There was always this man, perhaps about 71 years old, that every day would walk to this old oak tree perched on a tiny hill overlooking the city. He came alone every time that I would see him, but if I were blind I would have thought he had come up with at least two or three of his other friends. He would always chatter and ramble to himself about the weather, the state of the economy, the new war on guns and the dilapidated condition of his house. However, it was the fact that he spoke so loudly that caught my attention and drew me into his life. I would never actually come up to him, but I would hide behind a bush like some secret agent, just learning about his life from the snippets of audio to which he let me listen.
His name was either Mark or Chris, as those were the only two names he has ever mentioned to himself. Although now that I think about it, his name might not be either of those because those might just be his friends. Regardless, he mentioned those names on more than one occasion so undoubtedly they are of some importance. He lived alone now as his wife, whose name I could never understand but sounded like a mix of Marybeth and Sheryl, passed away five years ago and he has been coming to this tree ever since. I have only been noticing him for the past year though, but I come at least once a week in the summer and he has been there every time without fail. He was a carpenter, started his own business when he was 21 and about to get married. His life was perfect then, there was no depression or sadness, just positivity. Slowly his life started to crumble. One day he yelled about the time his wife came home late smelling of alcohol and cologne and how she crashed the car on the way home and needed to hitchhike home. Yet the car did not have a dent when he went to find it the next morning. Another day he yelled at how the government was forcing his business to pay more and more money every year, but nothing was changing. Every day he would come to this tree, I would just wait for the keyword of what the argument was going to be today. Taxes. Overpopulation. War. Obesity. Even if it sounded positive at first, the stories would always warp into some depressive nightmare. Grandchildren. Job. House. Nothing was good in this man's head.
My favorite story started off with so much hope, about how he built his house from the ground up to support him and his wife. And then soon the world would welcome their child, William. He would continue to work and work and provide for his family. And just when the world was looking bright, the house began falling apart; the stairs would crumble each time someone took a step, and the neighbors began complaining about the disgusting state of their landscape. Then, one day the front door fell over the hinge when his wife walked in and the two had a horrible fight. The son, at this point apparently seventeen, could not stand the arguing and fled the scene, coincidentally through the broken door. Now the man was incredibly disappointed that his son no longer wanted to be part of the family and became incredibly depressed. His wife, also unable to cope with this disappearance, began to have more arguments with the man about anything they could think of: the trash, the finances, cleaning, fixing the roof, taking off his shoes. These arguments kept arise for years and years to come, and explains to me why he was so good at arguing even to himself. His house began to fall apart a little bit each more every year. He was convinced it would be best to just build a new house. But he never did.
I know I should not have listened in on this conversation to himself but after he started I was enthralled by his tale and could not wait to hear some positive ending; alas, that ending never came. His wife died from a sudden heart attack. His son came back once to show the man that he now was a grandfather, but after that meeting the man never saw his grandchild again. And now the man is unable to work because of his physical condition. He would just sit in his constantly in his favorite red and grey plaid chair and watch the television in his continually worsening house.
Beyond these stories that he would tell himself, sometimes the man would just sit and stare into blankness. I was curious as to why sometimes he would do this and not say a word, as it was a sharp contrast to his normal arguing self. I believed that the tree was sometimes telling him something and he was finally just sitting there listening. Normally I am not into that stuff, but it seemed to fit this situation almost perfectly. And that is where my story begins.
He was just sitting there, under the tree like always but he was at the point where he was not arguing but rather listening to something. The sun was shining brightly behind some clouds, a slight breeze was blowing and no one was around him, except me behind the bush. He looked around, almost as if someone told him something was around his body, grabbed something from the grass, although I could not see what he pulled out, and slowly lifted his body to stand. He hugged the tree the entire time, although even I am unsure if it was for emotional support or physical. He meandered slowly to a nearby bridge, and I stood behind my bush a good distance out, nervous as to what was happening. I became increasingly aware of how high the bridge was above the river below him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a standard six-sided die, which I assumed he picked up near the tree. At this point though, I was not even questioning why there was a die near a tree, as he steadied himself on the ledge of the bridge. I began to tremble, wondering if this would be the moment I should actually stand up and show myself, but fearing that if I did he would fall out of shear shock and surprise. As the seconds passed like hours and my body now sweating with intense heart palpitations, the man spoke clearer than he ever had before, "Odd I jump forward, even I jump back." He was facing the river, so the only thing that could mean was that if the number was odd, he would ultimately jump to his death. If it were even, it seemed that he would live for a while. Before he rolled he said, "Either way, I am not coming back to this tree." My mind raced with the possibilities and what this man could possibly mean and still contemplated jumping out behind the bush to tackle him to safety. My muscles were frozen. The wind began to pick up. The man dropped the die and watched it as it rolled from rock to rock. As it began to slow down my heart began racing again. The die stopped not on a numbered face but on its side, stuck between two numbers I could not see. "One or four," the man said. "Pick one." As he spoke, a gust of wind blew through the area rolling the die and breaking the odd and even tie. When he was about to look at the number himself, I fainted.
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