Gone a Thousand Years

Gone a Thousand Years 

"Hey look, it's that guy who was abducted by aliens." I hear this remark often-too often- so I just ignore the comment and continue eating. 

"No, no, you idiot," the two hecklers at the next table continue, "it wasn't aliens it was gnomes." 

I glance up from my meal and stupidly take the bait. "Little people," I correct him. "And I wasn't abducted."  

The roar of laughter prevents any thought of me being able to finish my food, so throwing my napkin on my plate, I get up and pay the bill.  

"Hey, mister!" I hear a child's voice shout as I'm exiting the restaurant. I check my person to see if I'd left anything in the restaurant, and upon adequate inspection am positive I have all my belongings, continue to the car, sure that the voice must be calling to someone else.  

"Hey, mister!" The voice shouts again. Turning on my heels, I see a boy, a child of about seven or eight running towards me. 

"Hey, mister," he repeats as he finally reaches me, out of breath.  

"What is it, kid?" I can't help the sarcastic tone I greet him back with. It has become part of my speech ever since I returned. That's what happens when the world thinks you're crazy. They patronize you- you patronize back. 

The tone doesn't bother him. He shuffles the toe of his shoe back and forth in the graveled parking lot as if he's stubbing out a cigarette. "I just...well, I wanted to ask..."  

"Spit it out, kid."  

As if the words were a sudden jolt to the brain, the kid looks up at me, full of courage, and the words come spilling out. "I heard what you said to those two guys in there-I was sitting in the booth in the corner with my mom-and when you left I begged my mom if I could come talk to you 'cause I wanted to find out if it was true what you say; you see, my mom and I-we believe in fairies and little people and all that stuff and we believe your story- at least what we've heard of it." The kid takes a deep breath- cause I don't think he did while he was talking- and looks at me expectantly. 

I sit there thinking for a moment, wondering if the kid is full of crap or not and see his mom smiling at the two of us from inside the restaurant. 

"Please, mister? Will you tell us about it? Will you tell us your story?"  

Opening my mouth to say no, something in his hopeful stare stops me, and my heart melts. I see so much of myself in this little boy. I was just like him once- eager, full of energy and vitality, ready to believe the unbelievable, innocent and unaffected yet by the skeptic nature of human adults.  

"It's not a story, kid." I take his hand and walk with him back into the restaurant as the kid gives his mom a thumbs- up.  

I continue, "It was an adventure. A true life adventure." 

"Jason." 

"Excuse me?" 

"My name is Jason," he says.  

"Oh." 

"What's your name?" 

"Riley. I thought everyone in town knew that already."  

He lifted his shoulders, considering this. "Nope. Pretty much everyone in town calls you The Crazy Guy." 

"Oh, thanks."  

Crossing the waiting area, we make our way past the heckler's table and to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant where Jason's mom is waiting for us to return.