I fondly recall almost a year ago today
a frazzelled and frozen boy walked into the store.
I was helping a customer with the right words to say
when the quiet stranger dropped his things on the floor.
He fumbled with a wad of cash, and pulled out a twenty dollar bill
I ignored him for a moment to help someone else instead.
He introduced himself and thrust a page of notebook paper with all the spaces filled
I stopped for a moment and carefully read what he wrote and what he said.
Page one of a mystery so very well written, I was sure it was plagerism and fraud
He wished to use a computer to type and print and publish his latest rendition.
I reread the notebook he carried with his story he edited and drew lines through the flaws.
A wonderful story of intrigue and mystery and I wondered it if was his own creation.
I watched as he wrote, and marvelled at his energy but scarcely bothered to ask where he was from
for nights and nights till the snows began to fall in December...
His money ran out, then I let him use the place for free from sun up and sun down
he became a fixture on the corner of the bench telling stories I can almost remember.
He was pennyless and forgotten, he slept where it was warm and bathed and ate when he could
A creative soul, he once tried to write a book, then something terrible happened and he lost his home.
He collected old notebooks and wrote stories to himself, he never finished disappointed that they were not good.
he told me he was just a rat in a cage and the world was against him, and he felt so terribly alone.
Christmas eve I came by to lock up the store and set the cans outside and turned the key.
My half frozen friend emerged from pile of rubbish and asked he could sleep inside.
I fumbled for some money and seached my soul and felt his eyes turning away from me.
I thrust out my arm and dusted off the snow and offered him a place and a ride.
He declined my offer of shelter, and for money he just needed a hour to two or three.
I turned the lock back and slid the door open but I could have easily lied.
"finish the story", he told me, and he sat in front of the glowing screen and began to stroke the keys.
several hours later his composition was complete and he handed me his work I placed it underneath my coat.
The first few pages I scanned were enough to convince me that I was going to be pleased.
I took my young friend to a department store and purchased him some shoes and clothes and juice for his parched throat.
After New Years eve I told him, I would bind and cover his masterpiece as a gift of my admiration.
he thanked me and I bought him dinner and dropped him off where he needed to go and no more..
Two days later I returned to store filled with ambition and elation.
the wind was cold and the snow was falling fast and drifting on the tiled floor.
I pulled a simple page rolled and thrust through the handle door
in the dim light of morning I tried to read what it said.
he had waited all night until the morning light but he couldnt wait anymore.
I felt a little guilty for being late that morning and apologies swam through my head.
days and weeks went by, and I stopped waiting for my friend and wondered what happened to the young writer.
I drove up and down the boulevard with my girlfriend, and the back alley roads and tried to find his house.
the address he once gave me and the family inside, never heard or recalled his name or used to live inside there.
I have almost forgotten his name but I guess now it just the same, he will always be a promising young talent, a homeless vagrant and a genuis who called himself ARTEMIS MOUSE.
In a very safe place I have placed the largest portion of his great creation.
If anyone asks about the hobo that used my computer for three cold winter months, I will reply with the greatest admiration.
Is the measure of a man the clothes on his back or money or the jewelry on his fingers.
or is it really what he gave when he had nothing left to give, for that his memory still lingers.
take care and God Bless you Artemis Mouse......
