A Life's Lesson; New York City 1932.
''Sober. Ha. That is something I haven't been for a while.''
He rubbed his face with his dirty hand. His hair slicked back with grease. His face was old, older than his actual age. Twenty years of living rough and drinking so much alcohol his hands actually shook.
The young boy watched him. Alex was a young man, just his age when he lost everything. He knew the look of sympathy; people had offered it to him for years.
''Why do you drink Mr. Dawson?''
He placed his head in his hands for a moment, he almost slapped himself in order to take some frustration out, and even now he hated himself.
''I loved someone. I lost her.''
Alex bowed his head. ''Oh, sir.''
''Don't call me Mr. Dawson or sir!'' He snapped. He took a sip from his trusty flask containing a concoction of every strong bootlegged spirit going. When he was younger he started off on the easy stuff...beer, the occasional whisky and now he drank anything which stopped the shakes.
Alex said nothing. He was timid and curious. They sat on a cold November evening in a New York park. Jack had been homeless for seventeen years. He stayed occasionally in pubs, boarding houses when he found money from a pathetic attempt at a sketch. He was tall, lithe with dark features. He had met Jack the day before; together they had struck up a strange friendship. The only friend he had made in twenty years. Alex was homeless, working his way around to find work in the Depression and so far he was doing well.
He looked at a blank page in front of him. Only an artist would know how frustrating it was to sit and look at a blank page. Inspiration should come at the tip of their fingers and within moments the page would begin to grow less filled with empty spaces. His inspiration died a long time ago.
''I'm sorry.''
''I shouldn't snap, boy.''
''Who is she?''
'She was,'' He took his charcoal in his hand and began to create something as he spoke. ''The most beautiful thing in the entire world, my sweet Rose.''
''Was she your wife?''
''No, she was my nothing.'' He continued to make lines on the paper. It was taking form of a flower, with endless petals. ''We never got the chance to marry before she was taken from me.''
Alex saw the pain in his face. He watched as he drew a rose, the perfect rose. He was surprised by his talent. ''God took her away, he made me angry. He should have took me instead and allowed her to live.'' He spat as he spoke, his lines grew more rapid and he finished the drawing before screwing up the paper and throwing it to the floor in one swift moment.
He stood from the bench, kicking it backwards to allow some anger to vent out. He took another swig of his liquor to steady his anger as well as his shakes.
''You need not suffer.''
''Oh boy, I suffered for twenty years.'' He spoke through gritted teeth. ''Do you know how old I am?''
''No.''
''Forty years old. I look about forty more.'' He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
''I am half of your age.''
''I was your age when I lost her.'' He lit his cigarette with his shaking hands. ''Have you got a wife or a family?''
Alex shook his head.
''You need to find a girl, son and when you find the girl of your dreams, never let her go. Marry her, have children.''
Jack coughed violently. He clutched his chest as he spat to one side of the bench. Blood was mixed in with whatever other stuff he had congregated over the years. He found he no longer cared.
''I will, I would love kids.''
''So would I, but with no one else except my Rose. That could never be.''
''Why have you drank so much? Was the pain so much?''
Jack nodded. ''Everyday it pierced my heart so much I thought I would bleed.'' He clutched his chest. ''I ran out of tears about fifteen years ago. Drink numbs it all y'know, it makes it better.''
''I don't really drink.''
''Good, don't touch the stuff because you'll never stop.''
Alex watched as Jack smoked the last of his cigarette. ''I don't think I would.''
''Listen, you're a great kid. I know you look at me and think what a fuckin' mess but let me tell you something I have created this myself; I have abused my body every day of my life. I have been dying since 1912 slowly and painfully. Let me be a lesson to you, Alex. Never end up like this.''
Alex didn't know how to say he hope he didn't. He put his hand on Jack's shoulder. ''I won't.''
''Good. Now get yourself off somewhere to make a life for yourself, don't sit around a park all day with me.''
He smiled hesitantly. He didn't like telling Jack he didn't want to leave him. That he felt sorry for him and if he could find a way to help him he would. He said nothing. He picked up his backpack and pulled it onto his back.
''So long, son.''
Alex nodded. ''Same to you. Thank you for the talk.''
''No problem.'' Jack took another sip from his flask. That was where Alex left him.
The day after that, Jack's body was found in the same place where Alex had left him. He was cold, numb but at peace-finally. Alex had dropped by to take him some food but Jack had left his body some hours before. He had shed a tear and closed Jack's eyes.
''I won't forget you Jack Dawson. You were a great, great man. I hope you find your Rose.''
The wind swept something to his feet, it was a balled up piece of paper. He bent down to retrieve it and when it opened he found the drawing of the Rose. He folded it neatly before placing it in his inside pocket. Then he left the park, and embarked on his own journey inspired by the man who was Jack Dawson.