Джордан Шор - The Search

As he opened his eyes, he now stared directly into the eyes of the old man, both of them fixated on each other’s eyes. He felt that they were having a staring contest.

Eventually, the old man gave him a clever smile, got up from his seat, and slowly came toward him. The old man sat down next to him, extended his index finger, and put on a huge smile.

“I know what you need, son.”

The old man reached into his bag, moving its contents around, obviously looking for something. Then the old man took out a sweater, and gave it to him to hold. The sweater had a distinctive smell, but at the same time was almost odorless. The thought of butter suddenly appeared in his head. The old man eventually found what he was looking for. He reached into his bag and took out a couple of bananas, and holding onto one of the bananas encouraged him to break off the other.

“Here you go, son.”

He was reluctant to accept the fruit as he knew it wouldn’t be good for him.

“Go on, it’s good for you,” the old man stated.

He felt as he didn’t have any choice but to accept the kind offer.

“Thanks.”

“It will get your blood sugar up. Trust me, you’ll feel better.”

He felt they were having a nice moment together, he and the old man, eating their bananas in synch with each other. He felt as though they were breaking bread. And at the same time, he felt the compulsive urge to injure the old man. His mind urged him to defend himself from the threat that harmed him. He needed to strike in order to remove the pain. The level of guilt was high before he received the kind gesture from the old man, but now the level was so unbearable even his imaginary knife had lost its edge.

Do you have any idea of how much pain you’re causing me?

How much this hurts?

“Don’t you feel better now?” the old man asked him.

He didn’t know how to answer the question, so instead, he just smiled and raised his eyebrows. Then he took the banana peel in the old man’s hand and made his way over to the trash can. He told himself not to ruin the moment for the banana man, and not to excuse himself and walk away as he usually did, as it would only make him feel even guiltier.

“So where are you going, son?”

“Alaska.”

“I know you are. So am I, and it says so on the screen.”

The old man pointed toward the gate monitor.

He smiled and raised his head in acknowledgement to the old man. He was well aware the old man expected a more specific answer on the subject, but he wasn’t going to give him one, because he knew exactly where he was going.

North of Anchorage was a small town called Willow with just a few thousand residents. The town only had the bare minimum of necessary retail and public resources. On the outskirts of Willow, there used to be a house, a barn-red and white house, a house that could easily fit into a children’s tale. The yard had several apple trees, and even if most of the house residents enjoyed apples, the only purpose of the trees was to attract the thieves, and every apple thief paid the ultimate price as they were shot and killed, all year round.

The house itself wasn’t important. In fact, he had no idea if the house was still there or if anyone was living in it. He’d lived in the house at a young age, only for a short period, but for enough time for him to hate everything that reminded him of that house; he even hated the color red.

On the north side of the house was a small canyon, leading into the deep forest. Even after all these years, he could still picture it in front of him, convinced he would find the path that led to the cave, where he had spent so many hours. The cave was actually a large crack in the mountain, wide enough for a teenage boy to enter, but not too narrow for an adult to penetrate. He was convinced he could still squeeze his way in. The cave was his final destination on this trip; it was the end of his journey.

He thought the old man looked sad and disappointed with his lack of response, and felt as though he should engage in a conversation with him. He started to stress as he tried to think of something to say.

“Are you visiting your family in Alaska?”

“Sort of. I’m going to meet my son, but it’s for business purposes. He’s trying to land a new deal up in Anchorage, and he has a meeting tomorrow and asked me to sit in. We supply hotels with various breakfast accessories, mostly jam and marmalade. You know, those small containers you find in a basket at the breakfast buffet.”

“So, you’re the owner of the company?”

“I still own a part of the company, but I’m retired now, and my daughter and son run the company, but I founded it and built it from scratch—You know, you remind me of my son. He’s also a strong, tall man. He’s very popular with the ladies, perhaps a bit too popular. I keep telling him to find a courteous woman and get married and start a family.”

After a short pause, the old man gave him a curious smile.

“I don’t see a wedding ring on your finger, son.”

“No, I’m not married.”

He looked at his left hand and extended his fingers. He felt surprised by how old his hand looked. He was used to his face growing older, but he’d never noticed that his hands were aging as well. He couldn’t help but stare at his thumb, puzzling over the lizard-like skin surrounding it, and all the visible veins on the dorsal side of his hand.

The old man must have noticed the distress in his expression.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, son. I bet women are standing in line to meet a handsome man like you, and before you know it, you’ll have a family of your own.”

He kept staring at his hands, making sure they weren’t moving, even though his mind instructed them to. As his level of adrenaline and testosterone rose, the compulsive urge to strike the old man grew stronger. His mind pleaded with him to defend himself and to strike the threat, which caused him harm. However, he was very used to having such emotions and his mind couldn’t deceive him anymore. He tried to focus on the exchange with the old man, but he quickly realized he’d lost the tread of the conversation.

Is the old man talking about marmalade ?

As he drifted away again, he began to wonder how the old man would, indeed, react if he actually were to strike him. Here he was, being kind to a complete stranger, sharing his food with him, and then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, that person rewards his benevolence by punching him in the eye. The image actually brought a smile to his face, and the old man must have noticed, because he suddenly stopped talking, and the staring contest was back on.

“I know what you’re thinking, son,” the old man eventually said.

For a brief moment, he felt scared and exposed.

“Marmalade is just a different kind of jam,” the old man said and shook his head. “No, that’s where you’re wrong. You see, jam is made out of berries, basically. All jams are pretty much the same. It’s just the number of berries or sugar that varies with each product. Marmalade, however, can be made from a variety of different berries, fruit, spice or herbs. And one could make it with or without the pulp, and even use the peel of the fruit, providing the peel is cut properly, that is.”

He gave the old man a nod in recognition of his wisdom about marmalade.

“That’s why we’re so competitive. We’ve got the best marmalade. So, when you get the chance, you should try our orange marmalade. The secret is cardamom and pears, and of course, orange peel, the peel is important. That’s Lady Jane Marmalade . Jane is my mother, and she helped me with many of the recipes. She’s still alive by the way, ninety-three years old.”