The Old Man
Jacob Zimmerman
There was a log between the stopping spots. The dock was open and the old man knew that it was impossible to resist six months when he had gone in the sun; he had always thought it out as a little distance. I don’t know whether he was traveling and it was a lovely sort of time, or it was lonely again, too. I am sure he needed not with the particular feeling of the sand, but they all liked it.
As the morning took the morning, the drivers had dropped off and up and into the canvassed wall in the sun. The old man did not concern the trail. He was looking past the sunlight, singing past the half-padded spectacle.
In the afternoon they had found a new thing, and one of the most high-ended marbles that the sun got into. It would be a shame occasionally protected by the bulletish place for the sun and the brass—I won’t try to get as a matter of fact if you can find them. But I can see it just as if a man is true.
The end of the plain and many of the branches were coming down into the street from the sky, and outside the doors of the town. As the sun sank, the old man was back in his sorrows, standing outside the door of the places, “Please, please, and I knowed her in Minneapo.” Once in a while, “thank you hun.”
It was a long day; the tracks had driven it, standing all overhead. He sat down at the table. He thought he could not look to be so absolutely sleepy. His children had made french onion tonight. Eating soup, he was not looking like the lovers on the bridge at the hotel; he was biting it. He was not super lucky of talent. He had returned at 5, dropped, his hat falling onto the coat rack, apart, he fell into his chair. Everybody always saw, and everybody always knew.
After dinner, the old man was a lengthy heave, but a lengthy better up. “I love you,” he said to the oldest boy, Goldon, through rum. “I think I was a lieutenant here, on people who would not have been eating without your mother. And you say not to be full, and I am the most sorry for that, as who have failed. You haven’t failed.”
He was back from Finnegan’s late that night. He fell into his chair whining with a siren coming as he slumped mute and it finally passed, crying into the distance. He kept a bottle tumbling in his hand, and said softly,
“And tell me what things are good. She’s gone now but I can do it in the world, and the last day of the rocks where you can get and you see their own problems and such as the ship, you see that they can be kind to it. Not because of any of those bastards for their damn clothes or their purities. It’s called decency. And the fact that old life has scared me down, when we got into the street, I thought the rocks were already there under the hull. But it’s been a good stretch and I don’t feel nothing yet. I don’t think about it with women. It can’t be simpler, I always say. She used to be here, now she ain’t. I used to think about everything with her. Did she? Well now I think about everything, mostly her, and it’s just me.”
The old man was a heave and more apart from himself but a heavy soul into his chair.
“But it was all her fault, anyway. Lord, I’m being fair, if I had left it would have been my fault, just the same. It’s just never easier to sit down at the end of the week when it’s just the same, every time. Spirits last the night, but leaving lasts until you come back, ain’t that the difference? It’s just never finally over, is it? Lord, if I ever had left it would have been her fault, because who else could have been so much weight in my staying along? Oh if I had left I’d hope she suffer from whatever demon she became to drive me so far as to leave. Oh, she’d have to be the worst of them all, if liquor’s not enough and the Lord knows I should go.”
He took a breath and coughed, pounding his chest.
“But since she left, I then might be just that demon. And she’d hope I suffer—but what done so far have I driven her to let go from our life, I must know. She was far too good to me if I am the devil.”
He loosened in the face and hand.
“But I am hardly the devil. I’ve done everything to be righteous and forthright and she and the kids can feel everything I’ve provided, I am sure. And she was so happy and she thanked me for everything. No, unlike me, there are true criminals at every hour, and any one of them is to blame. I hardly carry a burlap bag on errands but I can just see it, someone saw her ring through the window and crawled in to take her from me and from the Lord. And this true demon has been holding her in his cage ever since. The Lord should thank me for coming home at the end of each day, keeping watch at this hour over the kids while they’re suffering just as much. He knows I’ll get right back up off my face in the morning and get out there to keep on with my holy mission. Maybe it’s the day He will guide my way to her at last.”
In the morning, there was a different log between the stopping spots. The dock was open and the old man knew that it was impossible for her to resist six months when he had gone in the sun with her every Sunday; he had always thought it out as a little hard to go such a distance without something or someone. I don’t know whether he was still traveling to new spots and meanwhile it was a lovely sort of time for her, or it was lonely for her again, too. I am sure he needed not with the particular feeling of the sand now, but they had always liked it.
As the morning took the morning, the taxi-drivers had by now dropped off all the young families and themselves went up and onto the canvassed wall to lay in the sun. The old man did not concern the trail of children running along on the dock. He was looking past the sunlight, singing what she used to sing to him, singing past the half-padded spectacle of family life.
In the afternoon they had found a new thing that could make them a fortune, and it was one of the most high-ended marbles that the sun got into. It would be a shame as it was occasionally protected by the bulletish place, just as the sky barred them from the sun and the old man barred them from the brass—I won’t try to get at it, as a matter of fact, if you can or can’t find any of them anymore. But I can see it, the desire to rise and become something, just as if a man is true.
The end of the plain and many of the branches were coming down into the street from the sky, and outside the doors of the town. As the sun sank, the old man man was back in his sorrows, standing outside the door of all the places she’d ever liked, then all the places they’d ever been, and all the places that have a person, which are the places that could have a demon, “Please, please, and I knowed her way back in Minneapo, she means everything.” Once in a while, he sighed, “thank you hun,” before moving on to the next.
Written in collaboration with Break the Block, a machine learning-powered Hemingway emulator.
As the morning took the morning, the drivers had dropped off and up and into the canvassed wall in the sun. The old man did not concern the trail. He was looking past the sunlight, singing past the half-padded spectacle.
In the afternoon they had found a new thing, and one of the most high-ended marbles that the sun got into. It would be a shame occasionally protected by the bulletish place for the sun and the brass—I won’t try to get as a matter of fact if you can find them. But I can see it just as if a man is true.
The end of the plain and many of the branches were coming down into the street from the sky, and outside the doors of the town. As the sun sank, the old man was back in his sorrows, standing outside the door of the places, “Please, please, and I knowed her in Minneapo.” Once in a while, “thank you hun.”
It was a long day; the tracks had driven it, standing all overhead. He sat down at the table. He thought he could not look to be so absolutely sleepy. His children had made french onion tonight. Eating soup, he was not looking like the lovers on the bridge at the hotel; he was biting it. He was not super lucky of talent. He had returned at 5, dropped, his hat falling onto the coat rack, apart, he fell into his chair. Everybody always saw, and everybody always knew.
After dinner, the old man was a lengthy heave, but a lengthy better up. “I love you,” he said to the oldest boy, Goldon, through rum. “I think I was a lieutenant here, on people who would not have been eating without your mother. And you say not to be full, and I am the most sorry for that, as who have failed. You haven’t failed.”
He was back from Finnegan’s late that night. He fell into his chair whining with a siren coming as he slumped mute and it finally passed, crying into the distance. He kept a bottle tumbling in his hand, and said softly,
“And tell me what things are good. She’s gone now but I can do it in the world, and the last day of the rocks where you can get and you see their own problems and such as the ship, you see that they can be kind to it. Not because of any of those bastards for their damn clothes or their purities. It’s called decency. And the fact that old life has scared me down, when we got into the street, I thought the rocks were already there under the hull. But it’s been a good stretch and I don’t feel nothing yet. I don’t think about it with women. It can’t be simpler, I always say. She used to be here, now she ain’t. I used to think about everything with her. Did she? Well now I think about everything, mostly her, and it’s just me.”
The old man was a heave and more apart from himself but a heavy soul into his chair.
“But it was all her fault, anyway. Lord, I’m being fair, if I had left it would have been my fault, just the same. It’s just never easier to sit down at the end of the week when it’s just the same, every time. Spirits last the night, but leaving lasts until you come back, ain’t that the difference? It’s just never finally over, is it? Lord, if I ever had left it would have been her fault, because who else could have been so much weight in my staying along? Oh if I had left I’d hope she suffer from whatever demon she became to drive me so far as to leave. Oh, she’d have to be the worst of them all, if liquor’s not enough and the Lord knows I should go.”
He took a breath and coughed, pounding his chest.
“But since she left, I then might be just that demon. And she’d hope I suffer—but what done so far have I driven her to let go from our life, I must know. She was far too good to me if I am the devil.”
He loosened in the face and hand.
“But I am hardly the devil. I’ve done everything to be righteous and forthright and she and the kids can feel everything I’ve provided, I am sure. And she was so happy and she thanked me for everything. No, unlike me, there are true criminals at every hour, and any one of them is to blame. I hardly carry a burlap bag on errands but I can just see it, someone saw her ring through the window and crawled in to take her from me and from the Lord. And this true demon has been holding her in his cage ever since. The Lord should thank me for coming home at the end of each day, keeping watch at this hour over the kids while they’re suffering just as much. He knows I’ll get right back up off my face in the morning and get out there to keep on with my holy mission. Maybe it’s the day He will guide my way to her at last.”
In the morning, there was a different log between the stopping spots. The dock was open and the old man knew that it was impossible for her to resist six months when he had gone in the sun with her every Sunday; he had always thought it out as a little hard to go such a distance without something or someone. I don’t know whether he was still traveling to new spots and meanwhile it was a lovely sort of time for her, or it was lonely for her again, too. I am sure he needed not with the particular feeling of the sand now, but they had always liked it.
As the morning took the morning, the taxi-drivers had by now dropped off all the young families and themselves went up and onto the canvassed wall to lay in the sun. The old man did not concern the trail of children running along on the dock. He was looking past the sunlight, singing what she used to sing to him, singing past the half-padded spectacle of family life.
In the afternoon they had found a new thing that could make them a fortune, and it was one of the most high-ended marbles that the sun got into. It would be a shame as it was occasionally protected by the bulletish place, just as the sky barred them from the sun and the old man barred them from the brass—I won’t try to get at it, as a matter of fact, if you can or can’t find any of them anymore. But I can see it, the desire to rise and become something, just as if a man is true.
The end of the plain and many of the branches were coming down into the street from the sky, and outside the doors of the town. As the sun sank, the old man man was back in his sorrows, standing outside the door of all the places she’d ever liked, then all the places they’d ever been, and all the places that have a person, which are the places that could have a demon, “Please, please, and I knowed her way back in Minneapo, she means everything.” Once in a while, he sighed, “thank you hun,” before moving on to the next.
Written in collaboration with Break the Block, a machine learning-powered Hemingway emulator.