No Better Day (expanded)

No Better Day

If a tired old man stood up and said,

“There never was a better day than this,”

would you question that, or let it lie?

Or would you set about to prove him wrong?

For much about this tells me who you are.

1

Late in the day, to one side of a two-rut road, a very old man sat alone on a rock.

This was the first human being we had seen all day whose tired old backside was not moving ahead of us along the road. Seemingly countless feet trudged along ahead of us, shuffling and stirring the dust. The dust hung in the air over both sides of the path and over both ruts, from knees to ground.

The day was hot, and there was no breeze. The dust would continue to hover, I thought, long after the last of the people passed.

But we did not mind as much as others minded. My friends and I were young.

To occupy our minds we alternated. One would follow the left rut, another the right. To keep us all abreast, the third would wade through the dusty weeds in the center.

Then one would trip or stumble to left or right, not always intentionally, and we would adjust the formation just as if we had practiced it. It was a kind of war, wasn’t it? If we were three abreast and advancing on an enemy, and if one was hit and stumbled, the others would adjust, right? Of course. That is how it is done.

And in those times, in those circumstances, it was our duty to practice what might happen. People say of the young that we are foolish. But we are wise enough, I guess. We had put on the mentality of battle so that when it came upon us we would be prepared.

Both Joaquin and Esme, each one year younger than I, already had their tired, distressed looks in the bag. And they could swap them at any time for looks of horror or anger or even limited derangement. I had owned my own set of looks for some time.

It was a silent day, too. Hot with no wind but with plenty of dust and silent.

Yesterday and the day before at least there had been the occasional birdsong. On this day, all along the march there were no sounds. No birdsong at all, and not even creatures scurrying for cover. On the up side, there also were no planes. No sounds of arcing bombs, and no explosions.

I said nothing to the others, but I suspected that was because the planes did not want to become confused. They did not want to risk striking their own column. It was no more than a few kilometers behind us.

But we were young, and so we were bored.

Playing at combat in our minds and practicing our looks and our grimaces kept us occupied for only so long. Even adjusting our formation was too easy. We had practiced for so long.

We required stimulation. So on this day, with no other sounds to draw our attention or punctuate our advance, occasionally we made our own sounds. Occasionally one or the other of us would make a sound like a cow or a sheep or a goat. Or even, pretending we were at the head of the line, we might hiss like a venomous snake.

Then the others would jostle the offender, cautioning him with elbows to the ribs or shoulders not to call down the wrath of the elders in the line. And an hour later another of us would make a similar sound.

But the elders were too tired, or else they did not care. Those ahead of us never looked back to frown, and those behind us never voiced annoyance or displeasure. Perhaps because we were not theirs to discipline. Or perhaps they were caught up in their own thoughts. Perhaps concerning the odd silence and the column to our rear.

Though I did not say so to my friends, I thought the elders all had their tired, distressed look down much better than we did. Of course, they had lived much longer, so they had more practice.

But the old man perched on the rock alongside the road—he was a different sort.

His face displayed no anxiety, no distress, and no fear. In his place on the rock, on that day and at that time, he played his part in a scene that simply was.

As our column approached closer to him and his rock, I looked him over.

His straw hat was torn here and there, and dust had settled over it just as it had settled over everything else.

His dusty, worn, brown-leather vest hung open over his dusty, off-white, button-up shirt. The shirt was long sleeved. The cuffs were buttoned at his wrists, and even the small button was closed at the collar.

His dusty dungarees were threadbare at the knees. They stopped a few inches above his dusty brown ankles. He wore no boots. His left foot was on the ground before him, the leg angling up to his hip on the rock. His right foot was propped firmly against the face of the rock as if gripping it. Above the hole at the knee, his dungareed thigh made a shelf for his right forearm.

The fingers of his left hand were occupied with holding his walking stick. A staff really. It was easily a head taller than he, and it was burnished from use in the area where he held it.

Those ahead of us trudged past him with bent backs. Some were bent under physical loads, and some were bent under the circumstance or both. None seemed even to notice him. Some were as old as the man on the rock. Others were older or not quite as old. We had seen none who were as young as me or younger, like my friends.

Of course, we hadn’t expected to see any others our own age. Most of those who were our age were already in the defensive lines ahead of us several kilometers down the road.

The others of an age similar to ours spoke a different language. But I am sure they had the same concerns we had, and they probably said and thought all the same things. They were in that column behind us, inexorably advancing just as if they wanted to.

I and my friends, Joaquin and Esme, were on our way to the defensive lines with these others, the elders, in our own column.

But when we reached the lines, we would stop.

The others—the elders, and especially the women—would pass through the lines and continue to homes of loved ones or down to the boats.

But we would stop at the lines, and we would turn about. We would don our tired, distressed looks and join our countrymen. Of course we would filter “tired and distressed” through a thin veil of “brave and grimly certain of success.” We had practiced that one as well.

And when the columns behind us met the lines, we would taste the thrill of battle.

But for now, a game to ease the boredom of the day.

2

As the column neared the place where the man sat on the rock, we stepped out and moved toward him.

He continued watching the ground as we grew near, but not as if to search it. Listening perhaps. Or maybe napping.

A bit of metal protruded on the left from behind the rock. A gun maybe. I do not know if the others saw it. I would not tell them. They were young and prone to fantasy.

We stopped a few feet away. “Hey!” I said, and a grin played at the corners of my mouth. “Old man!”

Esme and Joaquin jostled me, one on either side.

The old man looked up, as if reaching for the sky with his chin. A white stubble covered his dusty cheeks, his upper lip, and his chin. A lone trickle of sweat traced a line through the dust over his left cheek. He turned his head in my direction, but—his eyes remained unfocused. “Yes?”

But his eyes had distracted me from the game. A little more quietly, I said, “Your eyes.... You are blind?”

He nodded slowly. “To many things, as are we all.”

Esme grinned broadly. “Why do you not replace that worn out hat?”

The man leaned his head back farther at first, as if listening for an answer from some other place. He paused there for a moment, then nodded. His lips parted as if to say, “Ah,” but no sound came out.

He raised his right hand—with his left he still gripped his walking stick—and tapped the brim of the hat lightly with his fingertips. “This hat?”

Esme and Joaquin giggled.

Esme said, “Yes, yes, of course. What other hat is on your head?”

Again the man nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “This hat. It is a friend. When it was new, this hat kept the sun from my eyes and from my face and neck. And the crown kept the rain from my head.”

He lowered his hand to his lap and shrugged. “Now we are both older. We live here in this place with no rain. So now the crown has rent itself to admit the breeze and release the heat. And the brim—the brim still keeps the sun from my eyes and from my face and neck.”

As Esme grinned, his lips twitched as if to keep going.

But I was tired of the game. I put up one hand to stop him. To the old man I said, “Sir, the others are going on toward the sea. Are you resting?”

“Oh.” He shifted his head slightly back toward me, returning his chin to its original position. A smile touched one corner of his mouth, and he nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, you are right. I am resting.”

As if he could see me, I pointed back to the right. “But there is another rock. It is under the shade of a sweetgum tree. It is only a few meters back along the road. You must have passed it by. If you need the hat to keep the sun away, why do you rest in the sun?”

He lifted his right hand, his palm facing up as if to illustrate the sky. “Sometimes it is better to know the sun is there. Plus, the sun and I, we have much in common.” And he lay his right forearm carefully across his right thigh again and flexed his hand slowly. Into a loose fist, and out. Into a loose fist, and out.

He was waiting.

From either side, my friends looked at me, their spokesman, and frowned.

I frowned too. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged again, as if the whole thing were a simple matter that anyone might understand. He raised his right arm slowly, as if it were lifted with a pulley and rope, and pointed in the direction the others had gone. “The sun is low, is it not? It reaches the end of its day.” He slowly brought his forearm back to his right thigh. “It reaches for its bed to rest. It is weary, as it rightfully must be after a long day of smiling on even events such as these. Even when it did not feel like smiling.”

Joaquin, grinning, jostled me from the left.

I shoved him away and frowned at the old man. “But how can the sun grow weary? It is only the sun. Nothing more.”

Again the old man raised his chin as if reaching—or perhaps testing the air for scents or sounds—and his brow furrowed slightly. “Yes, again you are right. He is only the sun. But can you imagine having his responsibilities? I think they must be very tiring.”

I laughed. “What responsibilities are those? He is—I mean it. It is only the sun. That is all.”

“Yes, you are right, but also a little wrong. He is the sun, but that is not all.” He paused and shook his head slightly. “From one day to the next and even overnight, he manages the warmth and the light. That much everyone knows.” He paused again. “But he also manages the lack of warmth and the lack of light by being or not being. He also filters the water supply and the air supply. That he does by conducting the winds. And again, he does those things both day and night, here and in other places.”

I was incredulous. “The winds?”

“Of course. He manages the wind.” He wagged his right hand side to side in the air, as if to downplay what he had just said. “Of course, that is only the redistribution of fresh air from one place to another, and the air filters as it goes. The trees whisper of the filtering.” He raised a finger toward the sky, then let it drop. “In that one regard, the sun is a bit showy for my taste.”

He paused again, raised a hand to his mouth and coughed, then turned his head and spat to one side. “But also he must manage the growing seasons.”

“The seasons?”

He nodded. “He is that busy. Even to the details of the color of individual leaves on the plants, the width of the veins, and the level of oil in those leaves. And on top of all of that, he must oversee the comings and goings of snakes and rabbits and birds and all other creatures. Even during these awkward situations. These in which we humans find ourselves embroiled.” He shook his head again. “I believe I could not do it. Could you?”

I ignored the question. I had him. “But you said that you and the sun have much in common. I have yet to hear anything you have in common.”

The old man nodded again, slowly. “Yes, such is the way of youth. Youth never will hear the proof of what it is eager to disprove.” He lifted his right hand from his lap and wagged it from side to side. “But here. I will hand it to you. The sun is weary at this point in the day, yet he will not sink into the bed for which he longs. He will leave his job here and begin his next over the edge of the earth.” He paused.

“And in that way we are the same. I am weary at this point in the day, and so I rest, as you say. I am of no further use in this job, but I might be of value in the next. Do you see?”

I thought it odd that a blind man was asking whether I could see. And more odd that in the question, he implied that he had seen something I had missed.

I said, “Yes, I see.” But I was not certain. “Maybe. But the sun is moving toward its—I mean, toward his next job. Yet you are not moving toward yours.”

A smile drew a grim line across his mouth. “But his next job is elsewhere and in another new day. And for me, to begin a new job, there never was better day than this. Nor will there ever be.”

3

When the old man said there was never a better day than this, a chill trembled through me even through the dust-choked heat.

The skin of my face snap into a frown. I and even Esme and Joaquin fell silent.

For a long, searing moment the only sound came from behind us. It was the same sound that had been constant for the past few days. The sound of the despairing, bone-weary men and women shuffling along the two ruts, driven from their homes and fearful for their lives.

Dusty sweat traced rivulets over my skin, and probably over the skin of my friends. The old man did not sweat as much. He perched almost regally on his rock.

“No better day than this?” I pointed at the ground. “This day?”

He smiled and nodded. “I hear in your voice that you understand, though perhaps you are unsure. And so you find the beginnings of wisdom.”

To my right, Esme said, “What?” He looked at me, tugged at the sleeve of my shirt. In his eyes were a question: Do you understand? But he did not ask. He only said, “C’mon, Pablo. This old man is crazy.”

But the old man was right.

I understood but hoped I did not. I understood, but I was not sure. In a tone that was almost pleading, I said, “But if you have a second job, and if it is near, as the second job of the sun is near....” I let the sentence die. I did not want to continue.

The old man turned his head in my direction. He raised his right hand slowly in front of his chest and made a rolling motion. “Yes?”

It was not a question. It was verification that I was on the right track. It was encouragement to continue. So I tried. “If you look to a second job—”

I stopped. He was unable to see, and I had said unable to look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

He wagged away my apology. “It is all right, young one. There are many ways of seeing. Many ways of looking.”

I nodded just as if he could see me. And maybe just as if I understood, but again I was not sure. “If you look to a second job but you are not moving toward it, then perhaps....”

“Yes?”

“Then perhaps it is moving toward you?”

His smile broadened and he tapped the stick on the ground. “Ah. There. You do see.” He paused for a moment and tilted his head slightly to the west, as if listening. “And have you boys rested now as long as you needed to rest?”

I frowned. “How did you know?”

He grinned. “Not so long ago as it seems, I was a boy too.” He shifted his stick slightly as if he meant to raise it but decided to leave it on the ground. “There was much jostling about as you spoke with me. I could almost feel the elbows. I saw every grin.” Then he did raise the stick, and he gestured with it to the west. “Probably now you should follow the sun and your fellow travelers.”

Esme and Joaquin turned away to start back. Several feet away, Esme hissed, “Pablo! Come now!”

I nodded, but as I turned too, the old man said, “Before you go, tell me, Pablo. Will you stop at the fortifications? Or will you pass on through?”

I glanced back at Joaquin and Esme, then back at the old man. Quietly, my throat gone dry, I said, “We—Yes, we will stop.”

“Ah, well.” He nodded. “Such is the way of things.” He sighed. “But if you change your mind, that is all right too. As I have learned in these eighty-seven years, you will have ample opportunities to stop at fortifications later in your life.”

Again I looked at him for a long moment. I wanted to go with my friends and catch up with those on the road, but I didn’t want to go. I eyed the barrel of the Hotchkiss again. “Can we do something to help you? We could help you to the lines. You could go to the boats.”

He shook his head. “No.” He raised one hand, let it drop. “Thank you, but no. As you have come to know, I have a different job today.” He inclined his head and seemed to listen for a moment to the east. Then he gestured again toward the west. “You should go now. But thank you for stopping to visit with an old man.”

I looked to the west. There the road climbed slightly to the crest of a low hill, then disappeared. I had not noticed the hill earlier. We were only walking, playing games, practicing looks, and adjusting our formation.

Now the end of the column was topping over the crest.

I nodded. “Thank you, sir. Good luck to you.”

He wagged a hand and almost smiled, and I turned away.

I gestured to Joaquin and Esme, and we started walking toward the end of the column. A moment later, as if by the same cue, we ran to catch up.

*

When we reached the top of the hill, I stopped. I turned and looked east.

The old man was still on the rock. The fingers of both hands were wrapped around the stick, and the end of it was still on the ground. Along the road, the next hill was a kilometer away.

From somewhere behind me, Esme said, “Pablo? Are you—”

Without turning I flapped my left arm to my side. “Go on.”

“What?”

I turned my head to the left. A rock similar in size to the one the old man was sitting on lay off the road on that side. A little louder, I said, “You go on. I will catch up.” I wagged the arm again, as if shooing a pet from my heel. “Go on.”

Still there was nobody coming over the hill to the east.

Still the old man remained on his rock, gripping the stick with—

No. He moved. He shifted. Both feet were on the ground and he was coming in our—

No, he was moving along the rock, steadying himself with his stick in his left hand, and the rock under his right. He moved around it, behind it.

I moved behind the similar rock and crouched.

He rested the stick against the rock.

He lifted the gun, steadied it, and lay it on the rock.

A Hotchkiss? And there were four—no, five—long strips of ammunition lying on the rock where he had been sitting. If I remembered, each strip held 24 rounds of ammunition.

I frowned. But he is blind!

Should I go back down the hill? At least I can feed the gun. At least I can help. And afterward, he and I can—

The old man’s words came again as if he were standing beside me. You will have ample opportunities to stop at fortifications later in your life.

He bent, stripped the rounds into the magazine of the weapon. He set his feet, settled himself behind the weapon. It was his next job. And it would happen on this day. There was no better day than this.

I glanced again at the faraway hill to the east.

Dust was rising, spilling over the hill.

Do I want to see the men?

But I have seen them with a different language. With different caps on their heads.

Do I want to hear the gun spouting fire?

Do I want to watch the men fold and fall?

But do I want them to make it through?

Do I want to hear the gun go silent?

I moved from behind the rock and walked west.

But I did not hurry.

4

When I had walked for a minute, maybe two, Esme glanced back. He stopped, grabbed Joaquin’s sleeve, and pointed east.

Joaquin looked and nodded. He said something, and they started toward me.

I wanted to wave them on, tell them to turn around, tell them the column behind us was close. Much closer than we had thought.

Instead I increased my pace. The lines could not be far. The fortifications, the old man called them.

And the lines for the boats would form there too.

As the distance closed between me and my friends, Esme waved just as if I could not see him.

I raised a hand and waved, then put a finger to my lips.

When we met I spun a finger in the air to turn them around.

They did, and together we continued west toward the lines. Or maybe toward the boats.

We held our formation. There was no reason to adjust.

They had heard the old man as well as I.

In a moment, my hands in my pockets, I said, “I saw dust.”

Esme frowned. “Dust?”

“From the hill to the east.” I hesitated. “The old man is now behind the rock.”

Joaquin frowned. “Why?”

Esme grinned. “He has grown a brain. Now at last he is hiding.”

I only nodded. Then I said, “He has a gun.”

After a little time, Esme said, “How many are in the column?”

Joaquin said, “He did not see the column. He saw the dust of the column.”

Esme looked at him as if he was crazy. Patiently, he said, “The men make the dust, Joaquin.”

Quietly, I said, “The dust preceded them. I did not see the men.”

The gun began rattling in the distance.

Esme and Joaquin stopped and looked around. Esme said, “Did you hear that?”

With what I had seen, how could I not have heard it? But I only nodded and kept walking.

The Hotchkiss sped through a strip. It stopped.

Esme said, “Is that the old man?”

I nodded. “He is not hiding.”

“So then his gun has jammed.”

Faint yelling, some excited, some anguished, filtered over the rise. Men angry. Men dying.

I shook my head. “Empty. He will load it. He has five strips.” I paused. “A hundred and twenty cartridges.”

Quietly, Joaquin said, “A hundred and twenty cartridges. It is not very mu—”

The gun began rattling again.

Zip, and again it paused.

More yelling came over the rise. It was more distant. No, we were more distant. Too distant.

I said, “The gun is a Hotchkiss. It was leaning behind the rock.”

The weapon began firing again, and paused.

More yelling came over the rise.

It is the cycle of all things.

The insertion of the cartridges, the birth of the firing, and in a flash it is over and men are dead. Or dying. Or angry.

The Hotchkiss began firing again, then stopped. I tensed. Is that four or five? Please let it fire again.

Joaquin said, “Those strips do not last long, do they?”

It began firing agai—

A loud explosion blew over the hill, and then another one.

The gun fell silent.

We stopped, faced east, and waited, tilting our heads.

As if reaching for the sky with our chins.

* * * * * * *