A Stranger
A strange man came into my bar last night. He was old, probably late sixties or early seventies. I didn’t see any lights pulling into the parking lot, so I guessed he’d been walking. That’s not unusual; we get a lot of folks from the nearby apartments walking in, wanting to hedge their bets against the cops. The story he told though, now that was unusual. I’m getting a little ahead of myself though.
The bar was empty both before and after he came in. We’re not exactly a booming place here in El Paso anyways, but this close to the holidays we’re pretty much always dead – everyone wants to save their money for presents, not spend it on beer.
I heard the door jingle – the stupid little decorations the bartenders put up when I’m not around – and looked up to see this old man walk in, covered in jackets and looking like he’d never met a razor before in his life. My first thought, of course, was that he was a bum; we get a few of those around every once in a while, and I’m more than willing to buy them a beer or two for doing odd jobs around the place.
Something about him told me that he was different though. Maybe it was the way that he walked, or something in his eyes, but he wasn’t a regular, run-of-the-mill bum. He sat down at the bar and I walked over to him.
“What can I get you?” I asked as I finished drying the glass I’d been washing.
His accent was strange; not quite British, definitely not American, but it was clear enough to where I could tell he’d at least grown up speaking English.
“I’ll have a … oh, what do you people call it … oh, that’s right. I’ll have a ‘beer’.” His voice was pleasant, happy, not the near-bitter tone that most of our patrons have. I gave him his beer, and he paid me from a large wad of bills that I wouldn’t have expected given his appearance. He put a twenty in the tip jar, and sipped his beer with a sigh of relief.
I went back to my cleaning, letting him drink in peace while I washed glasses and mopped behind the bar. It was mostly busy work; there wasn’t much to clean up, since there hadn’t been any customers earlier in the day or the night before. He called me over for another beer, and I poured it for him. This time, when he offered to pay, I waved him off.
“Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house,” I told him, and he smiled. He paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right words, and then his expression brightened.
“That’s right,” he said, “‘Thank you’. I knew I’d remember.”
I wiped the bar off to one side of him – again, just busy work. “So, where you from?” I asked. It was obvious that he wasn’t from here, or from any country I could guess. That didn’t mean much; around here, the only two languages I ever heard were English and Spanish, and it’s not like I’ve toured the world or anything.
He smiled, a warm, knowing smile, and sipped from his mug before he spoke again. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, and something in his voice made me think he was right.
“Well,” I said, setting my rag down on a shelf behind the bar. “Try me. I hear a lot of crazy stories in this place; I’m sure one more won’t hurt.”
He laughed. “No, no. I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt. But…”
I laughed a little. Truth was I was dead bored, and he could’ve told me he was from the moon and I would’ve probably listened intently. “Well, try me anyways,” I repeated. He sighed, and was silent long enough that I almost thought he’d fallen asleep. Eventually, though, he looked up, a smile still lighting his face and an intensity in his eyes that almost scared me.
“I am,” he began, “a refugee, as your people would call it.” Great, I thought. We’re going to have immigration beating down the door now. I almost kicked him out right then, but he raised his hand before I could say anything.
“Not quite the right word, but close enough,” he said, and I relaxed a little bit. At least I could hear him out.
“I come from a place that isn’t unlike this one, or, at least, it used to be quite similar. Better, actually, but I won’t get into that. It … it doesn’t matter any more anyways.” He said this last part with a distant hurt, and was silent again for a brief moment before continuing.
“My ‘country’,” he said, with the same excitement he’d had earlier over finding the right words, “is currently in the middle of a … ‘revolution’, I believe you call it. I have been lucky enough to … escape. To find my way to your land, one I’d heard of many times but only recently truly believed existed. I must say, I’m quite pleased I made it, too. This place is … nice.”
“You obviously haven’t been here very long,” I said. He laughed.
“No, not long at all. Only a few … ‘hours’,” he said.
I didn’t know what to make of his story. I’ve never paid much attention to the news, so I didn’t know what countries were fighting at the moment. There was something about him that sounded reliable though (and yes, that’s gotten me into trouble before, too), and I figured I’d at least give him the benefit of the doubt. I was going to ask him some questions, but he continued before I could start.
“The place I come from is … scarred, you could say. I’ve come here seeking refuge, to finish out my life in what peace I may be able to find.” He took a sip from his beer, and a look of surprised anguish came over his face. I almost laughed; it was terribly melodramatic, but he took me by the arm with a grip that seemed unnaturally strong for such an old man.
“They’re coming,” he gasped. I stifled a laugh; it was like something out of a bad movie, but the fear in his eyes could only have been real. He stood up and threw a wad of bills on the counter.
“Tell no one I was here,” he said, his voice strained. Before I could say anything, he walked out the door.
I looked at the money he left on the counter – at least two hundred dollars, just from what I could tell at a quick glance. I had to catch him; I could keep my mouth shut for free, he didn’t need to give me a month’s worth of profits for that, especially this close to Christmas.
Even as fast as I ran out the door though, he was gone. I looked up and down the street, and couldn’t see him anywhere. I even ran up to one corner, didn’t see him down that street, and ran back to the other corner. Nothing.
I went back inside and counted the money, which I’d foolishly left on the counter. Thankfully no one had come in during my search, as he’d left a total of three hundred, forty-five dollars to pay for a two-dollar mug of beer. Nice tip…
Roughly a minute after I’d put the cash in my pocket (there was no way I was letting that much money slip into the tax man’s hands), two GI’s came in. They were dressed in civilian clothes, but this is a military town as much as it’s a border town; you can spot a military man a mile away once you’ve been here for a while. They both sat down at the bar and ordered a soda each.
They didn’t say much to me, but they eyed the place much more carefully than a normal customer would. One went to the restroom as soon as I set their drinks down; he returned a few moments later looking a little strange. Disappointed? Relieved? I couldn’t tell.
I couldn’t really get anything from their conversation, either. They talked about Iraq, about UTEP’s football team, about the Dallas Cowboys. It was a little forced, like they were putting up a front, but it was also well practiced. Had I not had such a strange visitor earlier in the night, I probably wouldn’t even have noticed. As it was though, my nerves were a little on edge, and I probably paid them more attention than necessary.
They didn’t stay but for the one soda, and left me a two dollar tip. When they were leaving, though, I heard – maybe just my imagination, I won’t deny it – one of them whisper “Not here; he’s probably back already.” Then he grunted something, and they got into their car (a plain civilian make) and took off.
Never saw the GI’s or that stranger again.
I did hear on the news later that night about a homeless man they’d found dead on a park bench downtown though, and it made me think of him. Hope it wasn’t; he seemed like a decent guy. Maybe a little too loose with his cash, but I ain’t complaining.
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