Listening to Tales

I met a pirate. In the most literal sense of the word, he was one. A long, scraggly gray beard hung from his chin, while wispy gray-white hair framed his weathered face. Missing teeth caused a slight lisp to hang on the edges of certain words, and his mustache told the tale of many cigarettes that had been smoked, as they each left their brownish residue on the hairs. His long fingernails told the same tale, one stained yellow from the nicotine and tar found in the small vice sticks. Jeweled gold rings littered his fingers like icing on a cake, and his bare toes donned a couple of rings as well. He spoke of his ancestors, poor soldiers who had helped build Solomon's temple. Contrasting their appearance with their perfect Arabic dialect, they were a rare breed. Eventually taking to the sea, they sailed many waters, helping some, pillaging from others. His eye gave a little sparkle as he recounted their many adventures, something he was obviously proud and sure of. Never thinking he'd live past twenty, he complained of the ailments of being in his mid-fifties. He couldn't fight like he used to, his body gave out when his mind willed it to remain sharp. He told stories of prison tattoos, made from melting the blue prison-issued toothbrush down and using the staple from the match case as the needle. It explained their faded, worn look. He'd served three tours overseas, recounting his ability to place bullets very accurately from long distances. Connecting on hunting and weaponry, we laughed over the delicacies of venison and elk. He donned large cowboy boots, over sized enough to give the imagination space to easily make them into the pirate boots of his ancestors. Had a large brimmed hat been on his head, a sword on his hip, and a long coat over his shoulders, I would not have been surprised. He was a pirate, through and through.

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