The Placentia Bay Post

Photo by Jonathan Kho on Unsplash

I swear to you, I barely recognised him. It was only when I looked more closely it was impossible to miss those eyes. They were a crystalline brilliant blue. He was wearing a somewhat tattered scarf wrapped roughly around his neck. It matched his eyes magnificently. I don’t think he recognised me immediately. So, here sat Matthew Greenley, a half opened book just off to the side.

It was all very strange. I remember when he arrived at our office, with no small affair, I can tell you that. His presence preceded him, like a parade call ahead of his majesty. No surprise, he quickly rose, admittedly, being very good at what he did.

At the time, I worked there as part of the clatter of office workers, dashing around, sometimes working miracles as we attended to our masterful leaders. If they needed anything, it wasn’t tomorrow or next week, it was yesterday. He was amongst the dynamic, smart-thinking, risk-taker elite lawyers in the office.

And I always knew we underlings were all well below his regard. The only time I was ever noticed by him was when he was looking at me with that casual disdain. Like, ‘I’m amazed someone like you even has the temerity to exist.’ I didn’t like it—who would? But you could cut the arrogance with a knife. At least that’s what I thought.

Never mattered to me, though, as it wasn’t like office work was my calling. I’d always been an artist at heart and actually, soon after he’d left seeking ever grander plateaus, my future was also sealed. I and a friend had then opened a guild shop that has done very well. And this was close to a couple of decades ago. I was now in my late forties and I suspected he’d be around that age, too.

So, here I was with a great mystery. It seemed impossible, almost like this man was some sort of dopplegänger. Anyway, here he was, clearly feeling the rougher edges of life. It somehow seemed so raw and at odds with all things sensible in the world.

I knelt down and when he looked up, I noticed a change in his eyes—one of recognition. When I’d first seen him, I’d been dead set on going to a favourite café, you know the kind with the real fireplace and quiet little nooks where one can disappear into a book.

“Hey,” I said. “How’re ya doing?” He just kept looking at me, blinking periodically. “Do you remember me?” He raised an eyebrow. I just decided to keep going, not sure if I’d get anything out if him. “Anyway,” I said, sitting down cross-legged in front of him, “my name’s Dandelion Green. And yes, my parents were jokesters, bless their souls,” I said, laughing at the thought of my parents who were no doubt tickled by the thought of the name. He didn’t respond much, except the ever so slight hint of a smile, which was encouraging.

My parents had both been latter-day hippies, born in 1960, both of them. We kids were born much later in the day. I think my mom was already forty when I was born. Although, I was actually reared by my grandparents after Mom and Dad were sadly killed in a car crash. That was when I was in high school. Anyway, for the longest time, everyone’s known me as Dandie Green. I was okay with that.

“Are you hungry or anything?” I said. Looking around, I wondered what had happened to him to land him here on the street. By now, I would’ve expected him to be part of the halls of power—a top lawyer in a preeminent firm, close to or having even achieved at least part or full ownership of the firm. Although, here he sat—seemed preposterous.

Even though we were around the same age, he looked older and a little more worn. I had a bad feeling. And at that moment, my eyes scanned around and I spotted what I’d feared. Poking out amongst the discarded wrappers and tired old bits of plastic and such were a few needles. I didn’t know if they were his. Yet, looking at him, I suspected they were.

It made me think how anyone looking at him now would’ve never imagined how he’d started,. One wonders when it was he’d taken the first step down the wrong path? What had he done?

“We could go get something to eat?” No response. “How about that?” Despite the quiet, I decided I wasn’t going to walk away. Didn’t feel right.

“Come on. Why don’t we go get something to eat?” I said, hoping to cajole him. He closed his eyes obviously pondering. His mind was alive. I waited.

After a few minutes, he started to move. I guess he must’ve realised how maybe going with me might be the only way to get rid of me. I smiled broadly as he picked up the little pillow on which he was sitting, grabbed his guitar and started to get up. “There ya go.” I’d forgotten how tall he was until he stood up. He was rail thin though. Not at all the way I remembered him.

“It’s just about a block away. It’s the place where I was heading, one of my favourite places to eat, gotta say.” We walked to the restaurant. I still had to walk a little faster to keep up with his stride. I mean, he wasn’t walking quickly, but for someone over 6 feet tall—I’d put him at around 6’5”—it didn’t take much to outpace a humble five footer.

“Here we go,” I said, as we reached the door. I walked in, beyond happy that I’d gotten him this far. To my surprise, he actually held the door open for me. I thought I was getting somewhere. “Why don’t we just sit over here, by the window?” We were getting a few looks, but I just smiled, not really caring what anyone thought. I’ve always felt people are a little too quick to judge. We sat down and I handed him a menu. “Get whatever you want, no worries.” He took the menu and gave me another sense I was on the right track—a slight smile.

I watched as he perused the menu, paging back and forth. He just laid it aside, not really looking up. “How’re ya doing?” said the waitress. I knew her as she’d been at the place I think since I’d first started to come. “Made up your mind? I’m pretty sure I know what you want,” she said, looking at me. I smiled.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Did you want blueberries in them? We just got some in this morning.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I said.

“And what are you having, sir?” He picked up the menu and pointed to some soup.

“Oh, you can have a little more than that,” I said. “How about a small sandwich?” I looked to the waitress, “Are there any small sandwiches?”

“Well, there’s the havarti on kalamata olive bread. We just made it.”

“Come on. How about that? Sounds delicious,” I said to him. “Come on.” He looked at the menu again and then he actually smiled, nodding his head. I brought my hands together like I’d just discovered an immense treasure. To me, it wasn’t only wonderful he’d agreed to the sandwich, but that he’d smiled again—there was life in there yet.

While we ate, try as I might, there was no way to get him to utter a word. Most of the conversation was largely my little soliloquy.

We got up after finishing and ever the gentleman, he even helped me on with my jacket. I confess, I was shocked as this was a different man. When I’d first encountered him, I don’t think he would’ve ever deigned to help me. Never. What had happened, I wondered? Obviously something had gone wrong.

We walked back to his little place on the street. No one had commandeered his spot. He sat down without a word, like he was reclaiming his rightful place. I didn’t know what to do, a fifth wheel all of a sudden.

“I’ll come by and see ya next week. I promise. Is there anything you wanted me to get for you?” He just looked up at me, almost serenely and I felt somehow I was being gently dismissed. There was no arrogance or pomposity apparent, just a quiet yearning for peace.

I turned around and headed home. Looking back, he’d picked up his book and was reading, an image of tranquillity.

For the next few months, I kept my word. I felt I didn’t want to hem him in, imposing on his peace. He was always the same. Silently accompanying me to the restaurant, always opening the door for me. One time, he even poured my water for me. I think I was simply in awe. Although it always perplexed me, that he was even there in the first place, I never came close to determining what had happened until one day.

I’d arrived at his little place. But he was gone. I looked around, left and right, in a near panic. What was going on, I thought? He was always there. And then, to make things worse, things were scattered around. His special pillow was off to the side, his guitar splintered on the ground.

Tears filled my eyes as I knelt down, sure that I spotted some dried blood on the ground. “Oh my God.”