The Noticer Returns Page 2

  I cut my eyes toward the old man and kept walking. He had a habit of turning up most often, it seemed, when I was tired or depressed or angry. I’d look up from washing someone’s boat or pause to stretch while cleaning fish, and there he’d be, over to the side, twenty or thirty feet away, just watching me. He’d smile when I caught him like that, and I didn’t mind. After all, he was the only person remotely interested in a young man who was homeless and living on the beach.

  The old man could make me laugh, and he did so quite often; but mostly, he made me think. Not necessarily about a certain thing . . . He made me think in ways I had never considered. Jones had a knack for turning a situation or a deep-seated belief upside down or sideways in such a manner that it became perfectly clear and made total sense.

  I didn’t look at him again, but I could hear the fine, sugary sand squeaking under his steps. He was quiet, simply offering his company to a lonely young man, and I couldn’t help feeling guilty for how I sometimes acted toward him. I often grew frustrated with the old man, sometimes to the point of anger, and then would regret the sharp words I used as I took that frustration out on my friend. In saner moments I wondered if the overwhelming frustration I felt might actually be with myself. I certainly struggled to think the way he did.

  “You can’t just come up with some answer to everything,” I’d said to him only a few nights before. In an ugly tone of voice, I had sneered, “You act like an answer is waiting around the corner, and when you find it—boom!—the problem’s solved, like somebody waved a magic wand!” I remember stepping close to him for my big finish. With contempt dripping from my words, I had said, “Things are not that simple.”

  Jones had shrugged and, with the barest hint of a smile, replied, “Seems to me that when the answer appears, the problem is solved. You might be scared or frustrated or discouraged or all three, but when you find an answer, life is never the same again. So actually, son . . . things aren’t that complicated.”

  I had wanted to scream.

  Approaching the Holiday Inn, we could see that high tide was sending its waves to break upon the foundation of the resort’s pool area. Only a seawall protected the hotel’s elaborate concrete beach from the waves of the real thing; therefore, it was the only place on our walk where we couldn’t stay on the sand. I experienced this obstacle regularly and knew that to avoid wading through the surf, it was necessary to cross the pool deck. Together in the dark, all alone, Jones and I climbed the steps that would allow us to negotiate the array of lounge chairs, circle the pool, and exit the property by way of the stairs on the other side.

  Despite the security guard who roamed the hotel grounds at night, I wasn’t too scared. The lady who worked the night desk inside the lobby was a middle-aged, African American woman named Beverly. She was also a friend of mine. I called her Mrs. Beverly and occasionally gave her fresh fish as my part of an unspoken agreement that prompted her to look the other way when I used one or another of the hotel’s amenities. Still, I was cautious. I didn’t want anyone in trouble with the hotel manager. Especially me.

  I crouched low, making my way across the deck. Arriving at midpoint, right beside the deep end of the pool, I turned to tell Jones to do the same. I flushed with annoyance, seeing he was not bent over and not hurrying. The old man was moving casually, absolutely upright, hands in his pockets, with those leather sandals scuffling along the sandy concrete. Having trained myself to avoid attention and the subsequent problems that came with it, I was striving for silence, and the old man’s sandals resonated like a metal rake dragging through gravel.

  Irritated, I hissed at him to hurry up, get down, and be quiet. But before I could continue my short trek, Jones inexplicably smiled sweetly and reached toward me in a gesture that indicated he wanted to place his hand on my shoulder but instead . . . firmly pushed me into what was a very cold, unheated pool.

  I was under the water—all the way under the water—before I had any comprehension of what had just occurred. Years later I would carry a weird mental picture of the old man at that particular instant. I would see him through the surface of the pool, leaning over me with his white hair blowing in the cold wind. As I surfaced with a gasp, Jones was smiling. Not laughing (I might have killed him) but smiling as if he were curious or expectant or fascinated with the object in front of him—which was, of course, me.

  I kicked to the side of the pool and grabbed hold of the edge at his feet. All the fire or meanness or whatever it was I carried around was suddenly gone. I wiped my eyes with my hands, looked up at him, and asked, “What was that for?” as he reached down to help me out.

  Soon I was wrapped in ten or twelve towels from the Holiday Inn laundry room and drinking coffee from the pot in the lobby. We were sitting on the floor, huddled in the not-quite-inside, not-quite-outside doorway that led to the hotel tennis courts. It was not comfortable, but it was out of the wind, and I was relatively sure we would not be run off.

  After giving him the silent treatment for a time—conduct that I must admit had no effect at all—I peered at him sideways and said, “Jones. Man, I don’t get you. What in the heck was that for?”

  He looked up at the ceiling, took a deep, contented breath, and crossed his arms comfortably. “Well,” he began, glancing at me briefly, then back to the ceiling. “Son, you are at this very moment in the biggest war you will ever wage in your life. It is confusing, but you’re fighting for what you’ll one day become. There are forces clashing for space in your head that you don’t recognize, can’t see, and won’t understand until you’re able to look back on the whole thing years from now.

  “You know, a lot of folks will tell you that little things don’t matter.” He flashed me a quick look and added, “You’d better turn that on its ear, son. Little things do matter. Sometimes, little things matter the most. Everybody pays a lot of attention to big things, but nobody seems to understand that big things are almost always made up of little things. When you ignore little things, they often turn into big things that have become a lot harder to handle.

  “‘Don’t sweat the small stuff,’” Jones said with disdain. “That’s a lie that’ll ruin your life.” He looked hard at me again and locked my gaze with his own. “Your choices, your words, and every move you make are permanent. Life is lived in indelible ink, boy. Wake up. You’re making little bitty brushstrokes every minute you walk around on this earth. And with those tiny brushstrokes, you are creating the painting that your life will ultimately become—a masterpiece or a disaster.”

  Jones shifted in the small space to gain a little comfort and faced me directly when he spoke again. “Okay, back to your question . . .” The old man tilted his head to the side a tiny bit.

  “It occurred to me that I wasn’t always going to be around to help you with your thinking. So I decided, then and there, that you needed to understand a very important fact about your earthly existence. It is this: Every single day for the rest of your life, somebody is going to push you in the pool. And you’d better decide now how you’re going to act when it happens.”

  Jones squinted and leaned toward me. “Are you gonna come out of the water whining? Maybe crying or complaining? Will you come up mad and defiant, threatening everybody? Will you throw fists or worse?

  “Or will you come out of the water with a smile on your face? Looking to see what you can learn . . . who you might help? Will you act happy though you feel uncertain?”

  He stared at me for a beat or two before lowering his chin and speaking in an earnest tone. “It’s time to decide, son,” he said. “Almost every result that your life produces from this moment forward—good or bad—will depend upon how you choose. Every day, in one form or another, whether you like it or not, you will be pushed in the pool. You might as well decide right now how you’ll act when it happens.”

  With that said, Jones got to his feet and left.

  I was worn out, tired beyond measure, and I knew I had to leave soon. Before facing the cold nigh
t again, however, I dozed, resting somewhat, allowing my mind to drift over and around Jones. I thought again about why he never wore a coat. I thought about where he would sleep that night and about how generally strange he seemed to be. I thought about my life. I thought about Jones’s baffling words. And I wondered what in the world I was supposed to make of both.

  Three

  Present day

  The village of Fairhope, Alabama, was founded in November 1894, and for every moment since that time, the salty air has mingled with discarded oyster shells and filtered through the boughs of oak and pine with the occasional trace of fried seafood to create a fragrance unmatched by any lesser town. Tourists come here from all over the world for its shopping, great restaurants, incredible views, and, of course, to stay at the Grand Hotel, recognized as one of the finest golf and sailing destinations in the country.

  It was early afternoon on a Monday, and I had driven the forty-five minutes from my home in Orange Beach to Fairhope and was parked in front of the Page & Palette bookstore on Section Street. Shaking my head to clear it, I looked at my watch. How long had I been sitting here? My latest manuscript was overdue, and what I had written, well . . . let’s just say that I was not satisfied. In addition to the uncertainty I was inflicting on my publisher, I was at odds with myself and a bit down in the dumps on top of it all.

  The root of the problem, I knew, was the type of book everyone expected me to write. For the thousandth time I whined to myself, If they just wanted a story, I could write a great story. If they wanted just the principles, I could write a straightforward nonfiction book. Unfortunately the realities of today’s modern marketing machine and my own desire to please everyone had combined to yield a fairly strong brand that declared, “Andy Andrews writes stories with principles.” Bottom line: I felt trapped. Why? Simply for the reason that this time, I had no story.

  Oh, I was excited about the principles I had discovered and wanted to teach. In fact, the principles were so powerful that I had already begun to reveal them to the leaders of certain teams and corporations with whom I had long-term contracts. Those clients were already seeing amazing results with the implementation of the new information, but regarding the upcoming book—my typical method for getting the principles into everyone’s hands—I didn’t have a story. Or, at least, I didn’t have the story.

  In previous books I had always used exciting plotlines as a device to keep the reader’s interest as the principle, deftly inserted, made itself known during the action. In The Heart Mender I used the true tales of Nazi submarines prowling America’s Gulf of Mexico during World War II. An archaeologist and a newspaper reporter chased the origin of a mysteriously powerful object in The Lost Choice. I was shaken by the realization that every book I had ever written had a unique and engaging story—something this latest attempt was lacking. I knew it, and with every keystroke of my Mac, I felt a dangerous hole growing larger beneath me. It was a pit being dug by a shovel of my own creation and fueled by disappointment in myself. Worse, the deeper I dug, the more evidence I found that there was something else in the hole. It was, I recognized, the rising tide of panic.

  I looked at my watch again and knew I had to make myself leave the relative safety of my car. I had promised to drop by Page & Palette and sign their stock of my books. In order to do that, I had to go inside. I love Karin and Keifer, the owners, but I knew that immediately after hugs and hellos would come questions about my next book. “When is it being released?” they would ask. “What is it about? What is the title?” How could I possibly answer their questions? Oh, I don’t know, I imagined saying, but my publisher is thrilled with what I have written so far! In fact, just yesterday he called to inform me that I had set a new record for one of their authors. Yes, a new record! Well, no . . . apparently they’ve never before had anyone under contract miss three separate deadlines on one book. Ah . . . no, sorry I don’t have a title for the book. Nope, I haven’t figured out the ending either. Actually, I don’t know what the book is about. It’s all part of a new writing technique: I am keeping everything a big secret. Yes, even from myself . . .

  Without question, I was battling a bit of depression or anxiety or fear . . . or whatever it is that makes me want to sit in my car and never get out. But I knew better than to surrender my will. Jones had taught me long before never to give in to a feeling of despair, fear, or defeat. “Lead your negative emotions, son,” he’d say. “Never allow those emotions to lead you. Always lead them by quickly moving in the opposite direction those emotions insist you should go!” Therefore, knowing full well that I did not even remotely feel like it, I smiled—just as the old man had trained me to do. I even chuckled a bit as I opened the car door and stepped out.

  Locking the vehicle, I heard a familiar voice. “Looove to hear that laughter,” the voice boomed. “No sir, we don’t allow droopy feelings to put a leash on us!”

  I looked up—and there he was. I almost have to repeat it, even in print. There he was, looking like I had just seen him yesterday. What had it been . . . more than five years since he had disappeared? But in a deeper sense it also seemed to be the most natural thing in the world to see that old man. Still, my jaw must have dropped a foot. “Jones?” I managed to croak.

  He grinned broadly, held out a small white sack, and as if he saw me every day at this time, said, “Hello, young man. Have a lemon bar?”

  I was too stunned by his sudden appearance to answer coherently, so I simply laughed as I alternately shook his hand and tried to hug him. Then I babbled like a four-year-old with his first glazed doughnut while the old man who had meant so much to me smiled and waited patiently for me to calm down.

  Finally, at a loss for words, I realized that I was still holding fast to Jones’s right arm, the one that held the little white bag. “You don’t have to mug me for it,” he said laughingly, gently prying my fingers from his bicep. “I have an extra one.”

  “One what?” I managed, my mind moving in several directions at once.

  “An extra lemon bar,” he answered calmly. “I got two. There’s one for each of us.” He paused for a moment before waving his hand in my face. “Hey, you in there?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I mean, yes sir. I am in here.” Then I blurted, “Jones, don’t leave.”

  “Settle down, and let’s find a place to sit. How ’bout a cup of coffee to go with these treats?” He glanced toward Page & Palette. Quickly, though, he looked away and muttered, “No . . . you don’t need any coffee. You’re jittery enough.”

  Steering me down the sidewalk to an empty bench, he gestured for me to sit, and I did. Joining me, the old man opened the sack and produced two lemon bars. The delicate cakes were from Latte Da, the bookstore’s coffee shop, as anyone who has ever set foot in the town of Fairhope would know. The quaint emporium is almost as famous for its coffee and pastries as it is for its books, and folks come from far corners of the world to experience the unique atmosphere of this beautiful independent bookstore.

  Taking a lemon bar in my right hand, I positioned my left under it to catch any of the powdered sugar that might otherwise fall and be wasted. As I put it to my mouth, a peculiar thought wiggled its way into my head. So before taking a bite, I turned instead to the old man, who, I noted, already had an innocent look on his face before I said a word.

  Plunging ahead anyway, I smiled and offered my question. “Jones . . . did you buy two lemon bars for yourself? I think you were expecting someone. In fact, I think that—”

  “Let’s be careful,” Jones said, interrupting me and patting me on the knee, “that we don’t read too much into a trivial occurrence.”

  The smile remained, but my eyes narrowed. “Jones, there has never been anything trivial about you, and you know it.” He shrugged as if he did not know what I was talking about, but I knew that he did. And he knew that I knew. I had spent too much time with the old man to believe anything that ever happened around him was coincidence.

  “Can I as
k why you’re here? Here in Fairhope, I mean. And why did you leave Orange Beach? Jones, it’s been five years since anyone has heard from you. Where have you been? Also, where are you staying? Can I help you with anything? Will you at least come home with me to spend a couple of nights? Polly and the boys would love to see you. What are you doing in Fairhope anyway?”

  “You’re jabbering again,” Jones said patiently as he took the last bite of his lemon bar. Wiping the sugar from his hand onto his jeans, he added, “And you asked the Fairhope question twice. You know, you sure do talk a lot. I’m thinking you’d get more books written if you could curb that tendency. Hard to write and talk at the same time. At least that’s what I suspect.”

  At that mild rebuke I fell silent and looked away from him. “Oh, come on,” Jones said as he poked at me with his elbow. “I seen little kids who could pout better’n that.” He gave me half a moment to put a grin back on my face, then asked, “You gonna talk or what?”

  I turned toward him and said simply, “I have really missed you.” With that pronouncement, he put his arm around my shoulder again, and for some reason I almost burst into tears.

  I don’t mind admitting that, at that moment, I was uncharacteristically an emotional wreck. For some reason I had always felt like a child around Jones. Not childish, but somehow childlike. That day, I asked him, “Did you miss me too?” just like a kid would have.

  Of course, he responded in his typical manner. “Nope,” Jones said. “To miss you, I’da had to been gone. And I ain’t been gone. I’ve been around.”

  I knew better than to question that answer. Instead, I made some comment about his reply being typical of him, and it was exactly that. Jones had always been a walking contradiction. He was the only person I had ever met who could be aggravating, encouraging, evasive, straightforward, demanding, and comforting all at the same time. I wanted to ask him why he was in Fairhope, but I knew his answer would have been something like, “Why not?” so I didn’t even bother.