I walk for at least a half an hour before finally spotting an old man sitting on an isolated park bench on the side of the road. He seems to be completely alone, not waiting for anyone and I assume that he's been here a while. He doesn't seem to be upset or anything of the sort, however. He has no definite expression of emotion on his face but I think he's happy. He seems to be enjoying himself, scribbling something down onto a piece of paper in front of him. I start to walk over to him. He looks up and notices me immediately. I wave to him but he just stares at me, not reacting. I reach him and he looks up at me, away from his paper. He hides whatever it was that he was doing with his callused hands, using them to cover the paper. I'm not sure if I should be offended by that.
"Hello, sir,"
"Hello,"
"I'm not from around here,"
"I can tell,"
"I was wondering if you could direct me in the way of a town or park, or anything really," the man studies me for a moment. I wonder what he thinks of me.
"Why don't you take a seat, son," I pause, unsure of why he requested this but he moves himself over and I decide to just take a seat as he said to. Guard down, as I told myself. We sit in silence for a couple of moments but it's not awkward. Something about this old man is good, I don't why but I like him. I don't think I'm a good judge of character or anything, I don't even think I've interacted with enough people in my lifetime to make such a claim, but this person, I like this person. He seems trustworthy, and a part of me wants to rationalize this judgement of his character by creating arbitrary reasonings for why he may be worthy of trust, but I won't do that. Who am I to decide what is worthy of trust anyway?
"Do you want to know why I told you to sit down?" It seems he's genuinely interested in whether or not I want to know.
"It wouldn't hurt to know, yes,"
"I took one look into your face and saw so much sorrow. It reminded me of myself, especially you being so young and all. Are you here alone?"
"Are you?"
"Of course,"
"Me too. I didn't plan on coming here, I fell asleep on the bus,"
"I see,"
"Are you always alone?"
"Are you?" he smiles at me. At least I think it's a smile.
"Yes, I suppose so,"
"Me too. I have been for the last thirty years,"
"That must be sad,"
"It doesn't have to be,"
"I guess not,"
"Do you enjoy being alone?" I take in the question, ponder it for a moment. I let it roll around in my mind until I can come up with an answer. I think of the boy from seventh grade. I think of my mother.
"I'm not sure,"
'That's okay,"
"Do you enjoy being alone,"
"I think I've come to find solace in it, yes," he smiles at me again. I look at him. His face is covered with wrinkles and freckles. He's a bit sunburnt, and he has dimples when he smiles. He's starting to bald at the top of his head.
"How does one find solace in being alone? I know that many people in the past have said being alone can be a very good thing but I'm starting to feel that it's something people only say to sound somewhat poetic. I don't really think it's possible. Maybe if you're completely and utterly alone, but that's pretty rare, right?" the man looks at me, I don't think he expected me to talk so much. I didn't really expect myself to either.
"I used to think like that too when I was your age. Maybe you just get stupider with age but,"
"But what?"
"Well, I'm not really sure of how to find solace in loneliness. I'm trying to come up with an answer that will satisfy,"
"Oh," I watch him think for a few minutes before he opens his mouth to speak again.
"When I was a boy, I was never alone. I had friends and I had a family. I even got lucky with the ladies back then," he smiles, to himself this time, not me.
