By: Don Tassone

     I’d been walking for about a mile on the Binghamton Trail alongside the Chenango River when I came to a bench and decided to rest for a moment.

     A middle-aged man, older than me, was sitting there.  I sat down beside him, leaving a respectable distance between us.

     “Morning,” I said.

     “Good morning,” he said with a small smile.

     His voice was resonant, his hair dark and thick.  He wore a white dress shirt, black dress pants and black dress shoes, not the kind of clothing people wear on the trail.

     “Out for a walk?” I said.

     “Not really.  Just resting.”

     “You live around here?”

     “I used to, a long time ago.  How about you?”

     “Yeah.  We moved here a few years ago.  I’m Erik,” I said, extending my hand, hoping I wasn’t getting too personal.

     “Rod,” he said, shaking my hand.

     His grip was firm.

     “Do you mind if I smoke?” he said.

     “No,” I said.

     I wasn’t crazy about second-hand smoke, but we were outdoors.

     “It’s a bad habit, I know,” he said, lighting up with an old Zippo.

     He took a big drag, turned his head and puffed out a cloud of smoke away from me.

     “So what brings you back to Binghamton?” I said.

     “I’m not sure.  I didn’t really plan to be here.  It just happened.”

     How strange, I thought.

     “You must be a businessman,” I said.  “I mean, the way you’re dressed.”

     “Actually, I’m a writer.  At least I was.”

     “You were?”

     “Yeah.  I haven’t written in a while.”

     “Writer’s block?” I said with a chuckle.

     “In a way,” he said, taking another long drag.

     “What kind of writing do you do?”

     “I write stories.”

     “What kind of stories?”

     “Stories that make people think.”

     “Think about what?”

     “The big issues.  Freedom.  Racism.  Authoritarianism.  Stories that make people think about the world we’re living in, the choices we’re making.”

     “Sounds heavy.”

     “It can be.  That’s why I used science fiction to tell my stories.”

     “Science fiction?”

     “Yeah.  It’s the only way I could get my stories past the networks and the sponsors.”

     “So you write for TV?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Which shows?”

     “Oh, I haven’t had a show on TV for years.  You’re too young.  You’ve probably never heard of them.”

     “So what are doing these days?”

     “Not much.  How about you?”

     “Online marketing.”

     “Online?”

     “Yeah.  Mainly social media.”

     “Social media?”

     “You know, the internet.”

     “Oh.”

     He took another drag.

     “Do you love it?” he said.  “What you do, I mean.”

     “It’s a living.”

     He said nothing.

     “Do you love writing?” I said.

     “I did.  I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.  I was on fire with my stories.  I simply had to tell them.  I know they didn’t always make people feel comfortable.  But they made them think.”

     “Can I ask you something?” I said.

     “Sure.”

     “Why is that so important?  I mean making people think.”

     He brought his cigarette to his lips, drew a deep breath and, squinting, let it out.

     “Socrates said, ‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’  A lot of people kind of sleepwalk through life.  They need someone to wake them up, to pay attention to what’s going on, to cause them to look at things a little differently.”

     Socrates, I thought.  Who is this guy?

     “Can I ask you something, Erik?”

     “Sure.”

     “Is anybody doing that these days?”

     “Doing what?”

     “Provoking people.  Causing them to look at things differently.  Causing them to ask why things are the way they are.”

     “Not really.”

     “And how are things?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “I mean are people living in peace?  Is the government protecting their rights?  Are people happy?”

     I wasn’t sure if he was kidding.  I knew, everyone knew, the world was in big trouble.

     “Are you serious?”

     “Yes.”

     “No,” I said.  “Things are falling apart.  Everyone seems to be living in fear these days.”

     “Who’s writing about it?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “I mean is anybody pricking people’s consciences?”

     “The news media, I guess.”

     “You guess?”

     “I mean I’m not sure anybody’s really paying attention.  People watch what they want to watch and hear what they want to hear.”

     He didn’t say anything.  I looked over.  He looked sad.

     “Have you ever thought about writing about what’s going on?” he said.

     “Me?”

     “Why not you?”

     “But I’m a marketer.”

     “But you do write.”

     “Well, yeah.  Kind of.”

     “Look,” he said, “I wasn’t the most gifted writer.  I’m not sure how well my stories have held up.  But I know that at one time they got people’s attention, that they intrigued people, that they caused them to stop and think.  You have talent, and it sounds like people these days need someone to hold a mirror up to their lives.”

     I wasn’t sure what to say.

     “Why don’t you give it a try?” he said.

     “Maybe I will.”

     He took a last drag, dropped his cigarette butt on the gravel and ground it in with his shoe.

     “Good,” he said, getting up.

     He was shorter than I thought and more solidly built.

     “It was good to meet you, Erik,” he said, extending his hand.

     “You too, Rod,” I said, taking it.

     Then he walked away.  I closed my eyes, trying to comprehend the strange conversation we’d just had.  A few moments later, I opened them, and he was gone.

###

Don Tassone is the author of two novels, one novella, 10 short story collections and one children’s book.  He lives in Loveland, Ohio.