A continuation from The Old Man and the Beach

Respect.  That’s a word you don’t hear much anymore, or more specifically, you don’t see practiced or put in action very much. That’s why I couldn’t get old Ollie’s words off my mind: Respect, Carson. They know how to find me now, and when they see me, they show respect–the same respect I show them. Of course, the words that my thirsty hypothalamus told me proved to be more irresistible: The beer must be respected too.

So, I picked up my beach towel and book, walked up to the beach parking lot, threw them in and put on my T-shirt that said, be careful, or you’ll end up in my novel. Now, we will see who has the most interesting words on the T-Shirts, me or Ollie.  I knew my words were meant to make the reader laugh, but his words seemed to pack a punch:  Been there, done that, don’t mess with me. And yet, for God’s sake they fascinated me because it exuded a confidence that I didn’t expect with this limping, Einstein – esque man who twirled a cane.  I was off on my mission to respect beer and understand Ollie.

What I didn’t understand though, was who I was dealing with, and how would he handle the T – shirt writing contest that was suddenly thrust upon his peaceful beach-combing life.

It was easy to spot his chaotic white hair, and the old man was sitting in the middle of a long bar, with private booths surrounding the perimeter and some small tables in the center. I was lucky to see that there was no one sitting near him, probably because it was early, at 11:30 the younger crowd was just waking up from their late – night parties.  So, I sat next to him.   He did not even look at me, kept looking straight ahead at the baseball game on TV in front of him–Chicago Cubs and St Louis. Then, without looking at me, he said, “Glad you could join me, Carson. I knew you wanted to respect the beer; I could see it in your eyes on the beach, as soon as I mentioned my quest.  Anyway, here’s a Guinness for you.”  He pushed it in front of me, I thanked him and blurted out, “how do you know I like Guinness?”

“Just a guess.”

“And how did you know it was me, Ollie, without looking?”

“The sound of your footsteps, the cadence of your respiratory pattern, and most importantly, I knew your curiosity was hopelessly captured.”

“Amazing.”

“Not really, No.  I had some training back in the day, but most importantly, I have learned to feel things that are sometimes not obvious to the naked eye.”

I felt my tongue suddenly feel like it was glued to the floor of my mouth, and I quickly drank the beer Ollie gave me, so that I could once again speak intelligibly.

This time, he let his blue eyes look at my blues, then, a downward gaze to my T-shirt, finally. He looked back forward to the game again, and after a few minutes of death-valley quiet, he said, “thrillers, mystery, detective or hopefully not cheap romance?”

“Thrillers and suspense,” I said with a little more energy in my voice.  “You know, men can’t write romance.”

“Ah”, said Ollie. “Perhaps that is true. But a life must be lived with romance. That must be a part of unselfish love, and few men understand this anymore. Treat a good woman as a gift from heaven.  And, if you live a life that is based on a foundation of romance, there will be pain and suffering, but the adventure, thrills and danger that follow, will not deter you, but instead, spur you on to achieve much greater things, if you simply let it happen.”

“Sounds like you have had some experience in the romance department Ollie.”

“Carson, you have an interesting name. We’ll get to that another time.  But, once you are my age, everything in my being is experience, and every minute in life you receive is a gift– a gift that when combined with knowledge of life allows you to use that extra minute to make life a little better here on earth, especially for someone else.”

Ollie then turned to his right, and the beers kept coming to him from customers around the room.  Silently, customers were telling waitresses to send the old man a beer, saying nothing, but each time, they smiled at him and he acknowledged the respect.

“Looks like you have friends or fans Ollie.  That’s impressive.”

“Well, I don’t know.  I guess, as I said before it seems they know where to find me now. Before, they couldn’t because it was not the time to allow it.”

“You mean, like the Bonanza dipping his wings?”

He didn’t answer me, but looked at the corner booth, in the dark, and saw a man drinking alone.  I saw a pained squint in the old man’s eyes, and I saw a brief tremble in his left hand and his beer shook a little as he took a respectful swig. He took out a piece of paper, and looked like he wrote down some numbers, then folded the paper.

Sam the bartender, came to Ollie, when he motioned him over.  “Sam, I want to buy that man whatever he wants for dinner.  He needs it because his heart is in pain.  And here, take him some of these beers these nice people have been sending me, and give him this paper. Don’t let him say no. Just tell him he’s not alone.”

Stunned, I didn’t know what to say.   It’s rare that I have seen such kindness given to a complete stranger.  Especially from an old man, who is supposed to be weak and frail.

When he received this gift from Ollie, the man in the booth stood up, smiled at Ollie and came over to talk to him.

“Thank you, sir, for your kindness.  I haven’t wanted to eat much for a while, but I come to this bar because my wife and I spent lots of good times here, and I guess, when I sit here, I still imagine I smell her perfume.   You see, I lost my Delores last week, after 50 years of marriage.  But now, it seems, I have some hope, thanks to you sir.”

He stepped back, saluted Ollie, and Ollie stood up, saluted him back and said, “call me anytime.”

“You felt this didn’t you?” I said.   And how did he know you were in the military, or for that matter were you?”

Ollie’s hair seemed to stand up now, in back pointing upwards, but then, it always seemed out of control.  “Carson, I served the country and this beautiful but tragic world in many ways, with God as my guide.  And by the way, I am giving you exclusive permission to write my book, Mr. Carson, since you like to advertise your business on your shirt.  You can write it as historical fiction if you want, or pure fiction with a large modicum of truth, or whatever the hell you want, just ask me for guidance every now and then.”

“Why me?  You have not seen my work yet.”

“I don’t have to.   I know you already.  Now finish your damn beer and stop talking, S.R.”

Damn it.  I never told him my initials were S.R.   Just Carson.   He did it again.  So, I finally asked him: “How old are you, Ollie? I’m guessing 80.”

“106.  And my T-shirt beats yours. However, your T-shirt may in fact, bring you a huge pile of good luck, because if you write that book based on my life, and you do it well, you will be rewarded with a best – seller.”

© SRCarson Publications, 2022