The Man With the Vacant Gaze

 

                Most days he just sat alone on a bench on the south west corner of the park, his chin resting on his hand and his gaze vacant. People say that a person’s eyes are the windows into one's soul. If you look, you can tell a person’s whole life story in them. Where they’ve been, what they’ve lost, who they are. But it can’t tell you who they will be or what they will do. It can tell you whether they have hope or dreams, if they're in love or if they have been crushed. But they won’t tell you whether they stayed that way.

                He always gathered a lot of attention. His fixed face and posture would attract onlookers. They would stare at him for a while. Look into his eyes, maybe take a picture with him. Still he never moved or was phased by the people. The weather didn’t matter either rain or shine, cold or heat. He would still just sit there, his chin resting heavily in his hand, vacantly staring.

                He always scared me as a child. I would play in that park with my friends, but it would always unnerve me if I remembered that he was there. I hated looking to see if he was, but always could not resist checking, and would often find my eyes drawn to his bench. The way fear and curiosity mingled was just irresistible. Once, on a dare, I even ran up and poked him before scampering away, fearing repercussions.

                The years passed. I grew up. We moved away. At least my mom and I did. My dad, he fell to the bottle. A work accident left him limping and his co-worker dead. Mom said it was only for a short time, until Dad sorted things out. She said he blamed himself for the accident. Whether or not it was his fault, I don’t know. I do know I never saw him again and that was his fault.

                Now I’m here in the park; got a call from some lawyer said that he was in charge of distributing my father’s estate. Turns out I’m the only one in the will. I'm supposed to meet the lawyer at the old house. I'm trying to build up the courage to go. That’s how I ended up on this bench next to you. Not sure why I expect an answer; you’ll just keep sitting there. So what’s your story?

                He didn’t respond. So I looked into his eyes. I saw a boy. A boy ravaged with pain. A boy pretending to be a man. A boy who was held back by anger and bitterness, fearful to confront, fearful to forgive, afraid to break. Frozen in the past, thinking it has written his future. I saw the man with the vacant gaze…