Blog 10

New Identity

Cabin fever plagued me. I had been cooped up writing all day, so I went out for a walk to stretch my legs while the sun was still shining; orange and red leaves littered the ground. 

I walked to the top of my street and made a right, heading down the Boulevard. A right on 14th, and then a right on Monroe, following my usual quick route. When I reached the high school, I saw him walking towards me. Great, I thought, he's going to try and talk to me, and I wasn’t interested. Shaggy and greasy and dirty; same stained clothes he always wears. Pack of Newport's in his left breast pocket. His usual routine is picking up cigarette butts off of the ground and smoking what's left of them. Behavior of a bum, I thought. Who does that?

He stopped me. No dog today? I smiled, having just heard his voice for the first time. I don't know that he'd ever seen me walk my dog, because I rarely walk him these days. He's 15 and arthritic, so we don't walk together much. I left him at home this time, he needed a break. He replied with a smile, and I saw a warmth in his eyes that I didn't expect. His eyes were swallowed up by years and years of aging; deep, cavernous wrinkles–signature of a lifetime smoker. His teeth, rounded out by, well, I don’t know what rounds out ones teeth. Age? His hair looked like it was slathered with lard, and he was in need of a haircut. His clothes, like they hadn't been washed in decades. But his stained, short-sleeved button-down was tucked neatly into his filthy, creased, navy blue pants. His silver hair, slicked like he’d just stepped out of a 1940's ad. I could tell he craved conversation at the way his gray, cloudy eyes, locked on to mine.

I always see you walking all over town, I said.

Well, I like to give my wife a break. I walk all day.

Your wife? I thought. I’m not sure he even has a wife, because I’ve only ever seen him alone. I imagined him going home to an empty house, the result of being a long-time widower. 

Are you from Spain, he asked.

No, Italy. Well, I’m not, but my ancestors are. Where are you from?

Greece, he replied.

I always thought he looked Russian or Polish, but not Greek. I could hear his familiar Greek accent weighing heavily on his speech though, so I knew it was true. The wife, I'll never know if it's true. Maybe he was never even married.

Do you ever go to the Greek Store on the Boulevard? Their food is great, I told him.

I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something about the politics of the store, or something of that nature. He frequents a Greek store in another town. We talked for a few more minutes, but he was hard to understand because of his accent. 

Well, I have to get back home. You have a good day, I said. It was nice talking to you.

He smiled.

Nice talking to you, too.

I continued past the high school, making my way further down Monroe. My heart was beating rapidly, telling me how good it felt to share a moment with this man. He looks scary, but has a warmth that you can only know if you look into his eyes; they invite you into his soul. 

When I got home, I realized I didn’t know his name. Next time, I thought.