The Hermit...by David Day

I first heard about Jay Baldwin in the fall of 1984. I had just bought a small house in a very secluded area with a private beach on the upper Gulf Coast. There were only a few houses on this lonely stretch of sand. All were vacant except for mine and the one belonging to the man they called the Hermit.

My realtor warned me that he was an eccentric old guy. Once he had taken a shot at her when she had driven up to his door to borrow the telephone. “I wouldn’t go around there if I were you,” she told me.

Every evening, I would walk down the beach. I wandered about looking for shells, dreaming my dreams. I always stayed toward the surf when I passed the old man’s house. From time to time, I would see him sitting on his back porch. I was too far away to make out his features, but it was obvious that he was watching me.

One evening, a couple of kids on motor bikes roared past me. As I watched them go, suddenly I heard a shot. I looked up at the old man’s house and saw him coming down his stairs waving a shotgun and yelling at the fleeing boys. Apparently, he didn’t like kids on motor bikes any more than he did lady realtors.

The next evening, I was strolling along the beach as usual, oblivious to everything around me, my thoughts engaged somewhere way off in time and space, when I was startled back to the present by a loud, rough voice close behind me. “I bet them damn kids won’t be back around here for awhile. Haw!”

I wheeled about, and standing right behind me was the crazy old hermit. He was well over six feet tall. His face was rugged and weathered, his dark tan accentuated by his long, unruly white hair and beard. He wore a tattered pair of bleached out cutoffs and a sleeveless shirt with only the middle button fastened over his big belly. He said, “Howdy, neighbor. I’m Jay Baldwin. I was wondering if you’d like to come up to the shack for a cup of java and a cigar.”

I was speechless.

A big smile appeared on the hermit’s face. “Relax,” he assured me, “I ain’t as bad as people say.”

I accepted his offer and followed him up the path to his place. He pulled up an extra chair to the old wooden table and flipped open the lid of a box of cheap cigars. “Help yourself. They ain’t Cuban, but they will do.” He poured a couple of tin cups about half full of coffee and pulled out a bottle of whiskey: “Let me doctor that up now,” and he poured a healthy measure into each cup. We talked late into the night, exchanging life stories. “Stop by anytime, neighbor,” he said as I staggered into the darkness toward my house.

The old hermit and I began meeting ritually almost every evening, and I soon realized that he was a warm and humorous man. He confided that he had cancer. He had already lived six months longer than his doctors had given him and he had no regrets and was not bitter about his illness or his life. His only fear was being put into a hospital to die, which was why he had run off all his family and anyone else who came around, and he made me swear I would never call an ambulance or a doctor out to the place should I find him there in a bad way. “I came to the beach five years ago to die,” he said in the fierce manner that I had come to know so well, “and I don’t give a damn if I do. I just sit out here and enjoy my whiskey and my cigars. The sawbones tell me they are bad for my health.” He observed my expression intently for signs of pity; then, seeing none, he roared with laughter at his own little joke.

I looked forward to those evenings with Jay. He did most of the talking. I just listened and learned. We would sit on his back porch sipping whiskey, puffing cigars and watching the Gulf of Mexico tide roll in, me feeling special.

The old man died that summer. He passed away in the night. I have long since sold my house and moved away, but occasionally I visit the place and take a long walk in the sea air along the beach. And when I pass the Hermit’s house, I fancy I can still smell the faint scent of his cheap cigars and hear his laughter roaring in the surf; and in my mind, yes, I still have those special talks with old Jay Baldwin, the Hermit. Only now, I talk and he listens.

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David Day is from Harlingen, Texas. The Hermit first appeared in “La Grulla.”

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I didn't write this story, but I thought that it would be a good one to put here. Makes us remember that things aren't always what they seem and no one should be judged by us. Remember, a stranger's just a friend you do not know!

Let's get some fresh coffee...OK?