Hobo Diaries

page four

page four ; "Sweet Things"

• • •

THE trash place of Oavad pub reeked of and was pervaded by Silver's hangover puke. His groaning had caught the attention of Mr. Greyson while he dropped by the trash place to throw away a huge garbage bag comprising of, obviously, garbage.

Mr. Greyson or his wife would alternately drop by every hour to throw away trash.

Sometimes, Silver would wonder to why Oavad pub would have so much trash when there was rarely anyone who would visit. Perhaps, there was only two usual (and perhaps, the only) customers. Namely, Silver and a woman in the same age as Silver whose name has not yet (or ever) been asked or known. Eveytime she would drop by and cross paths with Silver, he always sees her wear a white sleeveless t-shirt, stained with a variety of colors of spray paint and a pair of khaki shorts. Due to the series of smeared paint on her shirt, and occassionally her cheeks, it gave Silver the conclusion that she was the artist of the unfinished mural in the dog park's playground wall.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Greyson said concernly, dropping the garbage bag to the floor and rushing to Silver then patting his back softly. Silver continued barfing.

"Oh my," Mr. Greyson's face turns sour as he sees the ungodly fluid escape Silver's mouth. "Son, I think you're going to have to come inside and let me give ya a hand. Stayin' out here ain't gonna help ya."

The Oavad pub always had the scent of onions. Like, everytime Silver walked in, it always had this smell of frying onions in the pan.

Was this how home supposed to smell like?

Because if it was, that would've been... nice.

Nice to have.
Nice to smell more.
Nice to actually know about.
Nice.

"Here, drink this."
Mr. Greyson places a glass of water in front of Silver. He sat in the table next to the first window.

"Actually, my hangover cure is chocolate milk. It's weird, but it works."

Mr. Greyson laughs and the young man in front of him gulps the glass of water down his throat.

Silver was addicted to sweet drinks. Sweet stuff. Sweet people.

Too bad he has never really met any that would be sweet to him. Not yet; at least, he believes so. He had a sweet tooth and perhaps maybe even two. He craved for sweet drinks. Sweet things. Sweet people he has never met.

"Alright. One chocolate milk commin' right up,"

Mr. Greyson was gone and meanwhile... Silver picked his nose.

He didn't have to be embarrassed by it. Not in this town. Not in any town. Or to anyone. Because it seemed normal, and it was and it is. He was called immature, gross and too damn childish for doing other things, other than picking his nose. Even at his current age. And his reply to this statement?

"We don't stop picking our nose because we grow up. We grow up because we stop picking our nose."

They always respond with a "What the fuck?"

Always.
Kind of like a catchphrase. Kind of like how the villains in Scooby doo would say "...if it weren't for you, you meddling kids". Kind of like that.

When Mr. Greyson came back, he held a glass of chocolate milk in each hand. He sat in front of the young man as Mr. Greyson chuckled at him sticking a finger up his nose. He slides both of the glasses on the table, the other nearer to Silver.

"Son, you're really peculiar," the middle aged man said with a soft smile. Silver hurriedly sips on his sweet chocolate milk. "Like, full of stories... interesting ones. Like, an irony; with dead settled eyes, with absolutely no expression but then movements that absolutely has more than expressions."

Silver stops sipping.
"I am flattered and annoyed at the same time... that an old man is crushing on how weird I am," he says with a deadpan face. "Unfortunetly, your wife doesn't think the same way, Mr. Greyson. I would have been lucky. No offense.

"Actually, I don't think there's an offense. I just called your wife pretty."

"That's how you call someone pretty?" Mr. Greyson chuckled "Same, though."

They share a laugh.

"Son," the man said in a soft voice, almost like a father; if that's what a father should sound like, Silver thought.
"Call me David," he added

"Mr. David," Silver smiled while saying his name with emphasis. He didn't want to cross 'mister' out, because. Because.

Because he felt like Mr. Greyson (Mr. David) deserved a 'mister' next to his name.
Because he didn't want to cross it out. He wanted it to stay there.

"Mr. David, I've been curious," he said after another sip of his chocolate milk "How'd you and your wife meet?

"How did you fall inlove with each other?"

He has. He has been curious. He has been curious to why Mrs. Greyson kissed him goodbye, so sweetly, everytime she had to go somewhere. Like it was their last. He has been curious to why Mr. Greyson looks at her like she was something new; something grand; something unexpected... something good. He has been curious to how they fell inlove. To why they fell inlove. Silver has been curious the moment he found out they were a married couple that moved into this small town and stood a pub. Silver has been curious like he was a child wanting to know things like these for a school project; curious like he needed to hear it for something like that. Curious like he was a child that had actual parents that fell inlove with each other.

"Well, son," he said in his Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck) kind of voice, like the usual. He said 'son' in a way that made Silver like him more than he already does.

"You like sweet things right?"

Silver nods.

"Then I am sure you'll like our love story too."

• • •

April 27, 2015

Dear Journal,

Mr. Greyson is Mr. David.
And Mrs. Greyson is Mrs. Diana.

And they met 10 years ago.

All because Mr. David dialed the wrong number.