Writing!, February 1st, 2006
"Call me Ishmael"
Startled, I looked up to see an odd elderly man standing behind me.
"What?" I stammered as he hoisted his bulk onto the bench where I was sitting.
"Ishmael," he repeated. "It's my name, and I don't like 'mister.'"
He was covered with a layer of fat, a result, I thought, of a hard life and cheap food.
"That's an unusual name." I said. "Never met anyone called that before."
"My mother was religious." he replied, leaning backward and spitting over the pier. "She thought God might make my life bettah with ah holy name from the Bible. Don't know who he was, though."
I smi...
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