I'm old. An old man. A very old man. Eighty-five-years old, two months back. My name is Elisha. Elisha Jacobs. Elisha Jacobs Junior, to be factual, although the "Junior" has fallen away long ago.
I was a college literature student when I met my Beulah back in Minnesota. We loved each other at first sight, got married, and excitedly moved west. All the way to Kansas where I became a farmer. I missed school for a short time, but being with my Beulah was better than all the book-learning in the world. She was all the poetry I needed.
As I said, I'm an old man now. A widower. All the time in the world to read now. I moved to Dodge and took a room at Ma Smalley's when Beulah died. Couldn't bear that empty house. All our babies died before even taking one sweet breath, and I couldn't take the raw pain on her face after the fifth and said "No more!" Our love for each other was enough. After the years sped by, we no longer needed the things that young couples do, and would "spoon" every night in our warm and familiar bed. That is what I miss. That is what love is. One morning, I woke up in our house, and Beulah woke with all of our babies, joyous and kissing her home.
Now I spend my time watching. I sit by my window at Ma's and watch the stages come and go, the children playing, the men whittling and talking, the young men preening for the blushing young women as they pass on the boardwalk. One night I was so lonely for human voices that I went for a walk and pushed through the bat-wing doors into the Long Branch. The laughing and shouting and music pulled me in like a catfish caught on a bent pin. When I realized where I was, the thought of how horrified Beulah would be made me gasp and turn to hurry out. Then I saw her.
Don't get me wrong, now. My Beulah had smooth, pink-cheeked skin, glossy chestnut hair, and shining hazel eyes when she was young, and our love made her eternally beautiful to me. But I was physically stunned and breathless at the sight of the impossibly beautiful, young red-haired woman at the far end of the bar. Her hair was the perfect red of a sunrise in summer, her large eyes were pieces of the Kansas sky set in an exquisite face. Yes, I did notice that she was also a very fine figure of a woman. I am an old man, but not a dead man! Then she smiled at the big, craggy-faced bartender, and it was like the first ray of sun piercing the sky on a gloomy day. When two rowdy cowboys barged in and bumped into me, I blinked and walked to the small empty table in the darkest, furthest corner, over by the staircase, sat down, and watched. I watched the gorgeous woman, but also the other interactions, enjoying the noise, laughter, talk, and loud music.
No one seemed to even notice me, and I went back regularly. After a while, my main focus was on the "dance" between the red-haired woman, who I soon learned was the owner, Miss Kitty, and the big, majestic Marshal, Matt Dillon. Since I watched Miss Kitty so much, I instantly noticed the change in her when the Marshal looked in over the doors before walking in and over to her. Her face softened and momentarily became unguarded as she gave him a heart-melting smile and a very special look.
The big Marshal's handsome, solemn face also transformed, and his striking light blue eyes sent out a smoldering look that made me blush a little the first time I saw it. I glanced around the crowded room, but no one else seemed to take any notice of this silent interplay. From then on, I studied the couple and the way they acted, sitting at the same table, or leaning close up at the bar, and the way they talked, looked at, and smiled at each other. They were so obviously a couple, but my careful questioning of various saloon patrons after buying drinks was very frustrating and unsatisfactory. Mostly, the men all just shrugged, and the women laughed.
Then I began watching for them out on the street during the days as I sat by my window. His big hand protectively at the small of her back while walking together made me smile, and then the time I saw them walking with an arm around each other's waist gave me a warm thrill. I could almost feel the warmth on the palm of my own hand from the many times I had escorted my Beulah that way. Ah, human touch! What a precious gift we can give and receive!
I am an old man now, but even the old crave the touch of another, and my mind and memory is forever full of my Beulah's touch. Her hand lightly grazing my shoulder as she would walk by me reading in my chair at night. The warm, sweet smell and feel of her in our shared sleep. And oh, the kisses we gave and received over our sixty years together! The youthful ones of passion, the sweet ones of greetings or goodbyes, the passing little pecks of reminders, and the last precious one of our last good night to each other. My Beulah and I were never shy or sparing of our kisses. I know I have become a voyeur, although a harmless one, in my watching and wondering about this beautiful young couple. I worry that they don't realize that there will ever come a day when shared touches and kisses end. What I would give for just one more chance to kiss my girl!
Yes, I am old, and have reached the age when reticence falls away. I will not rest until I can give the most important advice I have learned over my many years as a man. As a human. As a human full of wonderful warm memories.
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Matt walked into his office early on a sweet summer morning, the promise of a hot day from the sun on his back. Yawning a little, he walked over to the small cast iron stove, shoved a few sticks of wood in, and added water and coffee to the battered metal coffee pot that always sat on top. Running a hand through his curly reddish-brown hair, he sighed and sat down at his desk, eyeing the full inbox. Then he saw the folded note tucked under his pen holder. "Marshal Matt Dillon" was carefully printed on the outside. Curious, he unfolded it, read it quickly, and closed his eyes for a few moments. Reopening his eyes, he read it again, more slowly, and a smile ceased his face. Then he read it aloud in a soft, thoughtful voice:
"Spend all your kisses, Matt. Spend all your kisses."
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I may be old, and no one notices me, but I pay attention. As I silently sat in the back of the Long Branch, absorbing the noise and atmosphere, I came to know the regulars, including the big man wearing the badge. He is a quiet, intense, and instinctively perceptive man. He too always notices what and who are around him, and that has helped him to survive in his chosen job. He has seen me. He has respected my boundaries and my choice to sit alone in the background, observing.
I left the note on his desk late yesterday afternoon when he had gone to Delmonico's. Walking by, I had seen him sitting there with the small town doctor, Doc Adams, and the beautiful Miss Kitty. I changed my course and went to the Marshal's office and after arguing with myself, and talking to my Beulah, I had nodded my head and put the paper under the pen holder. Anyone with that much paperwork in the wire basket on his desk had to frequently use a pen!
That evening, everything seemed unchanged. The big, imposing man paused and looked in over the bat-wing doors until his eyes found those of Miss Kitty. They exchanged that hot bolt of acknowledgement, then he entered and they joined Doc Adams at his table. But as I watched, the Marshal's eyes left the lovely woman he was sitting so close to, and he looked over at me. Our eyes met and locked.
Marshal Matt Dillon raised his beer mug to me and gave me a wink.
End.