It’s my point of view, not yours.
July 29, 2014
WE SAT ALONG THE SHORELINE as night reached down to touch the whitecaps rushing toward the sands.
There were three of us.
The girl had driven down from Alabama last week and checked into the motel under a name that might belong to somebody, but it sure didn’t belong to her.
She had long hair.
The old man had lived in a trailer park for as long as I could remember.
I seldom remembered past last week.
She was on the run.
He had stopped running years ago.
What he looked like didn’t matter.
Somebody was after her.
Nobody wanted him anymore.
I was just passing through.
That’s the way I spend much of my life.
No where to go.
No where to stay.
I had become quite good at passing through.
The old man was chewing tobacco.
He had chewed the same plug yesterday.
He would chew the same plug tomorrow if he didn’t choke on it.
The girl asked for a cigarette.
I didn’t have one.
The old man wasn’t about to waste tobacco on anything he couldn’t chew on.
I wondered who she was and why she was running, and who wanted to find her. Her eyes were those of a frightened hamster.
She looked at me, and her eyes narrowed.
She started to speak but didn’t.
She smiled and waited for me to smile back.
I wonder who he is, she thought. And is he running from someone? Or is he chasing someone? And is he dangerous or a man who always simply winds up in a place he shouldn’t be?
“You can’t do that,” I said.
“Think those thoughts,” I said.
“I can think all I want to,” she said.
“Not in this story.”
“I don’t want your point of view,” I said.
“It’s my story.”
“It’s my point of view.”
This time I shrugged.
“You don’t have one,” I told her.
“When can I have a point of view?” she asked.
“When are you writing chapter three?”
She stood and walked slowly away from the shoreline.
“I’ll be back Thursday,” she said.
The old man looked up.
He watched her leave, then yelled after her.
“You’re one of the lucky ones,” he said.
She stopped and looked back over her shoulder.
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
“I’ve been sitting here for two months,” the old man said.
“All I’m doing I wasting my time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t have thoughts. I don’t have a point of view. I don’t even have a name.”
“That’s sad,” she told him.
“I’m not even in the book,” he said.