An old man crosses the street and passes by Manchester’s one and only gas station.

There are no cars there nor people.   

Little kids set up their lemonade stands there by summer and by fall wait for their buses to whisk them off to school. 

No one makes any notice of the old man though, who watches silently from his window on the third floor of the old station. 

No one sees him cross the road at 3:30 precisely and unlock the backdoor at 3:40.  He’s just another rock, tree, cloud, or bush in their busy world. 

In Manchester, this man also has a life and thoughts as we all do, though some of us don’t suffer in the same way he does. 

“He goes by Simon Dexter” would be the reply of the clerk in the small store on the outskirts of Manchester.

  “You mean that old guy who putters around the gas station?  No one has ever dared to ask him.”  would be the simple reply of a younger kid living in one of the ancient houses down Manchester Avenue. 

But no, he didn’t go by ‘Simon Dexter’ or ‘that old guy’. 

If you were to ask him in his most pleasant time, he would simply say, “Do you mean Him?” he wouldn’t wait for an answer or anything more. 

If you were to follow him around all day as he does, you would learn much of his ways.

Though no one likes a story told with no background covered. 

He took over the gas station two years ago and has lived there ever since.

Un-married, bored, lonely.

He eats simply, dresses simply, and overall lives a simple life.

He didn’t used to live this way.

He used to have a dream.

A big dream.
HIM:

-Nowadays, people  don’t have dreams. 
-I try to. 
-Every night I cross my fingers and hope so badly that I can’t hope no more that it’ll come true. 
-By it, I mean him. 
-Him is where my inspiration comes from. 
-I never knew how much life could mean to someone before I met Him. 
-He doesn’t talk much, nor write much. 
-Him has a mind of Him’s own. 
-Never listening to my bidding. 
-Always up to something that I can’t tell. 
-I’m still trying to figure out what to call Him.

Tails:

-Everyone knows what a tale is.
-Everyone knows what a tail is.
-Not everyone knows how to tell a tale though.
-I can.
-If my life was a tail, it would be a long, blue and black one with a lightbulb at the end.
- I can tell you about my life, but who will really care in a dozen years?
-No one.
-I mean, maybe only those lucky old famous people.
-Even them though won’t be remembered sometime in the future when they’ve got cool gadgets.
-Like screens you can put letters on without using your sloppy writing.
-Days when you don’t have to sit in the broiling heat and wish winter would just come a little faster.
-I wonder if i’ll ever live to see those days.
-Maybe not.

Who’s to say:

-Why say the world will end tomorrow?
-Why say today?
-Why question the size of the world?
-Why question higher powers?
-They’re all just there.
-Whether you like it or not.
-Everything is.
-We just haven’t quite figured out what everything is really like.

Higher power than us:

-Higher powers must exist.
-Many people say they don’t.
-I say they do.
-They must.
-They have to.
-If not, then how did the earth come to be?
-How did the beginning of the beginning come without someone or thing to do it?

Now we all as readers can tell just by how he talks makes us wonder if this old man has a secret to tell us.

He keeps all these poem like writings in a drawer in his bedside table. 

To set the scene, his room, the color of a Green Santolina has a rickety table with three legs in the middle.

To the left, is a cabinet with a big silver lock that looks as if it hasn’t been touched for years. 

To the right of his little room are his bed and side table. 

When we approach the table, we see a little picture frame balanced atop it.   

A sketch in pencil shaded and stained with the yellowing of age. 

We cannot make out the details nor tell stain from pencil mark.

We can tell one thing. 

In small letters on the top so faded you would miss them if you just glanced is the one word: Him.

He still keeps hope.

He knows that just because the past can burden you, it won’t destroy you.

He knows he of all people has the power to move on.

To rise above. 

The question isn’t of how, but of what. 

What must he do to earn complete trust?

What must he do to make himself an important figure?

What must he say to be liked as everyone does to the president?

Then the question falls to is.

Is it too soon?

Is it too late?

The next day, he wakes at 2:00 and walks to the bus station where he used to wait as a child.

Feeling young again, he squints into the blazing blue sky and finds a cloud shaped as he likes and a smile lights up his wrinkled old face.

The bus pulls to a stop in front of him and he hands over two well earned coins to the driver. 

At 3:00 the bus pulls to a stop right in front of his destination and he gets off.

It takes some time but he has all the time to spare.

After an argument won by the old man, he departs at 4:00 as he suspected.

The next day, he goes to the little store and buys the Daily News for 4 cents. 

He flips wildly through the pages like an attack dog on the edge of his leash, straining with the collar tight at his neck.

His smile falters but he still hangs it on his bulletin board above his little bed as we watch this night through his window.

Why? 

We do not know.

What?

We have no more proof than I can show.

Years by years fall away like snake skins.

The man ages until he has done his years.

The day of his death, the people of his town gather around in the old cemetery and think of all he did or has ever done.

All the things they should’ve said.

The town house which normally holds two gentleman with simple papers is now full with people.

The younger of the two yells for order.

When one young lady has told the full  story, the silence falls like a door sliding into place.

Only interrupted by the keys clicking shut.

When his will has been opened, the people look up to the men expectantly.

“His will reads, ‘this shall only be heard out by one simple lad and that is Him’.”

The people all look around, confused.

Then one small boy raises his hand and says in a serious tone, “I will do the delivering sir, for I am the only one besides the man who knows Him.”

The gentlemen think this a good idea and hand it over.

The boy walks down the aisle and out the front door.

The young gentlemen don’t have a clue to where he went, as we do.

We watch as he walks past the old gas station, now boarded up.

The big FOR SALE sign stuck into the frozen ground is saddening to all the passersby.

He reaches the small store but continues on for an unknown destination.

Though the years continue to pass, the gas station stays untouched and the people are haunted by the missing boy and the old man’s will. 

A few days ago, an old man wandered into the town and saw the old gas station.

He smiled sadly and went inside; to the people’s surprise.

He pulls a sheet of paper from a manilla envelope and sits at the ancient table to read the words he was forbidden to see until now.

Dear Drew,

If you have listened, you will be 67 when reading my will.  I have only one request and it is that you will continue to find more of us.  Search carefully as I have taught you.  Don’t forget what our mission is.  I leave all my possessions to you, son.  Use them wisely and don’t let the old station be turned a-new.  If only there was more to say, but alas, there is not.  So my letter ends here.  But one more thing.  I will now tell you who Him is and you will not tell anyone of this.  Ever.  ___
                                      ___----____________