One time I was wandering the streets of a city that hugged the brim of the ocean. I found myself on this crowded dock, boats everywhere, the pungent smell of fish in the air, and the annoying screech and caws of the seagulls. The sky was a thin paint of grey and the air was crisp and cool. The talking didn’t seem too loud for such a busy dock; it was a quiet. I was walking with my hands in my pockets when I noticed a few boxes surrounded in junk. Old, ratty, greasy, junkyard junk. Nestled within the junk was the hunched figure of a man. He was old, wrinkled and bald from his forehead to the back of his head, and long greasy white and silver peppered hair grew around it. He had large bushy caterpillar eyebrows that were white as snow, and I noticed that he had very pronounced features. His eyes were a vibrant, captivating blue. One thing that was hard to ignore was his facial hair; his mustache. It was so unique and so well kept.

The beard started above his ears- his sideburns. Then fell down under his cheekbone and swooped up over his lip and under his nose. He had it very meticulously groomed and the comb he used remained in his thick, calloused and dirty-blackened hands. Stubble grew on his chin where he shaved away the rest of his facial hair; how, I did not know.

I also noticed that he was not only wearing some old garbage clothes and rags, but he was wearing a neatly tied tie. I decided that this intriguing old fellow was of interest, and I wanted to talk to him.

I cautiously approached the man huddled in his fortress of junk, with no alarming reaction, I came close, grabbed an egg crate and sat in front of him. He slowly looked up at me with his icy blue eyes. They seemed to pierce right through me with an emotionless stare, but yet a friendly face.

I smiled softly and introduced myself.
“Hi sir, my name is Robert Nelson. What’s yours?” I put my hand out in a friendly gesture for a hand shake.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. I could tell he did not get socialization often, and kept all his thoughts in his head. He began to talk, but nothing came out, so he cleared his throat and slowly lifted his shabby hand to shake mine. His grip was very solid.
“Hello,” He began with a deep, well aged, hoarse voice. “My name is John Pichette. What brings you out here on this solemn grey morning?” He asked genuinely.

I was shocked at the educated way he spoke, but thinking to myself, I felt terrible for judging a homeless man for being non-educated without getting to know him and his story first.
“I was just out for a walk. I moved here recently and I decided to explore the city and the history hidden within the streets.” I answered him.
“Ah, much history lingers in this city. But these days, everyone is too busy to care anymore. What brings you to Southampton?”
“I moved from New York. I wasn’t too fond of the busy New York life, and decided to move to quiet England.”
Pain seemed to strike his blue eyes. What did I say? I wanted to learn more about this man. He interested me to an odd level. I wanted to know his story.
“England is a nice place to live…” He trailed off.
“Yes?” I asked inquisitively, asking for more.
“You took the Titanic’s trip backwards, young man. But you obviously made the endeavor.” He stared down at a broken hand mirror. In the reflection, I could see the pain in his eyes well up as he continued to stare down.
“That was quite the tragedy. I had ancestors on that ship.” I threw out, hoping that sharing some of my life he would then open to his.
“As did I have family on that ship, Mr. Nelson.”
“Who were they, if you don’t mind my asking?” I pushed further, adding the last part in case it was sensitive to him.
“It all began in 1911. I heard that they had finished building the ‘ship that could not be sunk’. My family and I weren’t entirely wealthy, but we got by, and I had a steady job.” He began, still looking down.
“Right there and then I was determined to work as much and as hard as I could so I could save up the money to get my family onto that ship. I wanted to give them the luxurious trip they deserved.” He paused and seemed to gather the rest of the story in his head and gather in his emotions.
“The day of departure, I only had enough money to send four of us. So, I sent my wife and kids without me. They felt terrible leaving me behind, but I really wanted them to go. I stood right here as the ship departed, actually…” He said solemnly as he looked up from his broken hand mirror to look at the fishing ships at the edge of the dock, seeming to flash back to the day.
“It was a beautiful sunny day. Paper flew, hats flew, birds flew around, screams rang throughout the whole bay as families yelled their goodbyes to the lucky people who would be first to stay on an unsinkable ship.” He looked away from the ships, and looked me directly in the eyes. “Too bad we did not know that almost all of them would not make it home.”
With that I could feel his pain.
“Since the day I found out that the ship had sunk, I gave my everything searching for my family. I was certain that they would be the few to survive. I quit my job and searching for them devoured my life.” He paused and sighed as he looked back down at his mirror.
“I eventually lost everything. I came here, to the place I stood. The place I last saw their beautiful smiling faces. Time was lost back in the day that I lost them for certain.” He looked up at me, gripping the ratty blanket wrapped around his hunched shoulders as he wept, and shook his white knuckled fists at me.
“I don’t even know how old I am! I don’t know what year it is.” He clenched his jaw as he let go of his blanket, grabbed his comb and began quickly combing through his peppered hair.
I so badly wanted to reach out to this man. He was hurting, and had been hurting for years.
“It’s 1990. And I’d say you don’t look a day over 40.” I told him, trying to lighten up his mood. I could see that it may have helped a little, as he gradually stopped weeping and looked up at me.
“Thanks, son. Do you have family?”
“I do. My beautiful wife and my two children. Just working to get by here.”
The look on his face was obvious. I could tell what he was thinking. What are the odds that someone so interested in him had the exact same family situation?
“Take very good care of them, Robert. Life is short, and even shorter for others.” He nodded and tucked his comb and mirror away.
“Mr. Pichette, would you like to accompany my family and I for dinner?” I offered kindly.
The man jumped slightly, as if shocked that someone wanted him around longer than the length of a story.
“I…” He hesitated, wrapping himself tighter in his rags and looking around.
“Please John. We would be honored to have your presence.” I pleaded, reaching my hand out to the man as I stood.
He sat there, studying my hand as it was the offer to a scary new future. He had been here for most of his life and had not wandered far and was nervous of what lay ahead.
He reached out with a wrinkly, blackened hand and firmly took mine. I helped him up, and helped him walk to my car.
“My wife is making spaghetti. It’s fantastic. I hope you like spaghetti.”
“It’s my favorite.” He said simply, his voice warm and filling with awakened content.
I don’t know if it was pure accident that I was so interested in that man that day, or if it was fate. But ever since I brought him home, he has recovered to his normal self. We’ve helped him heal, and he’s taken a place that our whole family could not fill. You see, when I was young, both my parents died in a car accident. So, I lived with my grandparents. They both died of age and illness.
Mr. John Pichette is a staple to our family now. Both our kids call him Grandpa, soon to be another calling him Grandpa. It’s a boy, and we’re naming him Andrew John Nelson. He couldn’t be happier or prouder and neither could we. We love the man with all our hearts. Facial hair and all.