His voice startles me out of a daydream. “Anyone sitting here?” he asks.
“No. No…please, it’s all yours.”
“Thanks. I’m so thirsty.” He lowers himself onto the stool. He looks as if he has wings—a silver poncho dangling from his shoulders.
“How’d you do?
He wipes the salt from the corners of his lips. “I’m happy. Did a personal best,” he says.
I call out, “Janet, can you get my friend a beer?” She nods.
“Thanks,” he says while moving his tongue across his upper lip. “Is this your hangout?”
“Yeah. I would say that it is. You’re lucky to get in here today. It usually gets pretty packed after the race.”
“I bet. Thought I’d grab one before I head back to the hotel.” She places a frosty mug in front of him and pulls two dollars from my pile. “Cheers,” he says.
We clank mugs. “To your personal best.”
He asks, “Do you run?”
“No. Not anymore…used to…but…Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
“Nothing like it,” he says.
“What place did you come in? You know, for your age group,” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t follow that stuff. I just try to do the best for me.”
“Yeah, I hear you. But don’t you think the world only pays attention to the winners?”
He stares ahead and rubs the corner of his poncho over his chin. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. So, why’d you stop…? Running, I mean.”
I show him the prosthesis. “The war got me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Miss, can you get us two more? He swipes the foam from his mouth after he guzzles the rest of his pint. “Where?”
“Mosul. IED.”
She lines up two pints and backs them up with shots of Jack. “Christ,” he says. “Right at the knee.” He gives her a ten.
We down the Jack. “Where you from?” I ask.
“Annapolis…Maryland. Took the Amtrak up here from Baltimore. Boston’s such a great town. You live here long?”
“Twenty years.”
He asks, “What do you do for work?”
“I’m a philosophy professor. I teach courses on Nietzsche and Dostoevsky to sophomores. I love it.”
“Why?”
“Well, there’s something about transmitting ideas. Seeing the lightbulbs go off.”
With a serious look, he says, “I was never much of a student. I’m more into doing than…thinking.”
“Maybe doing and thinking are one and the same.”
He downs his beer. “Huh. Maybe. Hey, it was great talking with you. Gotta' go.” We shake hands, neither offering our names.
He hops off the stool and makes his way to the door with a strange gait. That’s when I notice his blade. He turns, salutes me, and shouts…Boston Marathon...2013.
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