I Know You

On a clean, deceptively bright morning, the storyteller lowers himself onto his usual bench. Even that small effort makes him wince. He has the misfortune of attaining an age where he aches in more places than not. He tries and fails to ignore the stranger standing behind him and off to the side. The stranger claims to be a nurse, but this does not fool the storyteller. 

There is no one here, other than the two of them. The storyteller and the stranger are always alone. Part of him knows this isn't exactly right, but most of him believes it. The park is too quiet and, like so much in this alien place, feels thin. He thinks, if I were 25 years younger, I bet I could walk to the horizon and punch a hole right through it, just like that movie. The name of the movie and the thought escape him. He takes a deep breath, trying to get enough air in his ancient lungs.

Thin. 

The world and the storyteller have forgotten each other, more or less. At some point, if he lives long enough, a man carries more scars than memories; forgotten stories written in an alien language on weathered skin. 

The storyteller glances back at the man standing just close enough. He is dressed in jeans and a blue sweater. A whisper of a breeze carries the man's smoke away from the bench, but the ghost of clove and tobacco teases the old man’s senses. Good tobacco cigarettes are almost impossible to come by these days. Ironic, as not more than a mile beyond the woods, there is a small Indian reservation. What is left of it. They haven't sold cigarettes in years, of course. The storyteller smiles to himself. 

 Indians without tobacco and casinos. Who would have ever thought?  

The man smoking the bad cigarette is no nurse. That much is obvious. He is larger than most men, with a smooth-shaven face and an over-muscled body. His overall appearance is slightly sinister, though there is no meanness there. The storyteller senses no real danger in him at the moment. Not towards him, anyway. But he knows this man. Knows what he is capable of doing. For years, how many he cannot be certain, the two of them have shared an unspoken accord. He pretends the man is a nurse, or a stranger, and the man pretends the storyteller doesn’t know anything. 

The breeze shifts and the stranger's smoke rolls over him like realization.   

Not long ago in a very different place, the man pretending to be a nurse hid his kind face behind an angry brown, unkempt beard. Back then he was a hunter by nature. This "nurse" grew up in a place where one either killed their own meat or went without. Later, in the camps, the man went by a different name than the one he uses now. Even then, he was not a bad man. But he did bad things. Terrible things.  

"I do not hate you,” the storyteller whispers. Forgetting for the moment, their unspoken agreement. "But I cannot forgive you. I am sorry.”   

The man turns his owlish eyes to look at the storyteller.  

"Excuse me?"   

The storyteller does not answer. He is lost in his thoughts, remembering the girl again. She was (is?) a slip of a thing. He had loved her, the small girl who once had a name and a face. How quiet she was at the end, a ghost in silver cloth slippers. He almost has her name, but the breeze shifts and it all disappears, like clove smoke.

"It is not my place to speak for the dead," he tells the world. It is meant to be a defiant shout but falls from his lips like an apology.  

The stranger standing beside the bench says nothing. He rests a large hand on the storyteller’s shoulder. He refuses to acknowledge the gesture. Instead, he looks at his own dappled hands. Once long ago, he is almost certain, those hands had done wonderful things. He remembers painting the most fantastic landscapes.   

“What an imagination you had,” she tells him He turns his head.  

“I remember.”   

The man gently squeezes his shoulder and for a moment the storyteller loses himself in the pleasure of human contact. 

"I know you do." His voice is reassuring and tender. It confuses the storyteller.   

The faint sound of a car alarm brings him back. It comes from the other side of the small park, where what looks like an ordinary office building stands between the men and the woods. Its parking lot is always crowded with cars. From this distance, it looks more full than empty.

“Window dressing. Parked only for show. No car alarm."

'Someone is trying to escape.' 

Hopeless of course, but he can’t blame them. He'd do the same thing if he was in their shoes. The thought makes him smile.  

"They won't get far," he muses out loud. "They never make it over the fence, I imagine. Even if they make it to the woods, where are they going to go? “

The quiet man from the camps leans forward. “We should go.”  The storyteller ignores the nice man for the moment and squints, looking for the poor soul he imagines is out there somewhere. 

“It isn't so bad at first. He's young, and healthy. He has Time and Hope -- two great and steadfast companions. Then one day he wakes up and finds Hope has fled, leaving only Time. The children stop writing; stop wondering about him. The world moves on and leaves him behind.” 

The large man looks down and says something. He can’t make out the words, but their tone is one of denial. The storyteller put his hand over the man's, intending to lift it from his shoulder. It is too much effort, however, and he leaves it there, his left arm crossed over his chest, old hand covering big hand. Why not? He is still thinking about the imaginary escapee. 

"He must have gone stir-crazy in there," the storyteller continues. "All alone for how long is anyone's guess. One day, for no reason or maybe a hundred reasons — maybe a thousand — the idea of running grabs hold and won't quit. He worries at it in the small hours of night and soon he can think of nothing else." He sighs and his breath makes a brief appearance in cold autumn air. He pauses and waits for the nice man to say something. He doesn’t.

"There's no wife waiting for the poor soul out there. No job. No friends. Nothing. And Nothing waits forever. It's the only thing that does, in the end. And he's been there forever, hasn’t he? No, there's nothing out there worth running to, but he runs anyway." 

A tear surprises him and rolls down his cheek. He does not feel particularly sad but others follow, small wet fugitives escaping into an unknown world. Into nothing. He takes a deep, shaky breath. understanding and forgetting in equal measure. 

"He runs because it is something to do. How terrifying when all his running is done. When there is no strength left in his legs and he has abandoned everything but the luggage of his thoughts."   

The tears come effortlessly now. He doesn’t know why. Doesn't care. A soft wind picks up some leaves near the bench, carries them a few yards, gives up.  

"I was a great dancer, you know. I won trophies and a few hearts. Patricia used to tell me that a man who can dance can get away with a lot." He laughs and the man laughs with him. It is a pleasant sound.   

Another ghost of a memory catches in his throat and he pauses. The memory passes.   

"She couldn't dance, my Patricia, but she looked just like . . . "   

After some time, the storyteller turns his face up to the man, squeezing his hand.

"Come on, Dad. Let's get you inside. We'll have some lunch."  

Back in his room, he stands barefoot on cold linoleum tile. He spends long, fleeting moments staring at the reflection in the vanity cabinet’s mirror, waiting for something to happen. After a while, the young man from the park comes into the adjoining room and sits down on the bed. The storyteller hears him switch on the television. He doesn't know who the man is or why he is here, but he remembers that the man comes here a lot. Always alone. 

He is a big man, but there is no danger in him. He once told the storyteller he liked white chocolate. Loved it. The man's mother worked in a small candy store during the war in Mirowsky Square. When he was a young boy, his she would bring home small fistfuls of white chocolate shavings for him every Saturday.

Looking in the mirror, he imagines how nice it would be to have a mother who works in a candy store. Then he thinks of nothing in particular. Sometime later, he finds himself still standing before the mirror. The tears are back. The stranger is gone.

"I know you," he whispers. But it is a lie.