Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Swallowing

I didn't see the Old Man for a couple of days.

On the third day, I had a doctor's appointment that took up most of the time, but I ended up in the Smoke-Filled Coffee shop that evening. Well after dark the Old Man sauntered into the shop. He was obviously tipsy, and louder than normal.
“Well, funny finding you here! Oh wait, I forgot you have nothing better to do than masturbate intellectually in here all day every day. What's going on?”

He waved and began to make his way over to me. On the way he became distracted by Sage's presence at the bar.

“Hey, darling. How are you tonight? These boys bothering you?” he asked, looking around the room. She smiled in forbearance and told him everyone was being nice.
“Well, you let me know if they give you any trouble. You hear me?”
“Okay.”
At that he turned around and headed back toward me.
“Seems like you have had an eventful night Old Man.”
“Shut your mouth. You have no idea what I have been up to. I've been dancing—women everywhere—one on my left, one on my right. More than I could handle. Your mom even said to tell you hello.”
He sat down, but didn't have a drink. I waited for more insults or jokes or questions. But, he just sat. He didn't even look out the window. He kind of just sat there in a drunken haze. He slouched in his chair, his old fisherman's hat half-crooked on his head. The right leg of his tattered brown slacks was tucked into his orange sock. One too many buttons of his white button up shirt was undone. He just looked a bit scruffy, even for an old man. In the stillness time's wearing emerged. You could see how it had been so cruel to him—just like it is to all of us. He was once a vivacious, strong young man. Time hadn't crawled all over his hand and legs--leavings its wrinkles as a reminder of its dominance. At one point, he was fresh. But, not now. I saw the red spots on his nearly bald scalp, the wrinkles crossing up and down all over his face, the scar on his arm, and the bunched veins on his legs behind the tattoos. By all accounts, he was a brittle, feeble creature. The raucousness had evaporated into what appeared to be existential reflection.

After a few moments the Old Man actually started to sob. I didn't know if it was the boos or what, but he was crying audibly. His face turned red. His nose leaked. Tears ran down both cheeks. He didn't even bother to wipe them away—they just trickled down his leathery skin, riding in the crevices of the wrinkles which now characterized what was once his buoyant, ruddy countenance.
I sat there.
What was I to say?

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

After an eternity, he got himself under control. He wiped his nose and eyes, and tried to calm his breathing.

“I got a secret to tell you.”

“Okay.” I was curious, but not yet worried.

“Come here,” he said, “come close and listen." I moved my chair closer to his, and leaned in close. As I moved my ear near his now whispering mouth, I could smell the Jim Beam on his breath. The Old Man was leaning on one knee in order to position himself close enough to whisper in my ear. The combination of old man smell with the cheap whiskey was a bit overwhelming. It occurred to me that this was the closest I had ever been to the Old Man--right here, right now.

"Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and start the day. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning."

With a smug smile, he took a sip of his cold drink and sat back in his chair. His little revelation had apparently cured whatever sadness had plagued him only a minute beforehand.

I won't lie, I was caught off guard a bit. I responded in an irreverent tone. . .

I told him he was drunk, nostalgic, and deserved to die alone.