Who is He?

A quick little story I did to past the time and spur the mind.

"You want to meet him?" Said the man slumped carelessly against the bar, weight of the world almost visably upon him. My ears pricked as I rummaged about my jacket pocket for a ten dollar bill I'd tucked away for a rainy day, when I was ready to break my no alcohol streak; so you can imagine the very moment I saw that first drop hit a car bonnet, I was straight inside the nearest bar. The bill flipped about my twitching fingers, cold and paranoid but still useful, and fell into the barkeeps hands. I turned to the man sitting on the bar-stool beside me as the beer I'd just bought slipped into my thankful grasp. "If possible" I replied. "Heard a lot about him, more about how illusive he is than actually about him, but my curiosities been peaked."

The man stared into my eyes without flinching, and nodded very slowly as he turned back from the impromptu inspection. I gave a hesitant smile before taking my beer over to a corner booth, itching to soak in the atmosphere. It's only when your surrounded by such strong characteristics as a dingy bar, pattering raining and faint radio tunes in the distance, that you feel something truly poignant about where you are in the scale of things. Whether as small as a speck of dust, or as renowned as the John Paul the Second, you feel as though you're fitting a slot, snugly, without forcing it or going against the flow, just naturally being somewhere with purpose. That's probably why I was drawn to Andre Patite, that name which had been trading tongues all about the city for the past 2 months. A young musician with a flair for wild thoughts and ways to express them, or at least that's one of the description I'd overheard. Some have called him a madman, content only in entropy, others have said he paints murals in exchange for Taoist remarks and food, as long as it's kochier. Last I heard of Andre Patite he was in a compromising position with a local law enforcements misses, looming over her like a well dressed; or undressed, stick insect. He ran 2 blocks just in boxers, a red faced policeman with a baseball bat, hot on his heels. Lots of nice, mean, wild words about Patite but when you ask those sources whether they'd met the man personally they'd always shrug and say no. Boredom had never been a real strong motivator for me; or anyone, but since returning to my old stomping ground from overseas, a brief stint in Asia on business, I hadn't much new to see, except the ever evasive Andre Patite. I sipped the beer as my back found a suitable groove to bend into, my eyes adjusting to the dim light about the enclave of leather I'd found for myself. As my lips beckoned for a second sip, I heard the creased squeak of another set of legs landing on leather beside me. The man from the barstool had sat down beside me, clacking his empty bottle on the table with purpose; whatever purpose it was, I couldn't tell.

He stared me up and down once more. "Why do you want to meet him?" He asked with a harsher air than before. I lifted my empty hands up. "Sounds like there are a lot of reasons too, wouldn't you say?" I said, hands floating back to my sides. He twisted his mouth about. "Maybe. Sounds odd to me, if you want my opinion."

"Seems that way to me as well, but odd is getting quite the revival now days." I nodded. The man huffed. "Ain't that the truth."

I held out my hand, partly prepared and partly cautious. "Name's Hue"

He grabbed it and cracked 4 of my knuckles, not that I telegraphed the fact as painful as it was. "Nice to meet you, kid. I'm a regular here myself, but can't say I've met you before."

"Been out of town for a while." I admitted. "Born and raised here though"

"Don't say!" He replied, tone seemingly softened by the fact. " Always nice to meet new locales, if that makes sense."

I gave a quick chuckle. "Yeah, I think it does. So what do you do around these parts...?" I asked, hanging on a silence in a hopes his name would fill it. He puffed up his cheeks like a startled fish then blew out with a whiskey caked breathe. "That's a damn good question, son. What do I do?"

The philosophical nature that had now reared its head seemed to baffle him. He slapped the tables with a weather beaten palm. " Guess you could say I'm an investor." He smiled, seemingly quite pleased with his answer. I pouted my lips in considered approval. "Interesting." I said, polishing off the remainder of my beer. "Who do you work for, or what firm, company?"

The man lifted his index skywards, eager words rushing to his mouth. "Ahhhh, what if I was to tell you I wasn't working for anyone like that, but everyone as well."

I stroked my chin, puzzled but equally intrigued. "I would have to say, I don't know what you're talking about."

He slapped his hands together, rubbing them greedily as soon as they met. "That's exactly what I bank on! That's how I make my kind of money."

I shook the neck of my bottle, fully aware the act wouldn't spawn another beer but halfheartedly hoping it would. "What do you mean 'your' kind of money?"

His hands stop rubbing, still entangled together in a rustic lock. "My money can't buy things." He replied, matter of factley. Things were steadily getting into the existential, not that I minded, just never expected from such an unassuming barfly. Guess that was part of his charm. At the back of my mind, the idea squirmed about, but it was interrupted before it could come to fruition. "Another beer?" He asked. I looked to wards my wrist, realising I had no watch to refer too, bowed my head and offered the next round. "What do you want?" He said, mid motion. "Anything."

He grinned a Cheshire grin, then slinked over to the counter and raised two long fingers. The barkeep nodded and popped a bottle of cheap champagne. I watched in dismay, not really wanting to buy a second round of champagne; not to mention hating the stuff. The barfly returned with a tall glass in each hand, bottle wedged under one arm. He fell back into the seat and placed a glass infront of me. "I didn't expect this!" I said, baffled. He shook his head briskly. "No one ever does, at least for a while."

More cryptic drunken ramblings, but he seemed nice enough for a lingering bar omen. He had basic features on a timid body. Lanky, but stern, stoic, but underwhelming, and all in all looked like what he was; something I still hadn't grasped entirely, just the feeling. He chinked my glass and gulped down the glass, immediately pouring another. I huffed, scratching the back of my head. "What's the occassion?" I asked. He smiled. "Celebration."

"What are we celebrating then?" I asked, rolling the champagne about in the glass, swirling my wrist, fingers looking like the bars of a prison cell. "We are celebrating....." He paused, letting the bar ambiance flood in briefly before cutting it off once more. "You!" He cheered with quiet restraint. I laughed, looking down towards the table for answers. None. "Why celebrate, me?"

He hacked a cough then after conquering it, slapped me on the back. "Because you did it!" He roared. "Did what?" And then it came to my mind just as the sentence left his lips. "You found me." He clicked. "I am Andre Patite."

I sat, silently puzzled, yet beaming beneath my skin was a sense of idle satisfaction. I'd never uncovered a myth before, or at least something that claimed to be a myth. "You're Andre Patite."

He cackled, slamming back the rest of his second glass. I followed suit shortly after. He wiped his mouth with a sigh of relief behind it. His eyes darted over to mine. "That's not even the best part." He said, slowing down to emphasis the mystique of what was being said. I leaned closer with an air of sarcasm. "And what could that possibly be, Andre?"

"Ever wonder how so many rumors of one man have spread about so many different things?"

I stopped. I'd thought about the man, sure, but the wonder of such an individual existing had gotten to me before logic could, that old codger. I shook my head. "Who said anything about there only being one, Andre Patite?"

Then, silently, he rose up and walked out of the bar, leaving behind a small white square of card. I watched his shadow vanish from sight through the bars window as my hand reached over to pluck the card from its wooden rest. It was an ID card.

"Andre Patite."

Maybe there wasn't anything new for Hue Beatley back in his home town, but Andre Patite? Maybe there was.