Innocent and Curious Bystander

by p. e. britton

He has sat there a long time. He has sat there longer than I have sat here beside him.

He was here when I came in.

I wonder how long he has sat there. Perhaps he has always sat there. It would not seem too improbable to be told that he has always been here, sitting there, staring into time. I wouldn't be surprised. I wouldn't be surprised at all if the bartender told me that. He might be a kind of pulmonary manikin designed to stare straight before him through space, into time, silent and unknowing of anything besides the simple act of staring.

What does he see? What goes on inside of him, inside his mind? God knows! Most likely nothing . . .

The mindless . . . the derelict . . . the unknowing . . . the lost . . .

God knows what! The insane

Stop it! He's just a kid, more likely, no more, no less.

I am lonely. I wonder if he is as aware of me as I am of him?

He is not old. He might be very young . . . with a kind of bitter, embalmed youth; or much older than he seems, but still embalmed in the tissues of static existence.

a fellow human being. . . anyone

•

anything.

Who am I to judge? The old man is a busy one. All eyes and wondering if I'm worth making it with, working his way up to putting the make on me. So let him! It's a dirty business and he's a dirty old man. So maybe the poor sons-of-bitches can't help themselves. So what? That's not for me to figure out . .

If only one could take a chance on someone with at least a little hope that it might turn out all right. If only we could be honest with each other really honest, without fearing to be hurt. . . If only there wasn't so much. bitterness and fear in this world.

I've always been a dreamer. Now that I'm an old man, I've got to wake up. I've dreamed almost my whole life away. But it isn't so easy to wake up. The dream always begins again, in spite of all we do, creeps up, and begins again, somewhere along the line. And it always happens before we know it's happening again to us; and we're taken in again.

I wonder if he has any dreams? I wonder if any of them dream now-a-days. I don't think so. The young don't dream anymore. At least, not the same way we did when I was young. It's all bitter disillusion and resentment now. What do they want? What was it we were too stupid to realize was the unobtainable that they have found out about?

It's a filthy world, pop, but I didn't make it. I've only got to live in it. So, dad, so sorry! Just watch out. Play it cool, old man. I don't want to hurt you. That, you would never believe or understand . . .

Cone