Danny3nose
15th April 2005, 03:45
You can find him at the corner bar, sitting with his beer and alone with his thoughts. You can always hear his bike pull into the parking lot, popping and backfiring and sounding more like someone lighting firecrackers inside of an old metal garbage can than a motorcycle.
He's regarded as a bum. You've seen people look at him in disgust, you hear people whisper when he walks by. The neighborhood parents tell their kids to stay away from him; "he's dangerous" they say. There has never been any real reason to believe he'd hurt a child, and as far as anyone knows, he never has. But gossip always spreads. Gruff appearance, most would say ugly, but there's a certain kindness reflected through the only beauty God gave him; his eyes. He watches the young bucks as they attempt to win the fancy of buxom young barmaid, and laughs to himself as they return to their chairs and tables empty handed.
There he sits, smoke curling around his face, contemplating God only knows what.
At times, you toy with the idea of trying to figure out what’s going on inside that head of his. Everyone’s heard the rumors about him; he’s a crazy ex-military man that got the business end of some biological weapon, now he’s wrought with post-traumatic stress syndrome. There’s the rumor that he was released from prison a few years back, supposedly he had done twenty years for murder but was now considered rehabilitated enough to be free. And then there’s his personal favorite: He was actually a foreign spy who was granted asylum after he betrayed his home country. None of the rumors are true, of course, but no one takes the time to talk to him to find out the truth. Still, you can see no sign of hostility towards the world that has persecuted him. He’ll hold the door for you if you’re behind him at the grocery store; he’ll give the transients on the street who spend their days panhandling for their daily bread a dollar or two, even though he’s not exactly far from being destitute himself.
You can almost picture how he spends his holidays: He probably spends them alone, no one to share the turkey breast he makes for himself and his dog on Thanksgiving. Christmas Eve follows and he’s sitting at his dinner table, which is actually a fold out TV dinner tray. His hands are folded, thanking God for the feast in front of him. He wraps a present that he bought for himself, but he signs the card with the name of his dog, Teddy. He knows it’s silly, but he also knows it’s nice to unwrap a present on Christmas morning. He wraps a second present for his dog; a rubber ball with a bone tied to it, and places them under his two foot tall artificial tree. He resigns to his chair with his dog at his side. New Years Eve follows, and when the ball drops he’s got no one to kiss, no one to hug, and no one to share the next year of his life with.
You see him all the time, yet you know nothing about him. All you know is that you see him from time to time, in a bar or grocery store or at the bank or at the license bureau. Sometimes you see him on the road, riding his sorry, beat-up motorcycle. Yet when he’s atop his trusty steed, he looks like he’s at one with the universe. His bike won’t win any shows, he has to kick it sometimes 20 times to get it to fire, but it’s paid for, and it’s HIS. More importantly it’s his only means of transportation.
Then one day, you realize that you haven’t seen the old coot in awhile. You don’t think anything of it at first. A few weeks go by, and still he’s no where to be seen. Finally, at the bar you've seen him in a thousand times before, you overhear the barmaid telling someone that he had died a couple weeks back. At that moment, you wish you had taken the time to learn his story. You ask the barmaid what happened, and she tells he died of a heart attack in his driveway, trying to kick start his bike. Two days passed before anyone found him, and when they came to haul his body away, his dog was lying by his side, nuzzling his master’s face. When they tried to pick the body off the ground, the dog attacked and bit the paramedic. A police officer that was escorting the paramedics had to shoot the old dog.
Now you wish you could have known the old bastard, could have been there to share his holidays, could have been there to help him shovel his driveway in the winter, could have, well, just could have been there for him. Now you wish you had never repeated the rumors that were told to you so long ago.
In the end, you know there’s nothing you can do for him now. You finally realize what true regret feels like. But, as you walk to your shiny new Harley and ride home to your house with the two car garage, and a beautiful wife and kids who are waiting inside, you have a revelation. You've got a good job, you've got some money sacked away in the bank, you've got the world by the balls, and yet it all means nothing unless you take the time to realize what life is all about. You CAN make a difference in someone's life.. And from that day forward you never again judge a book by its cover.
He's regarded as a bum. You've seen people look at him in disgust, you hear people whisper when he walks by. The neighborhood parents tell their kids to stay away from him; "he's dangerous" they say. There has never been any real reason to believe he'd hurt a child, and as far as anyone knows, he never has. But gossip always spreads. Gruff appearance, most would say ugly, but there's a certain kindness reflected through the only beauty God gave him; his eyes. He watches the young bucks as they attempt to win the fancy of buxom young barmaid, and laughs to himself as they return to their chairs and tables empty handed.
There he sits, smoke curling around his face, contemplating God only knows what.
At times, you toy with the idea of trying to figure out what’s going on inside that head of his. Everyone’s heard the rumors about him; he’s a crazy ex-military man that got the business end of some biological weapon, now he’s wrought with post-traumatic stress syndrome. There’s the rumor that he was released from prison a few years back, supposedly he had done twenty years for murder but was now considered rehabilitated enough to be free. And then there’s his personal favorite: He was actually a foreign spy who was granted asylum after he betrayed his home country. None of the rumors are true, of course, but no one takes the time to talk to him to find out the truth. Still, you can see no sign of hostility towards the world that has persecuted him. He’ll hold the door for you if you’re behind him at the grocery store; he’ll give the transients on the street who spend their days panhandling for their daily bread a dollar or two, even though he’s not exactly far from being destitute himself.
You can almost picture how he spends his holidays: He probably spends them alone, no one to share the turkey breast he makes for himself and his dog on Thanksgiving. Christmas Eve follows and he’s sitting at his dinner table, which is actually a fold out TV dinner tray. His hands are folded, thanking God for the feast in front of him. He wraps a present that he bought for himself, but he signs the card with the name of his dog, Teddy. He knows it’s silly, but he also knows it’s nice to unwrap a present on Christmas morning. He wraps a second present for his dog; a rubber ball with a bone tied to it, and places them under his two foot tall artificial tree. He resigns to his chair with his dog at his side. New Years Eve follows, and when the ball drops he’s got no one to kiss, no one to hug, and no one to share the next year of his life with.
You see him all the time, yet you know nothing about him. All you know is that you see him from time to time, in a bar or grocery store or at the bank or at the license bureau. Sometimes you see him on the road, riding his sorry, beat-up motorcycle. Yet when he’s atop his trusty steed, he looks like he’s at one with the universe. His bike won’t win any shows, he has to kick it sometimes 20 times to get it to fire, but it’s paid for, and it’s HIS. More importantly it’s his only means of transportation.
Then one day, you realize that you haven’t seen the old coot in awhile. You don’t think anything of it at first. A few weeks go by, and still he’s no where to be seen. Finally, at the bar you've seen him in a thousand times before, you overhear the barmaid telling someone that he had died a couple weeks back. At that moment, you wish you had taken the time to learn his story. You ask the barmaid what happened, and she tells he died of a heart attack in his driveway, trying to kick start his bike. Two days passed before anyone found him, and when they came to haul his body away, his dog was lying by his side, nuzzling his master’s face. When they tried to pick the body off the ground, the dog attacked and bit the paramedic. A police officer that was escorting the paramedics had to shoot the old dog.
Now you wish you could have known the old bastard, could have been there to share his holidays, could have been there to help him shovel his driveway in the winter, could have, well, just could have been there for him. Now you wish you had never repeated the rumors that were told to you so long ago.
In the end, you know there’s nothing you can do for him now. You finally realize what true regret feels like. But, as you walk to your shiny new Harley and ride home to your house with the two car garage, and a beautiful wife and kids who are waiting inside, you have a revelation. You've got a good job, you've got some money sacked away in the bank, you've got the world by the balls, and yet it all means nothing unless you take the time to realize what life is all about. You CAN make a difference in someone's life.. And from that day forward you never again judge a book by its cover.