The Old Soldier
After watching Scent of a Woman, of course, I got inspired to write. Good movies do that to me. So here is what came of it. If you've seen the movie, basically I stole it, but not really. The description is all mine and blah, blah, blah. The only thing is the character flaw. -nod-
“Here son, help yourself.”
The boy paused in the doorway. The man before him was seated in a large leather armchair. Where most people would have been swamped by the pillows and padded arms, this man stood out. He was sitting up straight; as straight as a man could without sitting up. He wore a beautiful three-piece suit, as though he were a lawyer, going for a job interview. The beige suited his wrinkled complexion. Despite the age lines, his face was sharp, clear and angular. He clearly didn’t miss much, and made a point of knowing it.
His hair was swept back from his face in a simple style, not flashy, but obviously well cared for. He took his time in the mornings. His chin was clean-shaven, not a bristle left, and no nicks to show for his pains. His eyes were a clear blue, penetrating and deep, like a lake left to sit in the sun too long. They stared into space, memories floating around like sailboats out for a drift.
His skin was weathered. It had seen too many summers in the sun, and too many winters in the cold. It had seen rain and snow and cloudy days without flinching. It had met the occasional fist, as was made clear by the slightly crooked nose, and possibly the occasional bottle, by the scars. He’d played rough in his long life, but he’d played well.
The shoes matched the rest of the expensive outfit. Brown, shined to a sheen, so bright you could see your face at twenty yards. The laces were knotted evenly, done by a sailor who has too little work, and too much time on his hands. Looking up again, a watch sat on his wrist, but it wasn’t comfortable there. The cuff snagged unfortunately, breaking the picture just enough. It was an unnecessary accessory, given by a distant cousin, probably, and displayed, as if for the interview, to show a life of leisure, where leisure never lived.
The man was indicating a table, on which sat a bottle, and two glasses. One was already half full of amber liquid, sitting patiently for a more intimate time, to be sipped at with a concentration that military men acquired after many years in the service. You didn’t just drink it; you fed it, as it passed your taste buds. You fed it the memories of your years, your memories of too many friends, come and gone, and too many mistakes to recount. That’s what the rest of the bottle was for.
Sitting down carefully, uncertainly, on the edge of the seat, the young man waved a hand in decline. He didn’t drink.
“That’s a shame,” the old man told him with a small shrug. He didn’t make eye contact, instead looking at the young man’s left knee, or some such.
“Lots of them say that at the start,” he nodded to himself. “But you’ll come ‘round. They all learn it in the end.”
“I’m here for a job, sir,” the young man reminded him, trying to sound casual.
“Indeed you are, indeed you are,” the old soldier nodded. “I need an aid, when I never did before. Then they were all about. Now you have to advertise for one to be underfoot. And even then, they don’t stick around long. Never mind. How’s your eyesight?”
“My eyesight?” the young man repeated, unclear.
“Yes, boy,” the soldier answered. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, as expensive as the rest. They went over the clear blue, hiding them behind a protective shield, in case anyone got lost looking at him. A stick was picked up from the ground, and extended before him.
At last, the old soldier stood. It took effort, when once he’d have leapt from the seat and been out the door, or on the ground, in seconds. Now, he waited for that old body to adjust, the stick tapping the ground before him to clear the area of untold obstacles.
“Like I said, I need an aid.”
“Here son, help yourself.”
The boy paused in the doorway. The man before him was seated in a large leather armchair. Where most people would have been swamped by the pillows and padded arms, this man stood out. He was sitting up straight; as straight as a man could without sitting up. He wore a beautiful three-piece suit, as though he were a lawyer, going for a job interview. The beige suited his wrinkled complexion. Despite the age lines, his face was sharp, clear and angular. He clearly didn’t miss much, and made a point of knowing it.
His hair was swept back from his face in a simple style, not flashy, but obviously well cared for. He took his time in the mornings. His chin was clean-shaven, not a bristle left, and no nicks to show for his pains. His eyes were a clear blue, penetrating and deep, like a lake left to sit in the sun too long. They stared into space, memories floating around like sailboats out for a drift.
His skin was weathered. It had seen too many summers in the sun, and too many winters in the cold. It had seen rain and snow and cloudy days without flinching. It had met the occasional fist, as was made clear by the slightly crooked nose, and possibly the occasional bottle, by the scars. He’d played rough in his long life, but he’d played well.
The shoes matched the rest of the expensive outfit. Brown, shined to a sheen, so bright you could see your face at twenty yards. The laces were knotted evenly, done by a sailor who has too little work, and too much time on his hands. Looking up again, a watch sat on his wrist, but it wasn’t comfortable there. The cuff snagged unfortunately, breaking the picture just enough. It was an unnecessary accessory, given by a distant cousin, probably, and displayed, as if for the interview, to show a life of leisure, where leisure never lived.
The man was indicating a table, on which sat a bottle, and two glasses. One was already half full of amber liquid, sitting patiently for a more intimate time, to be sipped at with a concentration that military men acquired after many years in the service. You didn’t just drink it; you fed it, as it passed your taste buds. You fed it the memories of your years, your memories of too many friends, come and gone, and too many mistakes to recount. That’s what the rest of the bottle was for.
Sitting down carefully, uncertainly, on the edge of the seat, the young man waved a hand in decline. He didn’t drink.
“That’s a shame,” the old man told him with a small shrug. He didn’t make eye contact, instead looking at the young man’s left knee, or some such.
“Lots of them say that at the start,” he nodded to himself. “But you’ll come ‘round. They all learn it in the end.”
“I’m here for a job, sir,” the young man reminded him, trying to sound casual.
“Indeed you are, indeed you are,” the old soldier nodded. “I need an aid, when I never did before. Then they were all about. Now you have to advertise for one to be underfoot. And even then, they don’t stick around long. Never mind. How’s your eyesight?”
“My eyesight?” the young man repeated, unclear.
“Yes, boy,” the soldier answered. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, as expensive as the rest. They went over the clear blue, hiding them behind a protective shield, in case anyone got lost looking at him. A stick was picked up from the ground, and extended before him.
At last, the old soldier stood. It took effort, when once he’d have leapt from the seat and been out the door, or on the ground, in seconds. Now, he waited for that old body to adjust, the stick tapping the ground before him to clear the area of untold obstacles.
“Like I said, I need an aid.”