This was originally a flash fiction story for an ill advised participation in a contest.  It is a good story (in my humble opinion)   Oh, I would also be interested if anyone can identify the inspiration/genesis/basis of this story…

Enjoy!

The old man was there, perched on his rickety old folding chair towards the end of the dock. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, intently studying the horizon, as if his answers lay there. Jimmy knew if there were any answers, the old man wasn’t going to find them out at the edge of the green Caribbean sea.

Shaking his head and smiling, Jimmy headed down the dock, sweat already forming a “V” down the back of his shirt. Only 10am. Heh. You just gotta love the tropics.

The dock was littered with Red Stripe bottles, fish scales and the occasional hectic ball of tangled fish line – evidence of the previous evening’s fish-capades. The old man turned to see Jimmy approaching. He smiled and gave a tip of his straw hat.

Jimmy gave a little wave. “Hey, old man. Watcha catching?”

Smiling, he gave Jimmy a stern, “I told you not to call me that, boy.” and folded out another chair.

Laughing, Jimmy took the proffered seat and extended his hand. The old man took it and it always amazed the younger man him how firm the shake was, how the old man’s dry and gnarled hand fit into his, how much it was like coming home.

Jimmy was a deckhand who landed in the islands a few months back and had been waiting for the next sail charter to land in his lap. Just another pirate looking at 40, he had no timetable to keep, no commitments to nag at the back of his brain. A simple man, he figured the world was too big to understand so he was more than willing to just roll with the punches. He spent his mornings at the dock, more often than not fighting off the ghosts of last night’s rum. Afternoons were for siestas and the nights were for good times at Big Rico’s Cantina.

He’d seen the old man down on the dock most every day since he arrived. Always the same spot, line in the water and a bucket within arm’s reach, filled with Green Label beer in cahoots with a few ice chunks. Acknowledging nods turned into “How’s it going” into invites for a beer and a seat.

Jimmy liked Vikters immediately. He judged him to be approaching eighty or so with a full head of crystalline white hair and though he was missing one eye, the other was a deep green that seemed to mimic the very ocean that tassled and swelled beneath the dock. Vikters had a quiet kind of way about him that put the younger deckhand at ease. It was safe to say that they liked each other from the start.

Vikters had a story to tell and no one to tell it to. That was plain to see and Jimmy was glad to listen. Bit by bit the story bubbled to the surface. It didn’t arrive in a single bolus, knocking down everything in its path. No, it arrived as the steamers of yesteryear arrived at their port. A speck on the horizon, gradually coming into view and revealing itself to those who would care to watch.

Most days, the hours passed as the sun drew its blistering journey across the sky, the two men emptying bottles of the Green Label while Jimmy listened to the story Vikters had to tell. The one he needed to tell if his life was going to be complete.

As Jimmy listened, a complex tale emerged of this simple man. Born in the early part of the twentieth century, he had the world by the tail. Affluency was his birthright and he wielded all of the powers that come with that trademark. It wasn’t enough for Vikters though. He had questions, dammit. Questions that bothered him so.

So he went to Paris, certain that he would find what he was looking for. A country home, warm summer breezes and simple life put all of his ambitions at rest. Even a perfect life isn’t perfect forever and seeking the answers to new questions brought him to England.

England was good to Vikters for a while. He played piano for a local theater house and lived life certain that one day the answers would come.

Jimmy listened to the bits and pieces of this story with a quiet kind of reverence, interjecting when appropriate, but mostly listening and nodding or smiling where a good friend would.

Vikters married while he was in England. A beautiful young actress named Kim had caught his eye and he loved her as much as life itself. They married and within a year, she bore him a son.

As Vikters told this part, his voice grew quieter until he just stopped speaking. Jimmy saw a single tear roll down his cheek and for a very long time, Vikters said nothing – he just stared out at the ocean. Jimmy stood up, placed his hand on Vikters’ shoulder and said, “Tomorrow, my friend.” Vikters barely acknowledged and Jimmy headed up for an early rum at Rico’s.

The next day, Vikters offered no apology, no explanation. He just continued with his story.

It was 1943, and the bombings in London were relentless. Vikters son was flying missions for the RAF. That fateful day arrived when he came home to find Kim standing in the doorway, holding a tear stained yellow telegram. While still in grief, a late night bombing run took Kim’s life and his eye.

Vikters couldn’t stay. The memory was just too much. He caught a ride on a freighter leaving London for the Caribbean where the final chapters of his life would play out.

Jimmy sat next to his friend looking down at his feet. Finally, he looked over at Vikters.

“What about the questions, Vik?”

“There are no questions because there are no answers, Jimmy. Some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic, but I’ve had a good life all the way.”