Heroes Among Us

 

“Do you know what it’s like,” the old man said. “To have no one your equal with whom to speak?” The teenage boy simply looked at him and smiled. “Don’t smirk at me, you patronizing little prick,” the old man barked. “You have no idea who I am or of what I am capable. What are you, 15 years old? Have you ever even left this little town? Have you ever even loved a woman? Of course not, you have experienced basically nothing, and your knowledge is just about as bad.”

“Well, it was nice speaking with you Mr. Solovyov,” the young man said. “I’ll see you next week.” Standing up the boy slid his chair back and left the room, giving a small wave as he left the old man’s room.

“Man, he is the weirdest old dude that I’ve ever met,” he said to his friend as they left the building.

“Are you still visiting that old Russian guy,” his friend said. “Why do you do that to yourself?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s something about him that is really interesting. Kind of like the way you look at a car crash when you drive by one. I don’t know, he seems really smart and stuff but at the same time, he is super grumpy.”

Parting ways as they reached the end of the sidewalk, his friend turned. “Hey Steve, where’re you going? The bus is this way.”

“Yeah, I know but it’s last period and I’ve got everything I need from my locker, so I’m just going to walk home from here. It’s not that far.”

“All right, see you tomorrow then.”

Steve walked down the sidewalk, his head down with the words of Mr. Solovyov ringing in his ears. “Of course not, you have experienced basically nothing, and your knowledge is just about as bad.” “I’m not a bad guy,” he said to himself. “I know some stuff. I’ve had a girlfriend. The old guy just needs to give me a chance.”

Walking through his front door, he met his mom as she was coming down from upstairs. “Oh hi, Steve, you’re early today. What’s up, you look a little down?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We visited the old folks’ home today during last period. I met that old Russian guy again, but I can’t seem to get his comments out of my head.”

“Was he being mean?” she asked. “I mean, the school shouldn’t put you in situations like that. What was he saying?”

“Apparently, he thought I was being smug and arrogant, but I wasn’t. He is just so different from anyone I’ve ever met before. I don’t really know how to interact with him.”

“Just try asking him questions about himself,” she suggested. “They say people like to talk about themselves and you can guarantee that someone that old and from another culture will have a ton of interesting stories. Anyway, dinner will be ready in about an hour. Try to be here.”

Lying in his bed later that evening, the caustic monolog from Mr. Solovyov continued to play in Steve’s mind.  “Aggh, I gotta do something to stop this. This is crazy,” he thought. Slipping out of bed and into his exercise clothes, he hurried down the stairs and outside. Breaking into a sprint, he ran with no real goal in mind. Finally reaching the edge of town, he turned around and sprinted back. Exhausted, he collapsed on the lawn, mere inches from vomiting. Waiting for the sensation to subside, he pulled himself up and returned to his bedroom. Taking a quick shower, he collapsed on his bed and immediately fell asleep.

In what seemed like a mere moment, Steve sat up and tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the room.

“Having a good sleep there, little boy,” came a voice from the chair in the corner of his room.

Letting out an involuntary reaction, he strained hard to try to see into the darkness. It was then that he realized that Mr. Solovyov was sitting in his room.

“Yeah, kind of weird, isn’t it,” the old man said. “To be lying in your bed and to have a complete stranger come in and start talking to you. Have you ever thought about just how strange that is?”

“What… how… what are you doing here?” Steve blubbered out, more scared than anything.

“Oh, I’m just here for a visit,” said the old man. “I thought I’d just sit here and look at you as you lay there in your pajamas. Nothing weird about that, is there?”

Rubbing his face and eyes, he repeated over and over to himself, “This is just a dream. This is just a dream.” Throwing himself back down onto his pillow. He realized in that same split second that his mother was standing over him.

“Hey, wake up, young man,” she said. “You’re going to be late for school.”

Quickly getting dressed, he grabbed a muffin from the kitchen counter, grabbed his backpack from below the coatrack by the front door and hurried out. Meeting his friend at the bus stop, he launched into the story of his evening.

“I’m telling you, man, the old guy was in my bedroom last night, like super late. I don’t know when, but I actually listened to him talk.”

              “Nah, that’s nuts,” his friend answered. “That old guy can barely walk, or not to mention getting out of the old folks’ home and into your house. You’re just feeling weirded out by the stuff he was saying.”

“Please don’t tell me that we’re going to visit them again today,” Steve said. “That would be just too weird looking at him and talking like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen, Steve. Get a grip on yourself.”

Meeting his friend at the door to the last period classroom, they sat down and waited.  Five minutes passed the beginning of class and Mrs. Abercrombie was nowhere to be seen.

The door opened and Principal Johnson came. “There has been a change of plans for your class today, students,” he said. “Mrs. Abercrombie had to suddenly leave for a family emergency, so instead, I’ll be taking you to the rest home for a visit.”

Steve dropped his forehead onto his desk and groaned.

Walking into the old folks’ home, Steve went straight to Mr. Solovyov’s room and knocked on the door jamb. The old man was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed for day.

“Hello, Mr. Solovyov?” Steve called out. “Looks like we get an extra visit in this week. How about we go outside and talk?”

“Ah, taking my advice, huh?” the old man said.

“Pardon? Your advice?” Steve asked.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I knew you punks would be coming so I hoped that you would heed my suggestion.”

Steve was afraid to go to bed that evening. Staying up late and watching a movie, he ordered a pizza delivery towards the end of the film, looking for any excuse to stay up even later. Finally, well past 1:00 am, he staggered to his bedroom and lay down, falling asleep immediately. Then like clockwork, he woke, looked at the clock and seeing 3:33, immediately recognized the old man’s form sitting in the chair in the corner.

“Wouldn’t want to miss our little talks, now would you?” the old man said. “Since you seem to scared to take the lead, I’m going to start telling you stories.”

Steve sat and listened to the old man recount the Napoleonic invasion of Russia, at which, Mr. Solovyov claimed to have fought. He listened to stories of the Crimean War of 1853, of World War 1 and World War 2. He listened to stories of fighting in Turkey, Poland, Lithuania, and Sweden. He told of all the women he had loved, in Russia, Ukraine, Poland and France. The French women were his favorite, he said.

Night after night, the old man would visit and weave fantastic tales of military prowess, both victories and defeats.  Then suddenly, he stopped visiting. For the next several days, Steve would wake up at 3:33 and look for Mr. Solovyov but he never came back.

The next visitation day at the old folks’ home, Steve didn’t go to Mr. Solovyov’s room, instead he went to the front desk and asked about the old man.

“I’m sorry young man, Mr. Solovyov passed away three days ago,” the nurse said. “Are you family?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not. I’m from the school and regularly visited him.”

“Is your name Steve?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m Steve,” he answered.

“Well, Mr. Solovyov left clear written instructions that you were to receive this on his passing,” she said. Handing Steve a thick photo album with a large S on the front, she smiled at him. “He spoke very highly of you,” she said. “You must have made quite the impression on him. I don’t know if I ever heard him speak well of anyone.”

Steve sat down in the main foyer and began thumbing through the photo album. Picture after picture passed before his eyes, in every one of them, he recognized Mr. Solovyov in various military uniforms. As he reached the last page, he came across a document, written in Russian. From the tiny footprint in black ink, he assumed it was a birth certificate, dated 1795.

“Uh, ma’am,” he called out, standing up and walking back toward the desk. “Do you have any idea how old Mr. Solovyov was?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” she said.

Slipping the photo album under his arm, he slowly walked home.