The wind blew with a passion that I couldn’t quite explain in my years of youth. When I asked myself what to do my conscience only told me nothing of importance. An insignificant thing a conscience is when it tells you to do something of major immortal concern and yet you want nothing to do with such an action as this. A tiny insignificant thing as well is the wind. Some say it brings life and joy but, I say it brings a type of peace and harmony and It also brings shame and dismay. The factors of life we live by, Money, fame, riches, and pride. Ah, the elephant in the room. Pride. 

 We act on pride and sometimes we act out of pure and holy love. A love you cannot find in the depths of your soul. But only in a hopeful dream of the future. We have our faults and we have our strengths. This wind on this particular night was quite strong. A wind I had never felt before, A storm I had never seen before and yet it was pleasuring and worthwhile. The storms of life I’d like to call it. It was the night that many things changed for me. Both good and both bad. The terriblesome night of agony and mischief that must be endured to tell such a tale as this. 

 It was dark so unbelievably dark and a bit humid if I do say so myself. It was good weather to be who I was, a man of utmost fame and fortune. Likable unlike I am now and very well behaved. Some might even say I was funny and intelligent in some ways more than others. Or they might tell you I was rude and pompous. Or perhaps a scoundrel of some sort. Yes, a scoundrel. On my feet were a pair of brand new dress shoes and a garish hat on my head. I was a legend of the wealth of parties and the source of gossip. The man in the alley was tolerable and sentimentally arrogant. He meant no harm. He was simply resting, he said. Yes, taking a quick nap. I approached him aimlessly and only wanted to walk to the can he was resting his head upon amidst the dirty grimy mess of this particular section of the alley. It went all the way to the end of the road. Where Mrs. Lamanian’s apartment sat. The door was wide open and inviting. I watched her from a distance that was unnecessarily meaningful or worth the questions it cost me in the long run. But, I did every morning after my morning breakfast at the only breakfast joint in town. The feelings of betrayal that filled my heart were confusing and satisfyingly comforting at the same time. Revenge was an interesting way to look at this but also a simple solution to my problem. Many would-be glad at my decision to end this pandemonium once and for all. But I wasn’t sure of the consequences that would follow. The man spoke in a gravelly well-controlled voice.

 ‘’What is your story?’’ He asked.

  ‘’ I don’t see how that is any of your concern,’’ I answered, controlling the emotion hidden beneath the irises of my oceans. 

‘’You lie in uncertainty and you hide your thoughts.’’ He remarked solemnly his face a void of emotion. 

‘’Are you accusing me of false truths?’’ I was not going to be called a liar. Or a coward for that matter. 

‘’Tell me then, what is your name?’’ His whispery voice was barely audible in the city noise behind me. The rest of the world seemed to be waiting for my answer. 

 The lights of Manhattan and the automobiles that roared past two men having a civilized conversation. Nothing to worry about. The silence continued and the man waited with irritable patience I could not fathom. What was he thinking? Was he truly interested in my life and my world? Did he have no shame? The darkness waited for my answer. I was convinced I would not tell him about myself. About who the man was under the mask I made for myself. The angry sensitive human soul that was as fragile as a glass ball filled with all the anger in the world. It was an insufferable thought. Should I tell him? Or should I cower like the prey?

  He was the predator. And I was the small frightened animal. Trembling in my shame and tragic loss. Floundering in possibilities unimaginable. The bad inside me said to lash out in my pain. And the good sat silent. Motionless and patient. Trusting me in my own decisions. My head hurt from this problem that sat in front of me. I felt empty and inconsolable. My anger was harsh and reckless.

‘’Your name, If I may ask again?’’ His tone was a force of nature to my tormented soul.

 ‘’Finnian Henry Jago..’’ 

‘’A supplanter.’’ He murmured under his breath. ‘’Fair, Power, and Overtake. Such meaning and history.’’ He stared intensely at the filthy wall in front of him a bolt lay at his feet and he stared at it with more depth than I could muster. A gaze strong enough to cause the metal to smoke and flame in desperation. His mouth moved with silent notations and gibberish talk. His concern deepened with every breath of the warm night air I took. Reluctantly I spoke. The words tumbling from my mouth in desperation. He was so persuasive. How could you resist? The  man is of no importance other than the breath of life that filled his body. Could it be so obvious that he was no angel? The angel of death. Angel of no grace. Or mercy temptations so strong the fierceness of the night encapsulating any onlooker. Death of shame and torture. So strange. He was. Like a mysterious shot in the dark chilled night. Winter’s breath upon your shoulder. The fog that surrounded the caves of hell. I stood in awe at such a desperate man. What was his intention by asking me these things?

 ‘’Your profession?’’ He said a lonely tint in his voice.

‘’Apothecary,’’ I said. My mind wandered elsewhere. ‘’I work with Dr. Wells, the physician, If I do say so myself he is a very pleasant acquaintance to have in such times as these.’’

 ‘’Yes, you did say so yourself, so smart.’’ He paused. ‘’And you said Apothecary so you have a high education, If I do say so myself I must say that you are a man of high standards and low cowardly cause.’’ He snarled the words of discomfort and I felt entitled to defend myself.

‘’How dare you to speak to me in such a manner you filthy vagrant!’’ I hissed in disposition and felt very ashamed of my words but, satisfied at their harmful meaning. ‘’Dirt such as yourself belongs on the ground, not with the wealthy who belong in the clouds.’’

‘’No, you are the flower that grows from the dirt. You use the scarce water we have and cover up our good with your disgusting perfect petals. No one pays attention to us. They all like your money, your fame. Well, you can keep it!’’

 ‘’ Hypocrite!’’ I remarked. The man was angry and his eyes shone with hatred for me.’’You carry yourself with shame and bring misfortune upon yourself. You are a street scum who will amount to nothing. You use your inconvenient lifestyle and make us who work for their wealth look arrogant and heartless. You are the reason you are where you are and I could care less about your meaningless life.’’ I huffed with a satisfied sigh.  ‘’You ask pointless questions with no meaning to you and your lifestyle,’’ I gestured to his filthy blankets scattered on the ground. Moth eaten and grimy with rain and mold.

‘’You care for no one but yourself.’’ He whispered. 

‘’At least I care about something.’’ I snapped and stalked off. My starched coat swayed in the night breeze behind me. The man scrambled to his feet. He tripped over his blankets in his haste to get to me.

“Wait’’ He whispered. ‘’I meant no harm. I am only curious,’’ He paused lines of sorrow etched in his face.  

 ‘’You amuse me,  Most of the onlookers pass me by, Some are generous enough to acknowledge my existence, others are indifferent and scold me for my lifestyle. I was not trying to ridicule you, I only miss companies such as yourself. You see I was a carpenter once.’’ He stared off down the alley as if gathering his thoughts and remembering this for the first time. 

‘’I worked with a man by the name of Arnold. I knew nothing about him, Where he was from, if he had a family, His age, even his last name. He told me nothing other than what he wanted. So I carved it for him. It was always a large thing. A table, a dresser, or sometimes a jewelry box. That he always wanted to be covered in beautiful designs.’’ I turned to face him. His pause was inviting and his story interested me.

“I assumed he had a daughter and one day I carved him a small box with a beautiful fairy on it. The same fairy stood in a lovely flower on the inside and twirled with the music that played when you wrung it up on the outside. I placed a little silver chain on the inside and tied it closed with some string. It took me months of work to make it just so. It was a gift for him because he seemed sad and he was my best customer.’’ He seemed confused at this point in the story and looked at me with haste. “He came back the Sunday after I finished it. His little wooden cart had two large palominos in the front. And a large pile of groceries sat in the seat beside him.’’ Anger flashed across the man’s face. His tale was spinning in a new direction and I was afraid of where it was leading to.

 “When he entered my shop I was shivering with excitement. He came in yelling and spitting in all directions. He believed that I had done him harm. When I asked him what I had done he stomped off back to his cart.’’ The man’s raggedy clothing made him look even sadder and lonelier. The disappointment in his eyes was scary to behold. ‘’He sat there on the edge of that little ride for hours not speaking or anything of importance. Just staring. After I finished my work around noon his clothes were soaked and his eyes red from tears of grief. The yellow meadow stalks were swaying in the breeze and the long willow tree around back was wafting a sweet smell in my direction. I went to my room and removed my best trousers and button-up from my dresser. The same dresser I had carved eighteen years before this incident. Then I approached him.’’ He paused so long I thought he would never continue. I waited patiently for him to end the silence but he never did. After about an hour I asked him. 

 “What happened?’’ When he answered I was shocked at this reply. 

‘’He took the clothes and thanked me. Then he asked me about the desk I had finished months ago. After I had loaded it up he thanked me for my work and told me that he couldn’t pay me. I assumed he was out of money and went inside to fetch the beautiful box I had made... When I came back outside to give it to him, he was gone. I never saw him again. But, I kept that box and hope that someday someone will buy it.’’ He looked at me and sighed then repeated his question once more. 

‘’What is your story?’’

And then I told him. 

‘’I grew up on a farm in the west. Not far from here. My mother died from malaria when I was young and my father chopped wood and sold cattle for a living. He made trinkets for women to buy at the market every afternoon when the sun was just above the tree line on the far end of our land. When I turned thirteen he taught me how to work in the shop. I learned detailing and how to make a knife with many different tools. His father, my grandfather was a blacksmith during the war.’’ 

‘’What did your mother do?’’ He asked with a curious tint in his voice.

 “She was a seamstress,’’ I answered. Not sure if it was a good occupation or not.

 ‘’She made dresses for women and worked on the farm helping making clothing in the evening. When she returned from work she was very tired and we always had a home-cooked meal on Sundays.’’ I tried to remember what her cooking was like but, it was too long ago for my mind to recall. 

‘’My mother was a baker.’’ He stated matter of factly. ‘’She baked warm loaves of bread for my father and me and worked late into the night. When I was fifteen years old she came down with a fever and I cared for her well into my school days. Sometimes I would miss weeks at a time because she would have coughing fits or seizures. The doctors forbid her from going outside during the spring because they were afraid she would be affected by the pollen and have more of those horrid fits.’’ I listened to the stranger’s story and nodded here and there wondering in my mind how he had a memory such as this one. So clear and vivid even at his age. His stringy hair fell intermittently around his moon-shaped face as he hung his head in the sorrowful memories of his youth. Why oh why was he so interested in telling me his story? Why did he want to know mine? I wished I could read his mind. I wanted to hear his thoughts. Was he a sick-minded man or did he have worldly issues with his life as I did? I zoned out as he talked. Letting his words sink into my head without meaning to. They took me somewhere else. Somewhere incomprehensible to someone with a perfect understanding of mankind. They would not be able to decipher the way that this poor man lived. I couldn’t construe this place in mere words. Only in thought and action. Or maybe in song. Perhaps a bit of poetry. Like one of the famous John Donne or George Herbert. Both were very well known at this time. ‘’No man is an island.’’ I believe he said at some point. No man is something to explore and leave. Neither should one be treated as anything other than human. He continued his story with a better attitude than before… 

 ‘’When I was young, my father taught me about his work. Sometimes I wondered if the work he did was an excuse to ignore my mother. She was demanding and had a questionable air of defiance that my father hated. His religion told him that she was defying her god and the devil was controlling her. ‘’ He seemed to forget my presence for a moment and I wanted to question him. What was he thinking?

 “Sometimes when my mother would have a fit she would make this terrible gurgling noise in her throat and I felt her pain in my own heart. My cold heart. My brother had a warm and lively heart. The lady next door would sometimes come just to hear him chatter about useless things. Of no importance to anyone but him. My father thought he was a demon because his face was large and he was queer in a way I had never seen. He looked at you into your mind. Some say he could see into heaven and that’s why his eyes were spread farther apart. He had a small block of wood and he would sit in his chair and chip at it with a small chisel. He told me it was an angel. ‘’Like mama.’’ The small man sat there and watched the squished can for a while longer. A cart drew near. Two gleaming white horses trotted elegantly in front. Their snouts let out huffs and steam rolling off their smooth backs in the chill night air. The cart stopped and the driver stared at me with interest. His glassy eyes shone with a frightening red glare amidst their black coal centers and he disappeared with the sound of hooves and a cloud of steam.