1/n
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1/n
There’s a character in my town who I hadn’t seen around for a few years. I’ve thought of him sometimes and worried about his wellbeing.
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2/n
As long as I’ve lived here, Mick was seen all over the area, easily identifiable by his long, thick matted hair and beard, stocking cap, and generally earthy, well-worn, but not worn-out appearance, always with a certain glint in his eye beneath the somewhat grimy surface. He often had a rucksack with him, and was usually seen chilling by the side of a road, enjoying a snack of an apple or sandwich.
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3/n
You could easily mistake him for “homeless”, and while he likely does “sleep rough” sometimes - based on the rucksack and the way he seems to roam around a wide area on foot - the story goes that that’s not the case.
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4/n
It’s a smallish town where some people know other people’s business, and that gets spread. Mick, apparently, is a member of well-off local family that has supposedly washed its hands of him, but first gave him some amount of money for him to live on, and a shed to live in.
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5/n
I have no way of knowing if this is true, or whether there is a kernel of truth that has been twisted in different directions, as happens with ancient gossip/legend. But the one time I properly spent time with Mick, besides just saying hi, offered some clues.
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6/n
Fifteen years ago when I was between full-time jobs, and when my oldest son lacked direction but was full of entrepreneurial energy, we opened a coffee shop/café in a neighbouring town which we ran for a few years. We attracted a lot of interesting and unusual characters – artists, drunks, bus drivers, tourists, scammers, foreign students, Sinéad O'Connor’s ex, daughter, and bass player – and one day we even hosted the very most unusual character of Mick himself.
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7/n
He came in for something to eat (I can’t remember if he had coffee or tea), ordering a toasted cheese and onion sandwich, and when he was paying for it he shoved his hands in his front trouser pockets, pulling out wads of crumpled, dirty 50 euro notes.
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8/n
It was a nice day and Mick sat outside. I brought his sandwich to him and he must have invited me to sit down, because I remember sitting at his table as he ate, recounting to me and another person (can’t remember who it was) a story from his life experience.
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9/n
The story had no beginning, middle, or end. It was full of fantastic drama and shockingly improbable events told earnestly, matter-of-factly, and incomprehensibly. The monologue seemed identical to the non-linear, illogical, and abstract style of a particularly vivid dream. And just like in the aftermath of a dream, I struggle to remember details.
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10/n
What I do remember is that Mick had been living in America, it might have been in the Civil War era, and he had been an air force pilot during wartime in Pennsylvania, illustrated with detailed descriptions of various aircraft. His accent was half local, half American, and despite the rambling, almost impossible-to-follow narrative, he spoke with complete confidence and friendliness.
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11/n
Yesterday I was walking the dog, heading home down a familiar road, when I looked up and saw a startling figure leaning against a fence next to a field, enjoying some early evening sunshine. He had long matted hair, looked a little frail and grey but totally relaxed, with a long wool pointy cap on his head, like a pantomime elf had just emerged from hibernation. He was smiling at me – or at something – and we said hi to each other as I passed, just as in years gone by.
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12/12
I felt very happy and relieved Mick was back and doing well, and I hope to see him around again soon.
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G gustavinobevilacqua@mastodon.cisti.org shared this topic on
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What a fantastic experience!
