In a peaceful Saturday night, I was sitting beside a bar table, tried to figure out the stories of my photos, which I was going to publish in my new photo album. The bar tender gave me a drink and asked what I was doing here. I told him about the album.
“A photographer, huh?” he said, chewing his cigar. He pointed to a figure sitting in the seat with his back to us.” You oughta check out that guy. Now there’s a story.”
I hear this all the time.
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“He played basketball once.”
“I think he made a World Series.”
“And he tried to kill himself.”
“Yeah.” The man sniffed, dropped his cigar and stomped on it.” Go on up and ask him if you don’t believe me. His name, William”
He returned to the kitchen. I got off the bar table, approached the man with a drink, trying to found out some special for my album.
“Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation?” he started to tell me his story.” I wanted one more chance to make up for the time when I thought they would be here forever. But, what if you got it back?”
I hesitated, still looking into his eyes, telling him to continue.
“I began to unravel the day when my mother died, around ten years ago. I wasn’t there when it happened, and I should have been.”
His mother, according to what William said, was a mothering woman. She had been all over him as a kid － advice, criticism etc. There were times he wished she could leave him alone. But when she did, no more visits, no more phone calls and no one stood up for him. And without realizing it, he began to drift, as if his roots had been pulled, floating down some side branch of a river.
“A year after my mother died, I did the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I had a relationship with a woman, in the status that I had married and have two lovely girls.”
Certainly, her wife and children left him when these come to them. Then, he started...