Chasing His Tale

Happens often, this tale of his

Just yesterday on the Bellagio casino floor, chasing his tale was making him out of breath as he watched people rushing by, about, shuffling, running, stumbling, falling, save for a few adrift like lost children. The casino was alight with Vegas vacationers determined to have fun at any cost.

He paused, took a seat and mumbled to himself, “Something’s really happening to my tale this time.  Feels like it’s hiding.”

 A costume-bejeweled old woman, riding her hotel complimentary scooter, slowed down, flashed him a smiled a wink, then—"It’s only your tale of youth that’s forever gone, silly”—and rolled away on her 4-wheeled broomstick.  “What do you know?  It’s not gone,” I yelled back at her.  “My tale’s just… taking a rest.  That’s all.”

“Good tail always swims with the sharks,” slurred the wobbly drunk passing by, his pockets pulled out suggesting he might have lost everything?

The tale-searching-man stood up this time.  “Not that kind of tale, mister.  My story… my life… my tale.”  He checked his balance and sauntered off toward the exit.

Returning to his home, he settled back into watching the leaves turn.  It was late summer, and then, as quietly as a fall leaf floating to the ground, the roads and sidewalks were dusted with snow.  Sitting on his porch shivering, he hoped they’d meet again, this tale in hiding.  Have a beer or two, recall the time when together they painted the town red.  “You’d talk back at me like you used to and tell me I’m ready for a straight jacket, just to enlarge your tale, and… and what else?  Maybe stare in the mirror?  Yeah. Have a final conversation, and then drag my sorry ass down the hall to play prostrate-dribble on the commode, and quickly slide into bed.  Maybe dream of finding the old version of you, the one that I can only recall when I close my eyes and sleep, the one that keeps playing hide-and-seek before I wake and start chasing you again.