TWINKLE

 The old man's skin was so weathered you could have made shoes out of it. He sat there next to me on the picnic table as still as a department store mannequin, just staring up at the early evening sky. It was a cloudless day and, this far from city, the sky actually looked blue instead of soot grey. The setting sun just kissed the green western horizon offering a spectacular view. But instead, but the man stared overhead. As to what fixed his attention so firmly, I could not tell. Not a bird flew overhead, not even an airplane. All my questions to the stranger had returned nothing but a series of 'Yeps' and 'Nopes.' I was at a loss as to what to do next.

I first saw the old man this afternoon as I was driving out of the city for a meeting. He was just walking on the shoulder of the road by himself, a lone figure amongst the impatient traffic zipping by. He wasn't hitchhiking as he had no thumb sticking out. His grey-white hair and slow pace first caught my eye.

Better walking than driving, I thought selfishly. Nothing worse than some old geezer behind the wheel of an ancient Lincoln doing 45 in a 65 mph zone. Nevertheless, something made me slow down and stop. I don't know why. Living in the city it's ingrained in you to ignore just about everyone, the people you pass on sidewalks, the homeless begging on street corners, those sitting across from you on the metro. Still, I pulled over into the crunchy gravel shoulder and waited for him to catch up. I lowered the window on my SUV.

"You all right old man?" I asked, calling out the window. I immediately chastised myself for being rude. My parents would've given me a good lecture about respecting your elders. I should have called him 'mister,' or better yet, 'sir.'

"Yep," he said, without slowing his pace. "Just fine. Thanks for asking."

The man was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, red flannel shirt, and leather jacket. A worn baseball cap sat on his head and a decent pair of sneakers covered his feet. He carried a small plastic shopping bag, the kind you get at a convenience store. He didn't look like a vagrant, nor someone suffering from dementia. His eyes looked sharp and clear.

"Where you headed?" I asked next, keeping pace with my gas pedal. My wheels crunched along on the gravel with his feet.

"Oh, just up the road a bit," he responded.

Just up the road could mean anything from the next intersection to Canada.

"Need a lift?" Again, I couldn't believe I was asking this. You never, ever picked up a hitcher nowadays. They could be drug addicts, terrorists, or even serial killers.

Here the man finally stopped walking and stared at me a second; sizing me up, I suppose. "Yeah, I sure could."

And that was that. He climbed into my SUV with little difficulty. His deeply-wrinkled, world-weary face looked in his eighties, but given his pace, he could have been younger. He barely a said a word while we drove. I tried small talk, but it got me nowhere.

"You live around here?"

"Yep."

"Going to visit someone?"

"Nope."

"Why aren't you driving?"

"Got no car."

He seemed more interested in the sky overhead than anything I had to say. He constantly looked up out the windshield.

We left the suburbs behind and started to enter a more rural section. Nothing but trees, farms or horse ranches lined the road. Suddenly, out of the blue, he asked to be let out.