every man you've ever met, in one way or another.  We're multi-faceted creatures like that.  You can draw similarities between any one thing and another if you look deep enough.  But I will tell you this.  I've seen enough things in my life to deny any concept of coincidence.  I've seen things that would make you cry with joy and would freeze your marrow cold.  I've seen the shadows of gods on mountaintops and I've seen the reflections of devils in the ocean's eyes."
Now this is what I had been waiting for.  I didn't think he was the same man I had been talking to.  I don't think I was the same man.
"I've lived a thousand lives.  In dreams I've seen the first sunrise and the first raindrop.  I've seen years of night and had conversations with the space between stars.  I've sat at the bottom of a well and watched people drawing their water.  I've seen things, and I've experienced things.  I've been a child, a man, and a ghost.  I've been ancient and newborn a thousand times over and a thousand times again."
I don't know if he was speaking metaphorically.  I don't know if he was speaking lies or half-truths.  I didn't know what kind of answer I would get but I had to ask him.
"My friend."
He looked directly at me for the first time, like snapping out of sleep.  In his eyes, I could see he was just an old man again.  Tired, bitter, and maybe a little crazy.  But there was something else there, a wisdom beyond that of any man.
"What do you need, my guest?"
"Who are you, really?"  My heart skipped a beat.
He sat and contemplated.  He tamped out his pipe in his hand, and wiped the ash on his already dirty pants.  It didn't help much.  After a long time, his soft, knowing smile came back, and it finally reached his eyes.
"I'm an old man. An old man who talks too much."
© Copyright 2009 Zachary Nicastro (likesnowfall at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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