He walked into the café one morning. Brown leather shoes (clean but not pristine) and blue jeans, a casual outfit for the man he is. A light blue collared shirt and mustard-yellow jacket wrapped around his thin body. Around the age of 75 was an appropriate guess for him. His face was crinkled and creased, with cheeks that drooped; eyes a withered hazel, almost grey, like two pools with the reflection of a black moon. In his hand he juggled a set of keys as he conducted a survey of the room, taking in every little detail, every little chipped table or stain on the linoleum flooring. He did not walk, but rather glided to the counter, and greeted the barista with a warm smile. A simple black coffee was all.
I looked up from my seat to meet his intense gaze. There I was locked on, unable to deviate from his attention, his focus.
The Age Old Man had chosen me.
And it is still at that moment I wish I could go back, and bury my nose back into my book. But I think the Age Old Man would’ve still chosen me, as fate (he would say) deviates from every path but its own.
My body could not help but shudder, as if a finger had been drawn down my spine. I watched, petrified by some unknown terror, as he seated himself across from me in my little booth. This he did in almost slow motion, the slow creak of rubber sounded from beneath him.
“Hello,” he opened, sipping from his coffee.
“Um, h-hi?” I wasn’t sure what he expected back.
He blinked, and within a moment, he had completely transformed.
“Oh my, I’m-I’m sorry, did I frighten you? Oh dear I tend to do this with people I’m terribly sorry!” his face flushed.
It was one of those moments where I didn’t know how to react. “Oh, oh no it’s okay, you’re fine,” my throbbing heart slowed to the beat of a gentle thud. It was his turn now.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Age Old Man.”
The Age Old Man. ‘He has a title for himself?’ I thought. But he already had captured my interest. For the moment.
“I know it seems a bit entitled, but trust me, it is not a name I chose for myself. In fact, I abhor the name. But history has jotted me down in diaries and manuscripts as the Man Who Doesn’t Age. But I do age. Mentally. But humanity simply judges on the physical.”
Again, I remained silent.
“What’s yours, might I inquire?” he sipped from the ceramic mug.
“Heather.”
“Heather, what a pretty name,” he pulled a rustic notebook from his inside pocket and a pen from front one. “H-E-A-T-H-E-R,” he said to himself as his pen flung across page.
“Look, sir, I don’t who you are, but I’m a little uncomfortable,” I bravely told him. The two black moons peered up at me, his mouth crooked.
“I apologize. I understand this seems to be a very curious situation. But the reason I sit before you today to recite to some truths about this -- this beautiful planet we call Earth.”
“Look, sir, I’m sorry, but I’d like to get back to my bo-“ he held up his hand; a callused wall.
He once again took a sip from of his coffee, savoring its bite. I remained still. With his worn-out hand still raised, he twisted his arthritic fingers and in one split second, released a thick ‘snap!’
A thin line of gold poked its way through the trees. Somewhere within the dense thickness of pine trees a turkey gurgled, then scampered away. A nip of my skin the breeze took, curling my skin into tiny bumps. Porcupine trees and a thin man. It took several moments to fully process what had occurred. Or rather, process what I could comprehend.
1) I was not in the coffee shop. I was in a forest.
2) This man was dangerous to some degree.
3) I was frigid, the temperature must’ve been around freezing.
4) No matter my deepest instincts to run, I was still captivated by the man.
“Where the hell am I?” I asked him, panic in my throat. I stared desperately at the man, who showed no sign of shivering. Instead, he stood comfortably, feet like tree roots, body a sheet of paper. Slowly he spun, with a look of peculiar nostalgia, surveying the ashes and the aspens and the pines and the firs.
He was still holding the coffee mug.
I spoke once more, “where the hell am I?”
“Maine,” he flatly answered, then grinned, “isn’t it beautiful?”
I had to acknowledge the fact that the tranquility of the scene was beautiful. Still, I was confused. “Where in Maine are we?”
“Augusta.”
A small skip, like hopscotch, in my chest. “This isn’t Augusta.”
“Well sure it is,” and took another sip.
“No. It’s not. I was just in Augusta, pleasantly reading my book before you showed up!”
“No this is Augusta, I’m sure of it. I mean, I might be off by a couple of feet from the coffee shop, but...”
And nothing. I was now running through the possibility that I was somehow drugged and transported somewhere. Or I blacked out, and I was dreaming. Maybe I was in a coma. Or just dreaming. I tried pinching myself -- nothing. Wait, did he say coffee shop?
“Did you say coffee shop?”
“As a matter-of-fact, yes. Right from where we sitting. Maybe a little to the right and up, but as I recall, this is the exact area,” he took a deep sigh, turned and dramatically looked in the threads of gold dangling from the trees, “It’s time to begin, Heather.”
“Begin what?”
“The Truths,” he said, “the Truths about what I have learned, living as long as I have.”
5) I wished I could go back. Or run. Yes, run. Run now.
6) Something inside me didn't run. Something inside me stayed.
