Update
Here is an update to a story a posted a few weeks ago. Not that I believe anyone is reading this. I am mostly posting this because I fear a computer melt-down where I would lose this data, therefore failing my class.
William Norton watched as a fragile, elderly man stumbled through the streets of his small suburban town. The slow uneven pace of the crumbling being was highlighted as he staggered in and out of the bright beams of light coming from the overhead lamp posts. The man’s knees shook with overwhelming weakness, the impossible task of holding himself upright becoming hopeless. His eyes showed only a stifled desperation through the façade of a whisky-induced confusion. The keys to the man’s car, which had fallen through his stiff curled fingers, dropped onto the fluorescent yellow centerline with a muffled rattle. The man looked desperately about, knowing how he would ache if he tried to retrieve the keys himself.
William, unable to take the pain of watching the old man any longer, emerged from behind the adjacent office building where he had been toiling over a calculator, taking stock of his financial status. William hurried towards the center of the deserted road, and retrieved the keys from their pavement grave. The elderly man, understanding William’s uncommon act of kindness, said nothing as he took ahold of the younger man’s arm, bracing himself. William shoved the man’s keys into his jeans pocket and led the quivering man in the opposite direction, towards his own vehicle. The man’s head turned to look over his shoulder, as he walked with William, his eyes focused upon his dingy, red pickup, now sitting quietly in the distance.
Guiding the man out from the center of the road, as bright headlights approached, William chanced a look at the man on his arm. What William found was Thomas Kretcher, an old friend of his long deceased father. It had been many years since he had seen the man, and the time had much diminished what was once dignified. Years ago, William’s father would drive himself and his son over to the man’s home. Thomas Kretcher had owned a large piece of land. Most of the property remained unused, filled with a forest-like landscape, all except for the Kretcher home which was positioned in the center of the land. William would be forced to wait in the car, as his father would go into the house. Thomas Kretcher’s wife would appear, offering up cookies and hot chocolate, which William would always accept. Only after the sun had set, sending the car into a frozen chill, William Norton’s father would emerge from the house, looking more wearied then when he had entered. Thomas Kretcher and his wife would stand in the doorway, exchanging good-byes with their guest. At the time, Thomas Kretcher was a muscular man, with a broad frame and hands that could crush bones. In William’s young eyes, Thomas Kretcher was the personification of intimidation and fear. However, as the much older William looked upon his late father’s acquaintance he could no longer see the menacing qualities which had once overcome the man’s persona.
The elderly man drunkenly slurred unintelligible words, as his feet hit the brim of the sidewalk, throwing the man into an awkward stumble. The man’s shoes, old hunting boots, were soaked with mud, and left footprints behind his awkward missteps. William held tighter to the man, trying to balance him as he lurched from one end of the pavement to the other, never quite finding a center to walk upon. The man was weak, and could not hold himself upright. He stared at his feet as he wavered back and forth, never looking at the man helping him. William could not help but be embarrassed for the old man, as the deterioration of him was so great.
A barely audible sigh of relief escaped William’s lips, as they came upon his car. The elderly man’s weight combined with the man’s erratic walk had caused a shortness of breath in William. It was with a bit of amazement that William was finally able to get the man into the car, with him in such an irregular disposition. The man continued to quietly mutter incoherently, stringing unrelated words together in the twisted harmony of a never-ending sentence. The man’s wrinkled hands, which William had previously been so scared of in their younger state, tightly gripped at the inside of the car door. Blood drained from the knuckles, giving them a fluorescent white glow as blue veins arose on the backs.
A stream of cool air flowed from the vents of the car as William started the engine, his body briefly shuddering in a chill. He carefully guided the car out into the empty roadway, his car stalling briefly, apprehensive of movement. Water splashed around the car, as William drove straight through a puddle, droplets forming on the windshield and side windows. The old man brought his hand up from the side of the door, tracing his fingers along the inside of the running teardrops. William turned the car onto a road which ran alongside the beach. During the summer, the beach was alive all hours of the day. Tourists and town citizens flocked to the water, keeping the stores in the area permanently open. However, as William drove past, the beach was empty and the storefronts dark. The cold winter beach was like a ghost town compared to the thriving summer parties which kept the beach alive. The elderly man shook himself, his hand falling from the window, where it had been making a circular pattern. He stiffened his posture, and placed his hands quietly in his lap.
“Forgot me. He did,” the old man spoke, more distinctly then he had been before. His voice had risen to a fever-pitch and his withered hands began to steadily beat against the car door. He looked towards William as the words spilled from his mouth. William kept his eyes on the road, ignoring the drunken man, as he continued, “Much too many people he be forgetting. Hard job, but he ain’t doing it. I’m telling you; I’ll be telling everyone about him. He don’t care for us anymore, we be sinners or not. He has forgotten me.”
“Whose been forgetting you?” William asked, giving in to the old man’s rant. He kept his eyes upon the deserted street as he spoke. A small fog had risen off the ocean, enhancing the yellow beams coming from William’s headlights, and shrouding his view of the darkened road. Small waves crashed upon the rocky shore of the beach. Upon each crescendo, white foam would rise to the top of the swell, leaving bubbles upon the sand when the water would retreat.
The elderly man paused for a moment, allowing the uneven motion of the tide to steady his mind as his withered hands ceased their attack upon the side door. Then, after a moment of what seemed to be intense assessment, the rusty voice of the old man came forth and in a determined manner, he replied to William’s question, “Him, of course.”
“Well, of course,” William replied in a low voice, more to himself then to the old man, sarcasm lacing the comment. He could smell the whisky from the old man’s breath drifting over to his side of the car, mixing with the stale heat coming forth from the car vents. The assortment was nauseating; and though it was cold outside, William rolled down the window next to him, allowing the ocean air to refresh the car. The brisk air stung the back of William’s throat as gulped in the icy air, his head clearing of the murky sensation the alcohol infused air had created.
“Julia loved this beach,” the old man suddenly spoke. He stared at his craggy old hand as it slowly traced the door handle, quietly repeating his awkward statement again. William glanced at the old man, then turned his gaze back to the poorly lit road, nodding his head diminutively. “She would come down here every few days,” the man continued, “never when it was sunny. ‘Too many people here on nice days,’ she’d say. Julia liked the quiet…”
A smile appeared on the ragged face of the old man, contorting in a grotesque rutted fashion. He continued to stare at his hand as it stroked the inside of the door, seemingly lost in another world. His head fell to the side, finally resting upon the car door window. His eyes looked out onto the passing beach, his smile growing wider. All of the sudden he began to chuckle. His body looked to be in pain, as it thrashed about in the passenger seat, flinching and shaking with the motion of the man’s laughter. However, the ancient face of the man glowed with an inner happiness, which William had not previously seen in the man. The man’s eye’s deep blue eyes seemed to loose their faded grey tint, brightening with the sight of the beach. The dry wrinkled lips of the man soundlessly formed the word “Julia,” repetition seamlessly blurring the beginnings and ends of the words together.
“How is your wife, sir?” William asked the elderly man, trying to create casual conversation with his passenger. The old man had seemly sobered up a bit in the few minutes they had been driving along the beach. However, when the old man stopped his constant movement, and turned his head to look at William, William found the man to still be rather intoxicated. The lustrous light that had been in the man’s antiqued eye’s had faded the second he looked away from the moonlight beach, and instead replaced by their earlier whisky-induced haze.
“She’s waiting for me.” Talking seemed to be agonizing to the old man, whose ratty voice had grown uneven with disuse. William pitied the old man, and gave him a brief, hopefully reassuring smile.
“Oh, she’ll have you home soon enough.” These words, however, seemed to have no relieving effect upon the old man. Instead, he looked back out the car door window, at the departing beach behind them, and sighed, air rattling in his lungs as he took it in.
“You still live off of Cherry St.,” William asked, hoping the old man would reply with a somewhat less cryptic response then the last few which had come out of his mouth. The man did not lift his eyes from the world outside of the car, but briefly nodded his head. William gave a small chuckle, laughing at the absurdity of taking this drunk man home. William was unable to wrap his mind around the concept that this man had once been the all-powerful and frightening Thomas Kretcher of his childhood.
“To Cherry St. it is.” William and the elderly man drove in silence for a few minutes. The old man had seemingly fallen asleep in the passenger seat, which William was more then happy about. The brief conversation that the two had engaged in had confused William more then anything, and no matter how often he repeated the old man’s words in his mind, he could not come to some reasonable conclusion to what they meant.
William Norton watched as a fragile, elderly man stumbled through the streets of his small suburban town. The slow uneven pace of the crumbling being was highlighted as he staggered in and out of the bright beams of light coming from the overhead lamp posts. The man’s knees shook with overwhelming weakness, the impossible task of holding himself upright becoming hopeless. His eyes showed only a stifled desperation through the façade of a whisky-induced confusion. The keys to the man’s car, which had fallen through his stiff curled fingers, dropped onto the fluorescent yellow centerline with a muffled rattle. The man looked desperately about, knowing how he would ache if he tried to retrieve the keys himself.
William, unable to take the pain of watching the old man any longer, emerged from behind the adjacent office building where he had been toiling over a calculator, taking stock of his financial status. William hurried towards the center of the deserted road, and retrieved the keys from their pavement grave. The elderly man, understanding William’s uncommon act of kindness, said nothing as he took ahold of the younger man’s arm, bracing himself. William shoved the man’s keys into his jeans pocket and led the quivering man in the opposite direction, towards his own vehicle. The man’s head turned to look over his shoulder, as he walked with William, his eyes focused upon his dingy, red pickup, now sitting quietly in the distance.
Guiding the man out from the center of the road, as bright headlights approached, William chanced a look at the man on his arm. What William found was Thomas Kretcher, an old friend of his long deceased father. It had been many years since he had seen the man, and the time had much diminished what was once dignified. Years ago, William’s father would drive himself and his son over to the man’s home. Thomas Kretcher had owned a large piece of land. Most of the property remained unused, filled with a forest-like landscape, all except for the Kretcher home which was positioned in the center of the land. William would be forced to wait in the car, as his father would go into the house. Thomas Kretcher’s wife would appear, offering up cookies and hot chocolate, which William would always accept. Only after the sun had set, sending the car into a frozen chill, William Norton’s father would emerge from the house, looking more wearied then when he had entered. Thomas Kretcher and his wife would stand in the doorway, exchanging good-byes with their guest. At the time, Thomas Kretcher was a muscular man, with a broad frame and hands that could crush bones. In William’s young eyes, Thomas Kretcher was the personification of intimidation and fear. However, as the much older William looked upon his late father’s acquaintance he could no longer see the menacing qualities which had once overcome the man’s persona.
The elderly man drunkenly slurred unintelligible words, as his feet hit the brim of the sidewalk, throwing the man into an awkward stumble. The man’s shoes, old hunting boots, were soaked with mud, and left footprints behind his awkward missteps. William held tighter to the man, trying to balance him as he lurched from one end of the pavement to the other, never quite finding a center to walk upon. The man was weak, and could not hold himself upright. He stared at his feet as he wavered back and forth, never looking at the man helping him. William could not help but be embarrassed for the old man, as the deterioration of him was so great.
A barely audible sigh of relief escaped William’s lips, as they came upon his car. The elderly man’s weight combined with the man’s erratic walk had caused a shortness of breath in William. It was with a bit of amazement that William was finally able to get the man into the car, with him in such an irregular disposition. The man continued to quietly mutter incoherently, stringing unrelated words together in the twisted harmony of a never-ending sentence. The man’s wrinkled hands, which William had previously been so scared of in their younger state, tightly gripped at the inside of the car door. Blood drained from the knuckles, giving them a fluorescent white glow as blue veins arose on the backs.
A stream of cool air flowed from the vents of the car as William started the engine, his body briefly shuddering in a chill. He carefully guided the car out into the empty roadway, his car stalling briefly, apprehensive of movement. Water splashed around the car, as William drove straight through a puddle, droplets forming on the windshield and side windows. The old man brought his hand up from the side of the door, tracing his fingers along the inside of the running teardrops. William turned the car onto a road which ran alongside the beach. During the summer, the beach was alive all hours of the day. Tourists and town citizens flocked to the water, keeping the stores in the area permanently open. However, as William drove past, the beach was empty and the storefronts dark. The cold winter beach was like a ghost town compared to the thriving summer parties which kept the beach alive. The elderly man shook himself, his hand falling from the window, where it had been making a circular pattern. He stiffened his posture, and placed his hands quietly in his lap.
“Forgot me. He did,” the old man spoke, more distinctly then he had been before. His voice had risen to a fever-pitch and his withered hands began to steadily beat against the car door. He looked towards William as the words spilled from his mouth. William kept his eyes on the road, ignoring the drunken man, as he continued, “Much too many people he be forgetting. Hard job, but he ain’t doing it. I’m telling you; I’ll be telling everyone about him. He don’t care for us anymore, we be sinners or not. He has forgotten me.”
“Whose been forgetting you?” William asked, giving in to the old man’s rant. He kept his eyes upon the deserted street as he spoke. A small fog had risen off the ocean, enhancing the yellow beams coming from William’s headlights, and shrouding his view of the darkened road. Small waves crashed upon the rocky shore of the beach. Upon each crescendo, white foam would rise to the top of the swell, leaving bubbles upon the sand when the water would retreat.
The elderly man paused for a moment, allowing the uneven motion of the tide to steady his mind as his withered hands ceased their attack upon the side door. Then, after a moment of what seemed to be intense assessment, the rusty voice of the old man came forth and in a determined manner, he replied to William’s question, “Him, of course.”
“Well, of course,” William replied in a low voice, more to himself then to the old man, sarcasm lacing the comment. He could smell the whisky from the old man’s breath drifting over to his side of the car, mixing with the stale heat coming forth from the car vents. The assortment was nauseating; and though it was cold outside, William rolled down the window next to him, allowing the ocean air to refresh the car. The brisk air stung the back of William’s throat as gulped in the icy air, his head clearing of the murky sensation the alcohol infused air had created.
“Julia loved this beach,” the old man suddenly spoke. He stared at his craggy old hand as it slowly traced the door handle, quietly repeating his awkward statement again. William glanced at the old man, then turned his gaze back to the poorly lit road, nodding his head diminutively. “She would come down here every few days,” the man continued, “never when it was sunny. ‘Too many people here on nice days,’ she’d say. Julia liked the quiet…”
A smile appeared on the ragged face of the old man, contorting in a grotesque rutted fashion. He continued to stare at his hand as it stroked the inside of the door, seemingly lost in another world. His head fell to the side, finally resting upon the car door window. His eyes looked out onto the passing beach, his smile growing wider. All of the sudden he began to chuckle. His body looked to be in pain, as it thrashed about in the passenger seat, flinching and shaking with the motion of the man’s laughter. However, the ancient face of the man glowed with an inner happiness, which William had not previously seen in the man. The man’s eye’s deep blue eyes seemed to loose their faded grey tint, brightening with the sight of the beach. The dry wrinkled lips of the man soundlessly formed the word “Julia,” repetition seamlessly blurring the beginnings and ends of the words together.
“How is your wife, sir?” William asked the elderly man, trying to create casual conversation with his passenger. The old man had seemly sobered up a bit in the few minutes they had been driving along the beach. However, when the old man stopped his constant movement, and turned his head to look at William, William found the man to still be rather intoxicated. The lustrous light that had been in the man’s antiqued eye’s had faded the second he looked away from the moonlight beach, and instead replaced by their earlier whisky-induced haze.
“She’s waiting for me.” Talking seemed to be agonizing to the old man, whose ratty voice had grown uneven with disuse. William pitied the old man, and gave him a brief, hopefully reassuring smile.
“Oh, she’ll have you home soon enough.” These words, however, seemed to have no relieving effect upon the old man. Instead, he looked back out the car door window, at the departing beach behind them, and sighed, air rattling in his lungs as he took it in.
“You still live off of Cherry St.,” William asked, hoping the old man would reply with a somewhat less cryptic response then the last few which had come out of his mouth. The man did not lift his eyes from the world outside of the car, but briefly nodded his head. William gave a small chuckle, laughing at the absurdity of taking this drunk man home. William was unable to wrap his mind around the concept that this man had once been the all-powerful and frightening Thomas Kretcher of his childhood.
“To Cherry St. it is.” William and the elderly man drove in silence for a few minutes. The old man had seemingly fallen asleep in the passenger seat, which William was more then happy about. The brief conversation that the two had engaged in had confused William more then anything, and no matter how often he repeated the old man’s words in his mind, he could not come to some reasonable conclusion to what they meant.