The Last Interview

One person left. One more interview, and I’m done. Of course, it’s the most difficult one that’s left. You know how people tell you to do the hardest stuff first to get it out of the way? Well, it’s great advice. It also happens to be advice that I didn’t take. 

I have interviewed nearly every person in this town. From the old, sweet, librarian who honestly just wanted to help you out, to the short and grumpy guy who only wanted the best for people who owned the pawn shop, to the high school kid who worked as a cashier at the supermarket, to the young woman who watched people’s kids for free when they were pressed for money, and to the teacher that was counting down their days to retirement. I wanted their stories, and while sometimes it was difficult, I had gotten everyone’s. Well, almost everyone’s. 

There’s this one guy in our town and no one knows his deal. He lives alone, he barely leaves his house, and he doesn’t seem to speak with anyone. He’ll sit at the bus station, and he just waves at you with a slight smile if you walk by. I’ve been putting off this interview because I didn’t want to disturb him, and if I’m being honest, I’ve been a little afraid of what I might find out. 

I’ve been working on a project the last few months. I want to piece together this town’s story, and see what makes it unique. The people here mean a lot to me, even if I don’t know them all that well. So my plan was to interview nearly every person and ask them one simple question: What is one thing you’ve never told anyone before? 

Everyone has a different reaction. Someone told me that they’ve been to jail, someone told me that they stole a candy bar when they were six, and one person started yelling at me  and said, “leave me alone, it’s been six years,” which was a little concerning. I always tell them they don’t have to answer it, and I explain what the project is. Some secrets are huge, like a past affair, some are just little quirks, like being unable to wear white socks. Either way, it tells you a lot about the person. And once you know the people, you can figure out the town. 

I don’t really know my next step, after I’ve collected everyone’s stories. I guess that’s part of the fun. It’ll come to me, I hope. But first, I need to get this one last interview. 

I stood a few yards away from the bus station, hopefully out of view from the old man. The sun was setting, and it was starting to get cold. I began biting the end of my pen, as if that would help ease my nerves. After taking a few deep breaths, I eventually worked up the courage to walk over to him. 

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked, finally taking a seat next to him at the bus station. 

“Didn’t you just do so?” The man answered. I laughed lightly. “Go ahead.”

“I’m just warning you, it’s a little odd.” I told him. “Feel free to just tell me to get lost.” 

“There’s nothing like a perfect stranger telling you they are going to ask me an invasive question. What have you got for me?” The man said. 

“What’s one thing you haven’t told anyone in the world?” I asked. He raised his eyebrows. “I’m working on this project where I-” 

He held up his hand. “The less I know, the better.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m going to tell you my name.” He said. 

“Your name? Don’t people already know that?” I asked. 

“Well, you need some backstory.” I raised my eyebrows and prepared to take notes. “I had no parents. Of course, everyone has parents, but mine seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. No one was around to name me, so I just didn’t have one. I let myself drift around, without any real identity.” 

“Do you mind if I record this as well? I don’t want to leave anything out.” I asked, fumbling for my phone. This story was going to be good, and I couldn’t afford to lose any details. 

“Go right ahead.” He paused as I got it ready. “Anyway, even when I was a kid, I would never tell people my name. I would tell them all the same thing when they would ask. ‘Why don’t you pick a name for me? Just for today, just for us. Make sure it fits, and that can be it.’”

“So no one knows your real name?” I asked. 

“Nope. Over the years, I’ve probably been called by hundreds of names. I know of all them, and I know who picked them for me. I’ve been a Peter, a Saturn, an Elijah, one person took to calling me Grass, and another Cedric.” The man counted these names off on his fingers. “The important thing about these names was that they were just that. Names. The real meaning behind them were the memories I had with those people. My wife, whom I loved dearly, called me Corvus.” 

“After the constellation?” The man nodded. “How did that happen?” I asked. “If you don’t mind telling me, of course.” 

“It was late one night, many years ago, and I was driving in an old sports car. Forgive me, but I can’t exactly remember what it was. I drove by this woman having an argument with a much older man, and instead of just walking away, she jumped in the passenger’s seat.” The man laughed quietly. “She said, and I quote, ‘Drive like hell, I’ll pay you later.’ We ended up stopping at a gas station a few miles away. She asked me for my name. I told her to pick one for me, as I did with everyone. She looked into the sky and pointed at a star. ‘You see that constellation right there? That’s you. You, my friend, are Corvus.’ And that’s my wife.” 

“So she doesn’t know your name either?” 

The man shook his head. “Like I said, no one does but me. No one alive, at least.” I raised my eyebrows. “I found it when I was around five years old. The first time someone asked me who I was. I was sitting outside a store, and this young man came to sit down next to me. We talked for a few minutes, and then he said, ‘what’s your name, kid?’ I didn’t know what to tell him. I told him I didn’t know.” The man paused for a second and took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, this story makes me tear up just thinking about it.” 

“Of course, take your time.” I replied. 

“Okay. I’m alright.” He took a deep breath. “He said, ‘Kid, I’m going to call you Harmon. You want to know why?’ I said sure. He said, ‘because it means soldier. And you, my friend, are going to need to be a fighter to get through this world. Okay kid?’” 

“Harmon. I like that.” I said. 

“Thank you. He gave me a pat on the head, twenty bucks, and told me to keep fighting. Because there was only one person in the world who could decide things for me, and that was me. I watched that young man walk away. He only got about two blocks from me before I heard a gunshot. I turned around, and there he was, lying in the street. I didn’t run to him, I should’ve. Instead I ran the other way. I thought it was this big conspiracy, even then, and I didn’t want people to think I was guilty. Much later in my life I found out that he wasn’t killed for anything like that, he was caught in the crossfire of another police case. But as a kid I blamed myself for it, because he was the first person to be kind to me, and immediately after, he died. I didn’t want to forgive myself, even after I learned what really happened. So I kept that piece of him. He called me Harmon, and now that name is reserved for just the two of us. And now you.” 

I was speechless for a minute. “Wow… thank you for telling me that story.” 

“Any time.” The man, Harmon, replied. 

“Are you sure you want me to use this for my project? If you want it to stay a secret, I’d be okay with that.” I offered.

“I want the world to know now. It’s time for me to let go of the past.” He replied. He picked up his bag and stood up. “Well, I should get going.” 

“Wait, weren’t you waiting for the bus?” I asked, closing my notebook and putting it in my bag, along with my phone. 

“Nope.” Harmon started to walk away but turned around and winked. “I was waiting for you.”