I was summoned to breakfast with the old man, whose name was known to all but whose ways were known to none. The table was covered with butcher paper. He clapped his hands with what I thought was theater and plates were brought to the table, some with fruit, some with bread, one with a silver pen. We started eating. He used the pen to write on the paper. The letters were too small for me to make out so he started reading what he was writing. It was a story about a young man who faced evil in his own heart. “The evil,” the old man said, “was not the kind anyone ever thought about. It was the evil of moving through the world without digging, overturning, feinting, focusing.” I could not tell if he was reading anymore or speaking to me directly. His face began to blur and wobble at the edges like a mirage in a desert. He asked me if I remembered what he had just said and I confessed that I did not. I knew I would remember nothing but how that face looked.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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