The Wheel Turns

A novel about a young man learning to write, guided by an old man he mistakes for a hobo.

I'd been watching Harlan James for some time. He wasn't the sort of man you could easily overlook, though most people did. With his stooped shoulders, weathered skin and kind eyes, he looked like one of those old-timers from a storybook, but there was nothing pitiful about him. Some might have likened him to Uncle Tom, but that comparison seemed inadequate. He stood at the supermarket checkout, quietly and efficiently packing groceries, and what set him apart was the way he used people's names. Not 'sir' or 'ma'am', but their actual names, picked up in passing conversation or from a loyalty card, and spoken back to them with a smile that always caught them off guard.

He wore the same faded dungarees every day, and in the chest pocket of his dungarees sat a small, battered notebook. When the rush of customers ebbed, he would carefully remove it, click open a pen and scrawl something down. A sentence, a phrase, perhaps a scrap of memory, it was impossible to tell. Watching him, I always wondered what kind of things an old man like that would find worth writing down. But I never had the courage to ask.

I had only just started working in the shop next door, which sold wallpaper, paint, and decorating tools. At sixteen, wiry and already dismissed as a school failure, I was lucky that my uncle owned the shop. He let me stack shelves, stir paint and carry rolls of paper for customers. He seemed to like me, although he frowned whenever he caught me scribbling in my notebook during breaks, as though words were a waste of a boy's time.

That's what first tied Harlan and me together in my mind: those notebooks, his and mine. I didn't know if we truly had anything in common, but seeing him write made me feel less alone, as if our secret urge to put words on paper was a quiet thread running between us.

One Monday morning, on a grey, half-hearted start to the week when people kept their heads down, I happened to see him walking in the same direction as me. His pace was steady and unhurried. For once, we weren't separated by the glass walls of the supermarket or the counters of our shops. My pulse quickened, this was my chance.

I edged closer, my nerves catching in my throat. "Excuse me," I said, my voice higher than intended. "Don't you work in the supermarket next to the paint shop?"

He turned towards me and there it was again, that smile of his, as if I'd said something clever or kind rather than the obvious. "I am," he replied, his tone warm and measured. "And you must be the new shop attendant in that paint store. Harlan James is my name."

I introduced myself. "I'm Fabian Williams."

Harlan reached across to shake my hand, his grip firm but not too strong, and his smile broadened as though hearing my name was a pleasure in itself. "Nice to meet you, Fabian! I haven't heard of many people called Fabian around here. That makes you unique."

I felt my cheeks warm a little. "It was just my mum's favourite name back then," I said quickly. "She says she wouldn't call me that today."

"Oh no!" Harlan said, stopping for a moment as though to make sure I understood him. "Names choose people, not the other way around. Yours came to you for a reason. Wear your name with pride."

He was so certain that I couldn't think of a reply. We walked on side by side in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. His presence had a steadiness to it, like walking alongside a river that happened to move at your pace.

My eyes drifted to the little notebook peeking from the pocket of his dungarees. I wondered what might be inside, whether the man's quiet wisdom came from those pages, when suddenly he caught me looking.

"You're wondering why an old man carries a notebook around with him," he said, his voice touched with amusement.

Heat rushed to my face. "I didn't want to be nosy," I said quickly.

"Don't worry," he chuckled. "It's my gratitude book. I write down everything I'm grateful for."

My puzzled expression made him laugh harder. "You've never heard of one of those, have you?"

I shook my head. "I thought you were a writer, making notes."

"Oh, I write too," he said, pulling the notebook out and flipping it open with care. I caught a glimpse of neat lines, each beginning with a small dash. "But this, this is for gratitude."

Something in the way he said it, so matter of fact and yet so reverent, unsettled me. Gratitude wasn't something I thought much about at sixteen.

"Are you an author?" I asked, my voice carrying more hope than I meant.

He smiled, not with pride but with the patience of someone who had been asked that many times before.

"No," he said, slipping the notebook back into his pocket. "But I'm a storyteller."

My hopes soared, though before I could press further, I saw we were nearly there. The road forked--the supermarket on one side, my uncle's paint shop on the other.

"I'd like to hear one of your stories one day," I said, trying to sound casual.

"Inshallah," he replied, still smiling. The word caught in my ear like a pebble dropped into water, sending ripples through my thoughts. Inshallah. I didn't know what it meant, but it lingered with a kind of weight.

We parted ways: he slipped into the back of the supermarket, and I pushed through the paint shop door.

"Where have you been?" Uncle Ben's voice snapped at me the moment I stepped in.

"I came straight here," I said, startled.

"Then don't dawdle!" he shot back. "Your mother told me you left the house over half an hour ago!"

"Am I late?" I asked, glancing at my watch. It was still five minutes before opening.

Ben folded his arms, his heavy brows drawing together. "Fabian, do you think you can slide through life like this? You need some discipline. You've had it too easy, and dropping out of school was a mistake. I think my brother would want me to put some discipline in you."

The mention of my father struck like a sudden stone. Words spilled out of me, harsher than I intended: "My dad is dead! He worked himself into the ground, and for what?"

Ben's face tightened, but his voice stayed firm. "He wanted you to go to college, Fabian. He worked so you could have choices he never had."

"I'd rather he was here!" I blurted, my throat thickening.

For a moment, silence fell between us. Ben looked at me--half stern, half weary--and I could tell he wanted to say more, but the clatter of a customer at the door pulled his attention away.

The rest of the day took my thoughts off Harlan James. Uncle Ben had me running around fetching this and that while he stood behind the counter, smiling at customers and chatting as if he had all the time in the world. I only caught fragments of their conversations, but they always seemed to circle back to the same theme: what was happening in the country.

Once, when I lingered a little too long, Uncle Ben's eyes flicked toward me. Instead of waving me over, he turned to the middle-aged woman at the counter and said, loud enough for me to hear, "That boy has some surprises coming, and I don't know if I'll be able to protect him."

The words landed in my chest like a stone. I pretended not to notice and hurried back to the storeroom.

At lunch, I was allowed to make a sandwich from whatever was in the fridge. I lined up the bread, cheese, and tired lettuce, but my mind was elsewhere, circling Uncle Ben's warning. Protect me from what?

Mum always joked that I was "in orbit somewhere" and would theatrically call me to come back down to earth. I laughed along, but the truth was, I could tell she didn't really find it funny. My teachers thought the same and told me that their lessons were slipping past me, wasted. After Dad died, whatever hold I'd had just loosened, and I never caught up.

Mum and I were devastated by Dad's death.

Later, though, she grew angry with him, which I never understood. Sometimes she screamed into the silence of her room, "Why did you let me down?" as though he could still hear her. Once, I went in to comfort her, but she turned on me, her face red and twisted with grief, and shouted for me to get out, which I did. Since then, I let her cry.

My imagination became my refuge. Words often got stuck in my throat, but when I could find a pen and paper, I felt a kind of peace. Writing gave me an escape when everything else felt overwhelming. Paper, however, was a luxury, so I scavenged scraps from the shop or the back of old receipts, filling them with half-formed sentences and fragments of dreams.

At school, only a few of my teachers' words ever caught my attention. Even then, it wasn't the facts or formulas that stuck with me--it was whatever stirred my imagination. Those stray phrases lingered long after the lessons were over, like sparks from a fire that refused to die. They found their way into my notes, where I spun them into little stories or fragments of dreams, and for a while, I didn't care much about the rest of the world.

But lately, I was beginning to get the feeling that I should start caring.

On my way home that evening, a familiar voice called from behind, "Hey, Fabian, wait a minute!"

I turned and saw Harlan hurrying toward me. His gait was uneven, but his smile was steady. "I'm not so fast as I used to be!" he said between breaths.

"Had a busy day?" I asked.

"Most days are busy," he said with a soft chuckle, "but some are difficult for other reasons." He tilted his head, studying me for a moment. "I wanted to ask you what you like to write about."

"Oh," I said, surprised that he even remembered. "I just write what comes to mind."

"I thought so," he said. "But maybe you'd like a little advice from an old man. That's if you were thinking of doing some serious writing."

"How do you mean, serious?" I asked, not sure whether to be flattered or wary.

"Well," he said, "you could write short stories, poems, maybe even an essay about what it's like leaving school to go to work. Whatever you choose, the point is to make it readable."

"I thought it was readable," I said, a bit more sharply than I intended.

He smiled, unbothered. "When I was your age, I wrote for myself too. But when I got to college, I learned that if you want people to listen, you've got to help them understand you. Writing isn't just about what's in your head, it's about connection."

I frowned, uncertain how to respond. "So, what would you suggest I do?"

"Think about what you want to say and how you'd like others to hear it," he said. "Then write it down carefully, thoughtfully. And if you want, show me. I'll give you some advice."

His offer caught me off guard. "I haven't got money for notebooks," I said defensively. "Mum takes what I earn for food and board."

Harlan stopped walking and looked at me, not with pity, but with quiet consideration. "What time do you start tomorrow?"

"Same as today," I said.

"Alright," he nodded. "I'll bring you a notebook. I've got plenty at home."

"I'll pay ..." I started, but he raised his hand.

"You'll pay when you're ready, not tomorrow."

Soon we reached the corner where I turned off toward home. He gave a small wave, his smile warm in the fading light. As I walked down the street toward our estate, I felt a pang of guilt. Here was a man who looked like he could use help himself, and yet he was offering it to me without a second thought.

I looked around at the rows of neat, middle-class houses, each one identical, each one silent behind its drawn curtains. Somehow they watched me as I decided that I'd ask Mum for a bit of money--to buy a notebook of my own.

Mum had left a note on the kitchen table saying she'd be home late, along with a meal in the microwave. She hadn't said much that morning, so I had no idea where she was going. As I ate, I found myself thinking about what Harlan had said: "Think about what you want to say and how others will hear it." His words lingered like an invitation I couldn't ignore.

After rinsing my plate, I began searching for paper. Mum kept an old writing desk in her bedroom, the kind with a roll-top that creaked when you opened it. Inside was the usual clutter: bills, receipts, and old pens. Then I saw her laptop.

I hesitated.

My own laptop had broken a month before the end of term, and Mum had been furious about my results. She'd told me that if I wanted a new one, I'd have to buy it myself, even though she knew perfectly well that she took all my earnings.

I pressed the power button. The screen lit up without prompting me for a password, but it wasn't connected to the internet and the battery was almost dead. I found the charger, then carried everything to my room, feeling both guilty and determined. Once it was plugged in, I opened an old word processor. It was simple and open source. I stared at the blank page.

That was when it hit me: I had no idea what to write.

I went back to Mum's desk, tore a sheet of paper from a pad, and sat on my bed with a pen. Slowly, ideas began to take shape: vague images, snippets of conversation and the feeling of sunlight through trees. I began typing, thankful that I could delete anything that didn't sound right. Words stumbled out, then gathered speed. Before I knew it, I was writing about a boy in the countryside who met an old man full of strange wisdom.

I surprised myself. The story seemed to flow of its own accord, as though the words had been waiting for this moment. I only stopped for water, then returned to the keyboard. Time slipped by unnoticed.

When I finally looked up, it was nearly eleven o'clock and Mum still hadn't come home. My eyes ached and my fingers trembled, but I couldn't bring myself to stop. I kept going until the lines on the screen blurred. I must have fallen asleep at the desk because the next thing I felt was a jolt, followed by a hand shaking my shoulder.

"Fabian! Who told you that you could use my computer?" Mum's voice was sharp and slightly slurred. I turned to see her in the doorway, her eyes were glassy and she was swaying.

"Mum, please... I was just..."

"I told you," she snapped, yanking the charger out of the socket. "If you want a computer, you have to earn the money to buy it!"

"But Mum ..."

She was already gone, the laptop tucked under her arm and the power cable dragging behind her.

I sat there, stunned, staring at the empty space where the computer had been. Then I realised that I hadn't saved or printed the story.

Tears filled my eyes as I undressed and crawled into bed. I was angry for a while, then I felt a hollow ache instead. I lay awake, my thoughts racing as I replayed Harlan's words. At some point, exhaustion overtook me.

When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the curtains. I looked at the clock and panic shot through me.

I was late!

As I stumbled out of the door, half-dressed and in a rush, Mum was still in bed. I considered waking her, but being late for work was worse. Uncle Ben was getting stricter by the day. I jogged down the street, hoping to see Harlan, but he was nowhere to be seen. I figured he must be ahead of me.

By the time I reached the shop, there were still five minutes until opening time. Uncle Ben growled his usual greeting, clearly disappointed that I wasn't there earlier. I ignored him and went to change into my work jacket. When I came back, he looked me over.

"You'll have to start shaving soon," he said. "You look as though you've slept in your clothes. We have to think about presentation. Customers want tidy shop assistants."

I nodded silently. The morning dragged on, filled with instructions barked across the counter. Most customers barely noticed me, even when I loaded their cars, but Uncle Ben acted as though neatness alone could earn their respect. One of the regular tradesmen slapped me on the back and laughed about putting some "beef" on my wiry frame. At least he had noticed me.

By the time the day was over, I was ready to collapse. So, when Uncle Ben said, "Good job!" as I headed for the door, I froze for a second, certain that I had misheard him. It was the first praise he'd given me since I started working there. I walked out smiling faintly, wondering if things might be looking up after all.

Then, up ahead, I saw Harlan.

I called out to him and he turned around, smiling that familiar smile. "I missed you this morning!" he said.

"I was late," I admitted. "I stayed up writing."

"Writing?" His eyes lit up with pleasant surprise. "Then you'll need this."

He reached into his coat and handed me a new notebook.

"I used Mum's laptop last night," I said, feeling embarrassed. "But she wasn't happy about it. She said I'd have to buy my own."

"Well, then," Harlan chuckled. "You can still use the notebook." He pulled a slender cardboard box from his pocket. "And this, too."

Inside was a fountain pen, gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, with a few cartridges beside it.

"I haven't used one of these in years," I said, running my finger along its smooth barrel. "Was it expensive?"

"Don't worry about that," he replied. "I find the words come more honestly when I use one. But don't worry about making it pretty; the most important thing is that I can read what you've written."

"I'll pay you back," I said quickly.

"Of course you will," he smiled. "But not today. Just write and see what your imagination produces."

He waved as we parted, and I felt guilty again. He looked like someone who could use help himself, yet he gave so freely.

By the time I reached home, all thoughts of Harlan and his kindness had vanished. Mum was sitting on the sofa with her face buried in her hands.

"Mum!" I said, stepping inside. "What's wrong?"

She looked up, her face red and streaked with tears. "You didn't wake me this morning," she said hoarsely. "I've lost my job."

"I'm sorry, Mum," I replied, feeling helpless. "But I was late myself..."

"You always only think of yourself!" she shouted, pushing past me and going upstairs.

The kitchen was silent. There was nothing waiting for me this time. I searched the fridge and put together a meal for us both, even though I wasn't sure she would eat it. It didn't taste as good as when she made it, but at least it filled me up.

On my way to my room, I heard her sobbing softly behind her door. I knocked lightly. "Mum," I said. "I made something to eat. It's in the microwave."

She didn't answer.

I stood there for a moment, then went to my room. Uncle Ben's praise, the new notebook, and the pen all faded from my mind. The house felt lonely again and the silence weighed me down. I undressed and lay down on my bed, falling asleep almost immediately.