The Old Man

I step outside.

Almost like it was anticipating my entrance, a cold breeze blows past me. Shaking it off in black coldgear, shorts and running shoes, I start my journey. Looking around, I see a familiar sight: the old porter. He looked so much more impressive and intimidating when I was a prospective freshman: everything looked more so when I was a prospective freshman. Now, I could tell he has seen better days, fulfilling his duties with a heavy sigh, standing resolute in everything that nature throws at him, simply telling the time to anyone who even gives him half a glance.

I stop to chat with the old watchman. Tying my shoes whilst making conversation, I ask him how he's been.

He tells me of everything he's noticed. People coming and going, hardly anyone bothering to say hello; he tells me about the good old days back when people were more courteous. I laugh, just like a young'un, he jeers. He says how across the river of black asphalt, there has been a war going on. Buildings being torn down, piles of rubble and debris left to be cleaned up, free territories becoming occupied with newer, even bigger fortresses, laying claim to all of its surroundings. I tell him how I've ventured into that war zone often, within just two years of becoming familiar with the place, everything's changed. Old places that I've visited, turned completely inside out, it's like I've never been there. Even the local tavern was forced to close its doors. The old porter, in his worn-down green windbreaker, shakes his head in disapproval.

I blink, and breathe a breath full of chilled air. I stretch out, half expecting the porter to continue his story. I look up; the old man returns to his somber, silent watch. As I get ready to take off, "11:30pm", he whispers. I look back, thank him, and jog into the darkness, knowing he'll be here to welcome me back for when I return.