He Came In On Saturdays

He would step in without a word on the Saturdays.
He needn’t speak, only knock on the bar as he sat down, and his drink would arrive.
Rum, always neat. He drank it and stared straight ahead the whole time, and no one asked why
Probably because of what happened to the last guy.

He would smell of smoke and fish at times.
And his hands were often coated with what they assumed was dried blood.
He walked with a limp and sometimes would have the assistance of his wooden cane.
No one knew where he lived. Rumors said his dead wife had driven him insane.

His beard was long and untrimmed. Scraggly and crusty.
It made a noise like rubbing sand paper when he stroked it.
His jacket had holes in any places. You could see his pack of cigarettes through his left pocket.
What seemed to scare people the most was his uncovered, stitched shut right eye socket.

Stories said he got it shot out in the war.
Others said it was a hunting accident.
Some said a fish hook caught it and pulled it right out, but no one knew for sure.
And the questions never lingered once the bearded man with the limp stepped back out the door.

No one knew where he went. No one even knew his name or had heard him speak.
They knew him when he arrived, but he was never seen outside that bar on the water side
One time he never arrived on that Saturday night, and for some reason people cried.
In all their drunken stupors they still knew that the old man must have died