The scenic route took me throughout the countryside of Dayton. The rolling hills were covered with leafless tress, a few had snow on the branches and a few didn’t. It must had snowed, looked about four inches of snow covered the lawns giving a Christmas kind of spirit. The homes were two story white framed. Each home had a long winding driveway that led from the road up to the front door. And on each property there were at least five acres of land nestled in the back of the house. Some had made small vegetable garden that produce a profit for the family, while others had built greenhouses-a few for profit and a few for a hobby. There was one house that had a helicopter in the backyard. I stopped the Jeep and gazed at it for a long time; longer than I thought for an old white bald man approached me. He wore a gray sport jacket and brown corduroys. He came up to the Jeep, tapped on the window, and looked inside. I reached over and rolled down the window. “Hello partner,” he said cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?” “Oh, no sir, I just was admiring your aircraft back there.” I pointed into the direction of the item. He turned to look and then brought his attention back to me. He pondered for moment and then he asked. “Are you interested in buying it?” “Well…no, I am not a pilot, sir.” His bright blue eyes become slants. “So why are you out here gawking at it?” He said angrily. ‘I had a friend that was a pilot and he took me up in a helicopter a lot of times.” “So this friend of yours, the pilot, what airline he flies?” “He had his own business.” “He had? What happened, he sold it?” “Yes.” I lied. He chuckled. “Yes partner, I know that life all too well. You see that is Betsy back yonder, my baby, and I don’t fly like I used to, old age and glaucoma,” he paused, stared at me and asked. “How old are you?” “Forty.”
He chuckled again and then he gook and then spat out some mucus. “Tomorrow, I’ll be one hundred years old. Saw a lot in my days and done just about a lot of things in my time. Hey, partner, why don’t come on in, if you and I are gonna talk, I want to be more comfortable. I tell the wife to put out an extra plate.” He walked away. “But, sir, I don’t want to impose and it’s late. I was on my way home.” He come back to the Jeep, looked inside at me and said. “Sonny, humor a couple of old folks. You know I think it was fate that brought you here, why this morning I was telling the wife that it would be nice if someone will stop by and to chat with us.” “But sir, you don’t know me, I could be harmful.” “Oh, you wrong there partner, I know you, at least I know that you work down at the library. I had seen you there plenty of times. I’m one of those old geezers that come in twice a week to read the papers and other materials. It’s a good social outing for us.” “I’m so sorry sir, I didn’t recognize you. I should have.” “I was there today.” He said. “Oh, really, I don’t remember seeing your group, sir.” He laughed. I must say he is a cheerful person. He said. “Damn right you didn’t see us. You were too busy with that young girl.” “Excuse me.” “Sonny, don’t be coy. That young girl; a little shorter than you, dark, with long hair, what they said from my young days, oh yeah, she has good breeding hips. She almost laid a big juicy kiss on you there at the copier.” I was astonished. “Um, partner, you could close mouth now, don’t want the files to get in.” We both laughed. “Sir, she is just a regular customer, that’s all. I don’t have any interest in her.” “You’re a damn fool, if you let that skirt get away from you. Rumor has it that you are a widower.” I never knew my personal life would be of interest to an old man who is a regular at the library.
“Would you like a ride up to your house?” He hoppled in and I drove up to the house. Old people always have this effect on me. It’s like I’m under their spell, for they always seemed to know to what I am doing or going to be doing before I actually know. I parked the Jeep under the canopy, got out and walked around in the front of it. The old man was waiting for me at the front door. He had it opened for me and when I approached the steps, a diminutive woman appears in the threshold. “This little lady is my wife, Martha. Sweetie, this here is Mr. Washington, from the library.” I wasn’t amazed that he knew my name, maybe I shall be. Of-course the old man has a good memory, for my name is posted on top of the large circular desk for a visitor to see. I just don’t like it when whites seemed to know more about me that I know about them. And now I’m going into a stranger’s house. I turned and asked. “What’s your name, sir?”
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