Chapter 5: Old Man: Resting His Bones
Not all tales are grand and aged, but each is of magnificent import to someone. Many stories, in fact, are ephemeral and concise. Few and far between are the people who can make an impact so profoundly upon my psyche - fleeting is the ecstasy of true, fearless empathy - but I had the honor to meet a man of such import, once. A human, no less, so long ago.
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I sat at the corner chair of the table, my back to the wall. The sun had set many hours ago but the tavern was ablaze with activity. The men were celebrating; the war was won and the world was "saved." I shared the table with my comrades, the now "Heroes of Legend" who were more ecstatic than anyone else.
Jondar, our elfin companion, a lethal marksman with a flintlock, decided to "enhance our experience" with a little "party favor." He uncapped his tobacco pan – not holding tobacco, I should mention – and started rolling joints, passing one to each member of our table as they were readied.
Ever since we had arrived earlier that evening a peculiar elderly man sitting at the bar had been placing us under indiscreet scrutiny. Of course, so had everyone else, for that matter, but whereas the other patrons sang songs of our glorious triumph and offered us food and drink – the former of which I indulged in quite heavily – this man merely watched us. My companions, their egos inflated by their popularity, neglected to notice the old soul.
He nursed a single tankard for well over an hour. Judging by his ratty farmer's garb I supposed this was due to his being unable to afford a second. He wore weathered and sun-bleached overalls, and little else. There was no undershirt to cover his withering torso and leathery arms.
He was bald and wore wire-framed glasses with the left eye missing. I swear you could have pulled the skin on his forearm and stretched it half a meter. All about his body were pressure sores and warts, imperfections and sunburns. He truly wore the visage of an ancient and hard worked man.
"I don't suppose you have a light on you, do you nature boy?" Ellica inquired, slapping my arm with the back of her hand to arrest my attention.
I returned my gaze to the table, "Ah, sorry, what?"
"Of course he wouldn't, guy's probably never smoked in his life," Jondar grinned, "No time like the present, though, right nature boy?" He tossed one of the papers, already rolled, across the table. It landed a few centimeters away from my left hand and rolled until it hit the edge of one of my clayware plates.
I grimaced at the cigarette; I can't stand the smell of alcohol or tobacco, and especially not whatever on earth that was. I left it where it was and remarked, "I believe I'll pass, thank you." I had seen what that weed did to Jondar. It was some manner of stimulant, not THC, which caused the elf to become overly complacent. I would never partake in something that inhibits my ability to fight, in the instance I may need to defend myself.
"We still need a light." Burt said in between belches; his breath reeked of booze, it always did, though the giant man never seemed to get drunk.
I turned around and stared at the old man once more, this time directly. He made eye contact with me and quickly averted it, staring down into the last drops of his glass. I kicked out my chair, leaning against the back with one arm, "Old man, do you have a light?"
Amusingly enough the old soul jumped when I addressed him over the din of the tavern's camaraderie. He looked over at me once more, his glassy brown eyes contorting in a wrinkled smile of abashment. He waved one hand and then reached down into his boot with the other, fishing about in his sock.
He pulled out a rusty old lighter which had seen many years of abuse, and plopped out of his barstool to approach our table. He came up to the table, addressing me with a smile and an outstretched hand, "Mind if I join?"
I reciprocated the smile heartily. I was mistaken in my earlier assumption; this old man was harmless, "Poor old soul if you have a match, you have yourself a friend." I shook his hand and was surprised to be greeted with a sound grip.
I carefully picked my joint up between my pinky and thumb; the stench permeated the paper pre-burn, and handed it to the old man. He smiled and knocked the cap of his old lighter back, igniting the kerosene with a flint and steel contraption. He brought the cigarette to his mouth and then the lighter to the cigarette, inhaling deeply all the while.
He coughed violently and closed his eyes, which curved up ever so gently as if in bliss. He passed the lighter to Ellica and the process repeated, until everyone at the table was blowing that foul smelling smoke in my face. I offered my seat to the old man, who graciously accepted it, and stepped outside.
The moon was full, a beautiful sight in stark contrast to the horrendous one I witnessed hours prior. From the interior of the tavern the celebration only resounded to greater magnitudes as the evening went on. As the hours passed the patrons left one by one until at last the noise died down enough that I deemed it tolerable to return to my comrades.
The party was plastered, everyone's face red with intoxication and gayety. My compatriots had satiated the old man's thirst and hunger, and near as many plates as mine stood stacked near him. He smiled down into his glass with a cigarette butt hanging from his lips, eyes closed and a profuse smile splitting his wrinkled, leathery face.
As I approached the table he looked up at me and coughed, waving and greeting me with warmth and kindness. I could not help but reciprocate his smile once more. He roused from his seat in an attempt to offer it to me, but fell to his knees in the motion. He groaned in pain and I crouched to aid him, "What's wrong, old man?"
He panted, coughed, and wheezed, "I'm just… just resting these tired old bones…" He panted again, the cigarette falling from his mouth onto the hard wood floor below. My companions rose, but it seemed as though time had frozen. The old man gazed up at me and I saw it in his glassy eyes: he was exhausted.
Age had caught up with the old man. We locked vision and I was unable to break the contact; there was a deep seeded sense of importance in that man's eyes. Another smiled rose above his chin, a weak and forced smile, as he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me near, "Listen to me now, my friend…"
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"When I was you age I did it all. More, I reckon, than many men could do… But now…? My possessions are the ones I wear on my back and this rusty old lighter I keep in my shoe. We go our entire lives takin' things for granted, lookin' over the people and things that, in the end, mean the most to us. Folks'll endlessly search for things that they think mean somethin', but they'll just be foolin' 'emselves.
Money, power, women… in the end all these things will whittle away and disappear. Trust me, lad, when you're dead ain't no one gonna remember you, so ya don't gotta go and try to make a name for yerself. Make your life worth something. Ta you. Good friends, good food and drink, heh, even good grass… it's all about makin' you and the ones ya love happy… Trust me…
Don't go givin' into despair; don't dwell on the hate… We all got it, lad, but much like your body, ain't no one gonna remember or care about it when ya die… Make life worth livin', 'cause ain't nobody gonna do it for you.
That's why I'm restin' my bones, lad… It took me all my life ta realize that the only thing I needed was to fall asleep with a full belly and a clean conscience. Everything else is just…empty. I can't tell ya how sad it makes me ta see kids like you doin' the same damn things I did all them years ago. Please, lad, oh god please, go to sleep in the autumn years o' yer life thinkin', 'I'm glad…'
Bury it all… it's not too late to start again, but the later you do start the less time you'll have ta enjoy it… so please…
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The old man's tears melded with mine as, in tandem, they fell from our faces and onto the ground. He was unable to refrain from the sobbing as he finished, "Please…" The genuine smile now a damning frown.
"It's too late for me, old man." I whispered between my own undulating whimpers.
"It's never too late…" He coughed, lowering his face to the ground. I could not answer him; I did not know how to answer. Even to this day I contemplate the gravity of his sage words and the meaning eludes me.
At last he rescinded his grip on my arm, his hand slowly falling from my bicep; I did not move in spite of the pain, "I just need to rest my bones, lad. Just for a little while… I'll be waiting for ya."
He fell over. How he managed, why he managed to stay alive that long is one of the closest things to an echt miracle I could ever recount. I never even learned his name…
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Cyoral
Cyoral This chapter is a reference/commemoration to two things: The death of my grandfather, whom I had grown close to in his autumn years, and a Primus song of almost the same name (Restin' Bones.)
The events of the chapter very closely mimic the story told in the song - albeit substantially more fleshed out - which is one of my favorite Primus tunes. The old man in the song so very much reminds me of my grandfather, and I choke up a little every time I hear it. It truly is a beautiful melody.
On a side note, another Fun Fact: I listen to a lot of music. Primarily a lot of rock and metal of all kinds. Almost every single chapter or story in this volume is named after or contains a reference to a song’s title, lyrics, or contents. I kept things obscure/vague enough to avoid any potential copyright issues, but it’s a fun thing you can try to figure out as you keep reading. Aside from this chapter, however, nothing else is “flagrant plagiarism.”
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