eSMr. Houghton...

 This week for dVerse   we are asked to write about a 'character':

                                                       Mr. Houghton

He had sailed around the world as a Merchant Seaman.   I worked in the Old Federal Bldg. in the small post office inside, downtown.   One hundred percent Irish and in his 80’s, Mr. Houghton’s hunched body with a cane and an umbrella appeared weekly to pick up his mail.  He had coarse white hair which was connected to sideburns, then to a short beard and long scraggly whiskers.  Often, on said beard was tomato soup or food of some kind.  He wore a navy seaman’s captain’s cap pushed down over his  Jimmy Durante kind of nose.  Up close, he had blue-gray eyes, white eyebrows, and a crooked smile.

I imagined how handsome he was as a young man and longed to hear his tales.  Sometimes when work was slow we would have conversations in a corner in the room.  We liked a lot of the same movies and music.  I believe he was a romantic at heart and I became smitten with this much older man, with a lilt in his accent and a haversack over his shoulder.

He told me he went dancing most Saturday nights at the center house by the Space Needle.  I’ve watched them before, Waltzes, polkas, Cha-chas and rock n roll for the old folks.  I wish I had joined him there.
I wondered about his youth, growing up in Ireland, and his sailing days.  Did he have a girl in every port?
How many storm tempests did he experience and what were his favorite corners of the world.  I imagined him to have a treasure load of stories.  He looked rugged, but from the particular squint he displayed, I sensed a certain refinement in him.

Conceivably, he may have earned a living with his fists and hands, or fighting.  I imagined him courting young girls, getting married, and having a family.  I actually ache that I didn’t pursue his friendship. I often wondered what type of mail he was receiving.  Probably, money from the government, or a pension.

He could have been investing his money.  He was planning to go back and visit his sister.  I’ve romanticized the exchange of love letters as well as mail from a relative.

                     


One rainy day he arrived soaked.  He was complaining, swearing because the barbershop who he usually went to was closed.   It was not busy at work, so I offered to give him a haircut myself, gratis.  He agreed and I let him in through the side door.  For a the half hour or so I trimmed his hair, we didn’t speak much. I asked myself what might he be like at home, how would it be to go on a date with him, have dinner.  When he got up from his chair, he looked in the mirror and thanked me, blushing a bit.

“It was my pleasure”, I said.  Head bowed, turned to me, thanked me and he gave me a big grin. 

That night, I dreamed I wore a red dress as he danced me around the dance floor, the smell of Olde Spice aftershave.  After the dance, I saw myself sitting at his feet, on the floor in front of a fire.  Occasionally he puffed on his pipe while telling me tales of his life.  I remember wishing I had at least invited him to dinner, gotten to know him more.   I imagined we had met before, at another time, in a different place. 

I'll bet this old man of the sea could really cut a rug on the dance floor with me as his mate.

by klr                          

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