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