A New Friend

After suffering from a traumatic experience, an old man lives out his days alone on an island but eventually finds solace in the company of an unlikely companion.

     On a cloudy afternoon, three weeks after his sixth birthday, he wandered down to the beach under his mother�s supervision. He found an oval-shaped stone half covered in soft weeds and turned it over to find a handful of abandoned crab shells. There were eight of them, each with their own unique designs and colors. He informed his mother of his discovery and shuffled back home quickly, not exactly sure what to do with them when he finally got there. It occurred to him that he should preserve them in some manner, for future reference. He decided he should dig a hole and bury the items in his backyard to secure the new-found natural treasure. In order to get the proper tool to dig the hole, he needed to venture down into the cellar of his house.
     He always hated the dank stench of mildew and rotting vegetation that stuck like glue to the stones comprising the house�s foundation. The smell reminded him of a pot of wilted spinach that had been left on the stovetop for too long and was beginning to boil over. He also hated how the cellar had a medieval, torture-chamber quality to it. Having the tendency to become very anxious in any dark, tight quarters, the cellar was no place he chose to hang around, unless he had an important reason. On this particular afternoon, he did.
     Pacing back and forth in his bedroom and holding the shells in his hands, he finally mustered enough courage to venture down in the cellar. After walking through his kitchen to the cellar door and flipping the switch at the top of the stairs which turned the light on below, he began his descent carefully down into the ghastly catacomb. He could feel the blood quicken through his veins as he crawled down. When he reached the bottom, his eyes darted back and forth to each corner of the room in haste to find a spade of some sort. When he finally spotted the tool atop his father�s workbench, about fifteen paces from where he stood, he ran over to grab it. As he rushed over, he could feel someone, an apparition of sorts, deliberately tripping his feet. He stumbled, lunging forward and hitting his head on the side of the workbench.
     Partially stunned at the events that just transpired, he lay on the cold dirt floor face up and concentrated on the ambling footsteps he heard above his head. They wandered over to the top of the cellar stairs and stopped. The light that hung down from the center of the ceiling, that barely lit the room, suddenly went out. His mother didn�t care for wasting electricity, and now he was caught off guard and petrified. On the floor, incapacitated by fear and a rigid pulsing that ripped through the top of his head and stung his temples, he watched the walls of the staircase. The sliver of light that was cast from the daylight upstairs narrowed and eventually disappeared. He heard the faint meeting of wood against wood as the cellar door closed, and then the click of the doorknob as it settled into place. His eyelids chose to shut by themselves and a pool of warm liquid formed around his head. Abandoned and motionless, his body crawled into a deep slumber.

     He was older now, around eighty-six years of age, with heavy cheeks, tufts of hair growing out from the insides of his ears, and course skin, cracked and stained by the salt and sun. When he sat down in any chair, he sat low, for his shrinking stature was noticeable even to him now. The physical ailments he experienced, such as the occasional arthritic episode, back pain, and his considerable loss of hearing, greatly contrasted with his acute mental capacity. He still remembered things. And some things he chose to forget. The senility that had plagued his two best friends who had passed on did not affect the old man in any way, and he could often recall specific moments of his life with ease. He remembered scraping his left knee after falling from his pale blue bicycle when riding down Canal Street near his childhood home. He remembered picking verdant, unripe bananas from the trees in his neighbors� backyards and eating the fruits hours later even though they were not very pleasing to the palette at such an early stage. He remembered the young thief who stole a trendy orange bathing suit from his surf shop that he opened just ten days earlier in a bustling fishing town on the coast of Corbyn�s Cove. He remembered the few find seconds of returning a gaze to a lovely woman across the arcade of The Landslide, a local, unkempt restaurant that somehow managed to attract hoards of tourists year after year during the spring season. She was a lanky brunette, and her hair was always cropped short around her gaunt face; her nose pinched between her large grey eyes. The many years of marriage that followed thereafter were admittedly a blur, a dizzy duration of pleasure, passion, and truth. But he could recall the birth of his two twin sons. He remembered Sean�s misfortunes and Kelly�s fortunes. He watched them grow and attend an international university in Australia, and establish families of their own in a foreign country.
     He lived alone. His wife died eleven years ago and his sons would visit occasionally, but not often enough to provide that sensation of family. The house that seemed so full of vitality, of commotion, was now empty. It was a humble abode that aptly fit his personality and was positioned high on a gentle hill that overlooked the south Indian Ocean. The coast ran for miles from the northwest to southeast and was lined with rocky shoals, weathered surfboard shacks, and a variety of tropical flora. Every morning he would rise with the sun and walk out of his bedroom, his sensitive feet confronting the tepid slate floors of the house. He would sit in the kitchen, meagerly furnished with a medium-sized icebox, a hat rack, and a dense oak door functioning as a dinner table, and pass the early morning hours listening to reports of the panic created by the latest monsoon on his beaten CB radio. Since he was hard of hearing, he would turn the volume quite loud in order to catch all the interesting details. While he got dressed in his traditional corduroy shorts and white collared shirt, he would peer out his bedroom window that faced the ocean and all its seducing, magical quality. He always adored living here he thought to himself. And after he was left alone to carry on, he fell into his own rhythm of life and would start his days the same way. He was a creature of habit.
     Cautiously strolling by his favorite bars and boutiques, he would take his time walking through the center of town, which was about six kilometers from his house. If he felt ambitious enough, he would meander up along the dry dirt road to his surf shop, which had now transformed into a popular cafe. He would admire the young couples who entered, completely oblivious to the place�s history. He used to sell surf boards practically everyday of the week. He reveled in the sight of a young man or woman, not having any prior experience in surfing but having the drive to start, purchasing a board and feeling the waves for the first time. But now, having retired nearly twenty-five years ago, he would sit on a bench across the street from the caf� and spend an hour or two absorbing all the activity around him. He watched the small, circus-sized vehicles anxiously butting each other along the street. He watched the people, a vibrant mix of tourists and locals, sashaying between restaurants and boutiques. Not listening, just watching, for his ears did not allow him the privilege. He made an effort to catch the 7:55 autobus in order to be home at sundown. Safely tucked away in his quiet home, he would light his pipe stuffed with strawberry-flavored tobacco and sit in his favorite white wicker chair on the back porch overlooking the ocean. On clear nights, he preoccupied himself with observing the stars that fell into the ocean, creating a sparkling luminescence on the surface of the water in the moonlight.
     Despite his gallivanting, there were certain places he avoided, one of which was in his very own home. There were some things he chose to forget. He purposely installed hot-water hoses and vents on the first floor for his washing machine and dryer so he wouldn�t have to go down there. Besides, he was old, and stress on his knees and legs that could be caused by continuously climbing stairs was deemed undesirable. He justified his repressed emotions with octogenarian necessity. It was as simple as that.

     It happened on a Monday morning. He was taking his usual route through downtown. The streets were not crowded with the throngs of people that typically populated this area during the weekend. He had crossed over an intersection and continued to walk passed the location of the caf� where he usually spent his afternoons. The sun, directly above the town, beat down on his back, and he could feel perspiration soak through his shirt. As he made his way up the street, he could make out a dog ahead relieving himself on the side of the bright yellow fence opposite the cafe. He continued to walk, crossed the street, and approached the dog with his arm extended, palm outward. The dog, kindly returning the gesture, began to examine the old man�s hand with its nose. The old man knelt down and drew his hand into his chest, and the dog followed coming close to the old man. He finally realized the finer features of the animal: its mangy brown coat that somehow shined slick in the sunlight, its narrow, angular face, and its two differently colored eyes, one black and one a resplendent blue. The close proximity that the old man and the dog shared lent a certain intimacy that hadn�t been a part of the old man�s life for some years. On the back of his hand, he could feel the dog�s breath coming in short rapid pants. Its ribs that seemed as though they would surface through the skin at any moment revealed the animal�s emaciated state. The old man grunted in empathy, stood up and began to walk again, slightly hoping that the dog would follow. Attentive and curious, the dog trotted alongside the old man.
     That afternoon, they walked together from shop to shop, from street to street. The old man purchased a small tote of fried plantains and two golden mangoes for the dog and himself to eat. After catching the bus home with the dog, they got off at a stop three avenues down from the old man�s house and continued down to a jaded boardwalk running along the beach and riddled with stones. Having lived in solitude for many years, the old man was suddenly startled by the company that existed along side him as they walked. He felt compelled to talk, to carry some form of conversation that quickly turned into a monologue.
�I have always liked living here. These waters know more about my life than I do.� He coughed and felt his eyes begin to well. �It practically knows every little detail of my life. I confided in this ocean, and it never revealed any of its secrets to me.� The dog didn�t seem at all interested in what he had to say but more concerned with the small pebbles that were kicked, thrown, and crushed between the old man�s feet and the boards as they walked on.
     They reached the end of the boardwalk and both sunk their feet into the sand. The old man slowly lowered himself, sat on the edge of the boardwalk and commenced to take off his shoes. The sand had cooled down now that the sun was low in the sky. He stuck his bare wrinkled feet into the sand. It tingled between the old man�s toes, offering a therapeutic alternative to the hard, unforgiving paved streets of downtown. The dog began to run circles a few feet in front of him, and the old man thought they should continue down the beach to the shore.
     As they approached the water, an invisible, pungent cloud of briny air mixed with thousands of years of decay filled the old man�s nostrils. He inhaled deeply, and when he exhaled, he brought his head down to look at his feet. He knelt down and picked up a piece of drift wood that was the length of his forearm and just as thick. He noted all the knots that had been worn down, giving it a polished surface smooth to the touch. He also noticed all its inclusions; all the holes that appeared burrowed by worms. He looked out to the horizon and threw the stick into the water for the dog to retrieve. As soon as the stick left the old man�s hand, the dog ran after it through the water. Its delicate set of jaws skimmed the salty surface, hunting for the bobbing piece of wood. Enduring the moderately sized waves that crashed against its body, the dog found the stick and turned to the old man. The stick then fell from the dogs mouth, letting the infinite mirage of deep purple and fire orange relaxing atop the sea surface from the sunset carry it along the shore and eventually outward to be lost.
     Slightly disappointed with the dog�s reluctance to return the stick, the old man whistled and called the dog in. Yet, it still did not move from the growing breakers. The old man figured that this was the end to their journey. He thought to himself how pleasant it was to spend the afternoon together. The companionship he experienced was overwhelming his sentiments. With a nod of approval, the old man turned and began to walk back up the beach, his bare feet dragging in the sand. When he reached the edge of the boardwalk where he had left his shoes, he turned around and the dog stood stoically at his feet. Its head was cocked and a quizzical look glared in its polychromatic eyes. The old man returned the gaze. Sitting down and brushing the course sand from his feet and from in between his toes, he put his shoes on, stood up and began the walk back home to his house. The dog followed close behind.
     By the time they had reached the house, the sun had sunken completely out of sight behind the edge of a dark undulating desert. The old man entered his house by the back screen door, which was always left unlocked for matters of convenience, and turned on the light in the den. The dog, fearless in exploring new territory, galloped inside the house at a considerable pace and ran around in the den, nearly knocking over a hand-made side table resting aside the old man�s emerald green couch. He hadn�t witnessed such palpable happiness since his sons Kelly and Sean received a pair of antique nineteenth century ukuleles for their sixteenth birthday. Family and friends had gathered in the living room, and once the whirlwind of ribbon and wrapping paper that was carelessly tossed into the air settled to the floor, they were all dumbfounded at what the twins had unwrapped. They simultaneously held their prizes in their hands above their heads with smiles that stretched across their faces from ear to ear like taffy. The old man remembered the wetness that built up and leaked down Sean�s face. He was always the emotional one of the pair.
     Leaving the back screen door ajar, the old man permitted the dog its exercise while he traveled to his bedroom to change. A few moments after the old man had crossed the threshold into the kitchen and turned the corner, the dog halted in its play. It lifted its head in the stale air that filled the room and began to slyly scout about. Continuously moving its nose in detection from the couch, to the table, to the rug, it finally intercepted a sweet, poignant odor. It spied its way through the den and into the kitchen, stopping at a pale white door with a tarnished brass lever that kept it closed. It stuck its nose into the space between the door and the floor; the scent growing stronger. With some force, the dog began to nudge the door, its claws slipping on the slate. It ceased its current course of action and peered up at the lever. Jumping up on the wall abutting the door, he bit the lever, jostling it up and down, which allowed the door to swing freely open. In a mad dash, the dog jumped off the wall and ran through the doorway and down the wooden staircase.
     He put on a freshly pressed tee-shirt and a pair of worn khaki shorts. He walked to the kitchen and poured himself a tall glass of water from the faucet. Turning from the sink and looking straight ahead, his eyes widened. He dropped his glass in a fit of terror producing a clear mess of water and tiny shards of glass on the floor. The black hollow opposite him grew steadily, swallowing up the kitchen. He hadn�t opened that door since he moved in because he wanted to erase it from his memory. That aweful, dreadful incident. Hurrying over passed the table, he slammed the door shut and flipped the latch into its respective position. He reached for four flat-headed nails and a hammer he had left on the counter after repairing one of his kitchen stools two days earlier. Despite his trembling hands, the first nail glided into the door securing it to the frame like a hot knife through butter. He then instinctively drove the others in a straight line above the first. Stepping back from the door, he regained his composure and drew a deep breath.
     How rude, he thought, to neglect his guest like this. He peeked into the den but did not see his friend, just newspapers that had been blown from the side table and strewn along the couch by a brisk breeze cutting through the room. He realized he had not shut the back door. The dog, he predicted, must have bored itself with running and, having been left alone, parted without any proper goodbye. He would have enjoyed another presence in the house and thought to himself that it was a pity their friendship had ended. Perhaps, he would meet it again at a later date, somewhere downtown; its bony body scavenging for a meal.
     When he crossed the expanse of the den to shut the door, a bright beam of light from the moon hovering over the toilsome sea caught his attention. He shut off the den light to attain a more crisp view of the moon and ocean. Since his increased loss of hearing, he missed the sounds of the night, the cacophony produced by the innumerable insects residing outside of his house and the thundering of the waves in the distance. After some time of gawking outwards over the ocean, the old man moved back into the kitchen to clean up the shattered pieces of glass.
     He grabbed the broom by the sink and moved it swiftly across the floor. Amongst the glass, the spilled water beaded and danced on the tiles as he swept. It mixed with sand concentrated in front of the white door that he promised himself would never see opened again, not for any reason. When he finished sweeping, he gripped the steel dustpan attached to the end of the broom, set it on the floor and brushed the glass and water into it. He stood in his kitchen with broom and dustpan in hand and looked around absently. A grave silence hung in his ears.