Creative Writing Challenge - Task #7 - The Objects - On His Own Terms

This is Aaron’s Story. Set in Ravello, a fishing town south of Naples. In this story we will be visiting with all six prompt objects, in scenario #1.

Image credit: TaeJeong Bae on Pinterest

A frail old man stood along what is considered the central street of the fishing town of Ravello, Italy. It is a busy street, as such things can be gauged in a small village. Aaron waved his straw brimmed hat at the passing taxi making its way perilously over the cobbled streets.

The hat was new. It made him feel dapper as he worked his way seemingly aimlessly through the village. The woven texture acting almost as a touch stone for him as his fingers rubbed the brim casually.

The taxi didn’t stop. This was the third to pass him by since finishing his meal in the café. Aaron shifted his weight, placing the hat back on top of his head as his view scanned up and down the street, looking for another likely vehicle to get him to his destination.

With an exasperated sigh, Aaron turned back to the café, took a few hobbling steps, and allowed his body to slump into one of the provided patio chairs. Slowly, he managed to extract his arms from the forearm crutches which his doctor had insisted he begin using. The damned things chaffed, and he began to vigorously rub the feeling back into his arms one by one. Eyes turning to the crutches that almost seemed to laugh at him, their cold, uncaring, black metal surfaces mocking the frailty of the skin and muscle they tore into with each step.

A waiter came by, speaking in a slow, casual Italian that sounded musical to Aaron, though he could not understand a lick of it. He had only been to Italy once before, decades earlier, in a much younger body, and a much different head cover.

Removing his hat and tossing it casually onto the table in front of him, Aaron turned to the waiter, with a voice much stronger than would be expected from such a frail body, a voice that had spent years barking commands, he addressed the waiter “Look son, I don’t know your Italian, but I’m just having a rest here. If you could hail me a cab, I’d be much obliged.”

The waiter gave a nod of understanding. “Ah! Of course signore!” he offered in a thickly accented, but passable English. “allow me to serve this tray and I will return straight away.” He gave a slight bow of his head, and moved away from Aaron with his tray full of starters.

Aaron’s eyes lingered momentarily on the salads perfectly organized atop the tray. Every dish here seemed as though it were created by a master chef. Even in a seaside café, the greens and other vegetables were arranged with a perfection that an American Restaurant would scoff at as being too time consuming. The egg, tomato, and diced chicken arranges in a presentation almost too perfect to eat, with the dressing drizzled on top in such a fine pattern, the kitchen staff almost seemed to have used a ruler.

Aaron’s thoughts were disrupted by a touch on his arm. He gave a start before realizing it was just a young lady. She was probably the hostess of the establishment. “Pardon signore? But did you require transportation?”

“That I did Miss, err signorina. I’m needing a ride over to Solerno.” Aaron dared to hope his trip was nearly done.
The hostess gave a nod “Solerno is thirty kilometers from here signore. This will be an expensive taxi, yes?”

Aaron gave a grunt, and attempted not to roll his eyes. The expense of a cab across the entire country would pale in comparison to the expense just to get to this point. “Of course. I am prepared to pay.” He replied as politely as possible.

With a polite smile, the hostess returned to her stand to pick up the phone. All of two minutes later a forest green VW Sharan pulled up to the curb, the glowing taxi light atop the roof indicating this was Aaron’s ride. It seemed in decent shape for a small town cab. Aaron gave his forearms one last rub, before placing his hat back atop his head, standing, and placing his arms into the crutches. He wobbled to the curb where the hostess offered to assist him into the cab, and he was in no place to argue.

The long cab ride passed in a bit of a haze. Aaron made it clear relatively quickly that he was not in for small talk with the driver, who then left him in silence. Aaron removed a padded envelope from the satchel he had slung over his shoulder, the old green bag seeming nearly as old and frail as the man himself.

The envelope had postage applied and was written to an American Address, The address of Aaron’s daughter back home. She had argued so fervently against his making this trip, considering his condition. But an old man could do what he pleased, especially an old man with Stage 4 brain cancer.

Aaron examined the envelope, it’s stuck on postage with one corner of a stamp attempting to peel up. Aaron licked his finger and attempted to push the stamp back into place, but the things was stubborn, and persisted in popping back up each time he removed his finger. Giving up on the stamp, his fingers instead traced the shape of the USB memory stick that was the sole content of the plain manila envelope. His entire life was on that little thumb drive. Ninety Four years compounded down into a rectangular piece of plastic and circuits.

After a long time of contemplation which at the same time was infinitely too short, the vehicle pulled to a stop and Aaron looked out the window. Pavement ended with a tuft of grass followed by a long stretch of golden sand. Gritting his teeth for one last haul, Aaron placed the hat upon his head and prepared his arms for the torture of the crutches. Aaron paid the cab fare, with a generous tip, and then held up an additional hundred euro note. “See this gets dropped in the post for me, would you?” he urges the driver, waving the tip to be sure there was no question he was paying for a service. The driver snatched both envelope and bank note eagerly before jumping out of the car to open the door for Aaron and help him out. “You need I come back for you later signore?” the man asked hopefully.

Aaron shook his head as he tried to make his arms comfortable in the arm cuffs of the crutches. “no need for that” he uttered. No sooner had the words been spoken than the driver was back in his car and zooming off into the sunset.

The old man’s gaze reached up toward the horizon across the beach. In the distance a tall white monument stood, reaching for the sky. A casual observer from this distance might consider it to be a lighthouse. But Aaron knew better.

The feet of his crutches sank deeply into the sand as Aaron moved from pavement out onto the beach. The resistance of pulling the crutch out of the sand with each step became increasingly cumbersome as the man made his way toward the great stone object. Finally, Doctor’s orders be damned, Aaron stripped the arm cuffs away from his arms and tossed the crutches to either side of him. He’d rather crawl the remaining distance than fight the damn things. And it wouldn’t be the first time he crawled along this beach.

Old, weary legs carried Aaron further than he would have imagined possible before finally giving out a mere ten meters from the stone. He would have to crawl, and so he did. Still powerful forearms pulling the dead weight of his legs behind him, until finally he was able to reach out shaking fingers to touch the monument.

Names, Dozens of Names, Hundreds, Thousands. Names of soldiers from all Allied countries lined the four sides of the great obelisk, their dark text engraved deeply into the white stone.

Aaron dug his fingers into the engraved names, using the small crevices to pull his body up, until he was upright. A brief search along the side of the monument found his fingers tracing a set of twenty-two names. Tears streaking down time wrinkled skin as fingers and eyes examined each name in fine detail. “I’m back boys. I told you I’d come back for ya.”
With a grunt of effort Aaron pushed away from the memorial, pulling old limbs as erect as possible, he gave a near perfect parade ground salute. He was only able to hold the pose for five seconds, maybe six, before his legs gave way and he slumped against the monument, working himself into a seated position, back supported by the white stone, breath heaving with effort and chest constricted.

The satchel over his shoulder was opened once again and a perfectly kept Browning was removed. Aaron caressed the gun, fingers tracing the well-oiled metal gingerly. “In a time and place of my choosing” he murmured to himself. “Doctors can screw themselves if they wanted me in a hospital bed to wither away.” A grimace broke across his face as his chest tightened once more. “This is where I need to be. With my men.” His fingers found the rough wooden stock. The gun was now his best friend, aside from the twenty-two names on the stone behind him.

In the morning, beach-goers found the lifeless body of an old American veteran slumped against the World War Two memorial to the Allied invasion of Italy, a peaceful look on his face. An autopsy would reveal the man had passed in the night from a heart attack. Observes were led to wonder why the man had been at the memorial with an unloaded War Era pistol. But his family knew; Aaron had gone to be with his other family in his last moments. He would not have taken his own life, but he would have waited as long as it took for him to die among his mates. He had returned, joining the men who had given their lives so many decades earlier on the shores of Solerno. Nothing would have stopped the old officer from making the trip. He had gone at a time and place of his choosing, with no regrets, and among those he held most dear.