Old Old Man

The Old Old Man

By


storyteller

"Can I go visit Mr. Bolleg, Dad?" Rusty whispered across the supper table.

"Sure," George Wells said, smiling at his ten-year-old son. Rusty had changed so much since they'd moved into this new house. A month ago, their apartment had been Rusty's whole world, except for school, now he could barely be kept indoors before dark. For the first time in his young life, Rusty had a tan, his blond hair was bleached nearly white, and he looked healthier and happier than ever. George glanced at his wife, Brenda, for her consent, but she began dragging her fork through the green beans, frowning.

Rusty sighed and leaned back in the new kitchen chair.

"Is there a problem with this?" George wondered if Rusty had been grounded and was trying to avoid his punishment. George's older brother, Tom, had always played their mother against their father this way.

"You said that it was okay for him to go," Brenda said harshly, "and so it's okay for him to go."

George waited for an explanation, but she didn't volunteer it. "Go ahead then, son."

Rusty climbed out of the chair, but stayed at the table. "Can I make him a sandwich?" His eyes were riveted on his mother.

"Take him the whole damn refrigerator," Brenda told him.

"All right," George said, his impatience finally surfacing. "There's no reason to speak to him that way. What the hell's going on here?"

"Tell him about Mr. Bolleg, Rusty," Brenda ordered.

"He's ... he's just an old, old man," Rusty said. "He lives in that little house across the cornfield. Right there." He pointed out the kitchen window.

George turned around and saw the weathered roof of a tiny structure barely rising above the knee-high corn. He looked at Brenda and shrugged.

"It's not a house," Brenda said, "It's an old converted chicken coop."

"He's real, real old, Dad. He can't hardly move."

"And you want to bring him a sandwich to eat for supper, right?"

"Yep."

"Well ... , I see no good reason why you can't."

"Tell your father the rest." Brenda ordered. "Tell him about those stories Mr. Bolleg has been filling your mind with."

Rusty looked hard at the table. "He said he met George Washington."

"And," Brenda prodded.

"Abraham Lincoln."

"He's been telling our son that he fought in the Revolutionary War. And the Civil War. And both World Wars."

"Well, ... maybe, … they're only tall tales from an old man. My grandfather began that habit in his last years. He didn't mean any harm, just got confused in his mind. Rusty understands that. Don't you, son?"

Rusty shrugged, then nodded grudgingly. "Can I be excused?" He glanced at his mother. With Dad here, her face showed little of the anger that flowed at him from her eyes, but he knew she would wait patiently until he did something wrong. He didn't want to be grounded tonight; Mr. Bolleg had told him that the stories were all true and not lies. Mr. Bolleg would never, ever lie to him. They were friends and friends didn't lie to each other. Mr. Bolleg told him that his mother and father wouldn't believe that those things could really happen. They just didn't understand how old he really was because there was a secret about it and Mr. Bolleg had promised to show him the real secret tonight.

"Yes," Brenda said harshly. "You are excused."

Rusty made the sandwich quickly and left.

***

Rusty entered the tiny, unpainted wooden shack without knocking. Mr. Bolleg's house smelled horribly like something had died inside here. Rusty held his nose closed for a few seconds, breathing through his mouth. He had learned to ignore the the stench because he wanted to hear the stories.

He paused inside the door to allow his eyes to adjust the dim interior. The entire room was lit only by the glow of a single burning candle on the table. He noticed Mr. Bolleg sitting on the creaky cot where he slept, reading from a thick book open across his knees.

"I brought you something to eat, Mr. Bolleg." Rusty held out the sandwich.

Mr. Bolleg didn't look up, moving his lips as he read. A withered hand motioned for Rusty to come and sit beside him.

Rusty sat and leaned over to see what held Mr. Bolleg's rapt attention. "How come I can't read the words?" Rusty asked.

"Because it is a very old and very special book. It's written in a language that has not been spoken for a thousand years," Mr. Bolleg said, grinning.

"Then why are you reading it?"

"It holds the secret that we've been talking about."

"What's the book do?"

"It's like a ... key to the secret. You want to know the secret, don't you?"

Rusty nodded qiuckly, but noticed that his smile didn't seem friendly in the shadows cast by the candle. Mr. Bolleg's face appeared to have no skin. It looked more like a skull. A shiny yellowish glow seemed to be coming from his hollow, sunken eyes. Rusty grew a little afraid.

Mr. Bolleg carefully closed the book and laid it softly on the cot. "I cannot long live in this body, Rusty. You do know that?"

Rusty nodded slowly again.

"In fact," Mr. Bolleg continued, "it will stop functioning very soon. Maybe even tonight." He placed his thin and brittle hands firmly on Rusty's shoulders and leaned close. Rusty could smell his rank breath. "You don't want that to happen to me, do you? You're my friend."

"No, I don’t," Rusty said, looking deeply into those eyes. He started feeling very sleepy. "You're my friend."

"Your best friend." Mr. Bolleg nodded and Rusty unconsciously nodded with him. "You do believe that I saw George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. You believe everything I've ever told you is true, don't you?"

"Yes," Rusty whispered. His thoughts were suddenly floating on a placid sea of clouds.

"You want to find out my secret, don't you?"

Rusty nodded.

"No, Rusty, you must say it."

The ancient, crooked fingers tightened their grip on the his shoulders and those eyes bored deeply into him. "Yes, I want to know the secret."

Mr. Bolleg pulled Rusty to him until their foreheads touched. "Just keep looking into my eyes ... deeply into my eyes. Don't look at anything else."

Rusty obeyed and the world spun and seemed to change. He saw a rapidly unfolding series events in his mind and knew that Mr. Bolleg's stories were true. Rusty felt as though he were being pulled out of his body Then time seemed to fall away, only to return and weigh heavily on him. He suddenly had aches and pains in his body and never felt this tired in his life before. His eyes burned, so he leaned back to close and rest them for a moment. When he opened them again, he saw himself grinning back. He reached out, expecting his fingers to touch the cool, smooth surface of a mirror. Instead, he felt warm, supple flesh, saw himself stand and begin laughing.

"That's the secret!”

Rusty's own voice rang in his ears as his body danced into the center of the room.

"Now you know how I did it! When I grow old, I get a young body and start all over again. One like yours. You must understand that I have to do this. I cannot die. Ever. You appeared just as that body you are now in began to fail. And I needed another."

Rusty reached toward himself, but the arm muscles wouldn't react quickly. He felt a great pain with the effort and watched himself snicker and dart easily out of reach. Puzzled, Rusty studied his hands, which were now gnarled and pale. The veins on the backs stood out so clearly that the skin seemed transparent.

"I'm almost sorry that I had to do this to you, my little friend. But this is how I have survived all these centuries. You are Mr. Bolleg, now. I am Rusty Wells."

"I'm not Mr. Bolleg! I'm Rusty Wells! Give me ... back my … ," Pain suddenly shot from the center of his chest, coursed through his left shoulder and down the arm. Numbness engulfed the left side of his face. The world spun crazily. He was vaguely aware of a knocking somewhere beyond the periphery of consciousness.

"Son?" A familiar voice asked from a long way off.

Hearing is name echoing through the gathering darkness in his mind, Rusty tried to answer his father, but he could utter no sound.

Yet, he did hear himself reply.

END

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