That Young Guy

An inmate was waiting to pass through the gate that opened onto the big yard of the Rincon Unit. Standing there with a cane, wearing a straw hat, he looked wizened, and his body carried the relaxed posture of a man at home with himself. He turned as I approached and we stood there waiting for the snap of the electric lock to open the gate. "You the writing guy?" he asked. "Yep." "I used to do that workshop a while back," he said, "with a young guy, curly hair." I named others who had done the workshops before me. None of them fit. "How long ago?" I asked. "Four, five years," he said. "I've been doing them for ten," I said. His eyes lifted. "You put on weight," he said. "Gone gray too," he said. If only you knew, I thought. I did not recognize him either. "That bad?" I said. "Just like me," he said. "Had a hard time of it." I realized I had no idea what he had been through. "I didn't have a  cane back then." We looked at each other, and saw something there, two men who have taken a few hits, waiting for the gate to open. Soon enough, it did, and we went through together.