Rebus speaks first.  Rebus  Finneas Jones always speaks first.

You have to understand.  It’s all in their eyes. Everything you need to know.

George speaks.

If you can even see their eyes.

Rebus speaks.

Got to look harder, s’all. 

George speaks. 

What if you can’t? What if its dark?

Rebus speaks.

No what ifs, you just know.

George.

So you say.

Rebus.

You got to feel it.  

George.

So you keep saying.

Rebus.

Well, so what if I do?  Have I yet, led you astray?

George thinks a moment, not for an example exactly but more to ascertain whether Rebus is joking or dead serious.  He considers, then speaks.

I don’t want to answer that.  Respectfully.

Rebus.

Why?

George is confused.

You would prefer disrespect?

There is a darkness lurking behind Rebus’ heterochromatic eyes, the right a pale blue, the left a darker green, and George can see it reaching outwards, flickering behind the soft voice. Its that dark part of Rebus that takes note of the slight flinch George gives when Rebus raises his arm to swipe a grimy hand through hair that hasn’t seen water in the better part of a week.   

Why George, are you scared of me?

George begins to say something that begins with the word, Well, and then thinks twice and instead closes his mouth.  He gets up from the bench before he speaks.

I’m not afraid of you but maybe you should ask yourself why do you think I don’t want to answer that?  

It’s now Rebus’ turn to get up from the bench and he does with a great flourish, his long ragged duster flapping around his legs as he sorts out the jacket and the rest of his ensemble.  His nostrils are already flaring, ever so slightly, a silent drumbeat marching them ever forwards.  

George breathes deep and steps backward, separating the two of them by more than just the toes of their sneakers.  Despite the age difference, Rebus, grey and old and weathered, bent by years out in the elements and George, younger, not as gray, bent by disappointment and failure and betrayal, it is clear who the alpha male is in this relationship.  

George clearly understands this as he bends slightly at the neck, subconsciously decreasing the disparity in their heights. He speaks, even softer.

Because you always get angry when I don’t agree with you.

Rebus, feigning shock to hide the flash of rage that whisked across his eyes, speaks.

That’s just not true.  

George, walking away.

It most certainly is.

Rebus, who had resorted to leaning against the back of the bench to offset the weight of merely standing up straight, hefts himself off the bench, a short-range rocket taking off for one last flight; he follows, speaking.

That’s bullshit.  You’re free to have your own opinions.  I’m as open-minded as the next fucker.  

George, laughing over his shoulder, speaks.

If the next guy isn’t open-minded at all.

Rebus, catching up, pushing George in the shoulder, speaks.

Fuck you.

George.

Fuck you.

George is taller than Rebus but Rebus is wider, stockier, stronger.  George smiling all teeth, forced, turns and keeps walking.

Rebus, following, angrier now, speaks.

Don’t you walk away from me.  I’m trying to school you here.

George doesn’t speak.  George walks on.  

Rebus stops, calls after him.

Fine.  Go off.  See how well you do.

He spots half a cigarette on the ground, crouches, scoops.

Rebus shouts, almost an afterthought.

See if I care.  

George keeps walking.  A blonde couple, hand in hand, laughing, walking towards him. 

The blonde couple takes steps at the same time, mirroring each other; left, right, left, right.  They goose-step side by side, neither speaking, both buried behind scarves, her eyes covered with mirrors, his free and unobstructed.  

George makes eye contact.  He stops, turns so that he is cheating the audience, he still remembers his high school stagecraft, one hand slightly outstretched, palm open.  He looks the blonde man, taller than even he is, direct in the eye.  He even tries to smile.  

George speaks.  

You got a dollar, buddy?

They ignore him.  She speeds up a bit.  

George speaks.

C’mon man, that’s a nice coat.  You can spare a dollar can’t you?  Just for a cup of coffee?  You can do that much for a fellow down on his luck.

They ignore him.  They look past. They keep walking. George shuffles his feet along behind them for a moment, as if deciding to chase them down further or to let them go, to accept defeat with his best approximation of quiet dignity.  

The man had kind eyes beneath his pale eyebrows, underneath the soft fringe of blonde bangs.  They had seen him.  They had looked right inside of him and had concluded that he was not worth the effort.  He could hear Rebus speaking in his mind.  The eyes…  The eyes… gotta get it.

George watches his truth, caught up inside the blonde couple as they march in lockstep, giving Rebus even less of their attention as they literally walk straight through him.  

He turns to an ethereal mist and then reforms again in their wake.

George shuffles back towards Rebus, slowly remembering.    

Rebus calls out.

Told you.  It’s all in the eyes. 

George says nothing.  He reaches into a deep pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small glass bottle half-filled with whiskey; remembering has its own advantages.   

He stops right in front of Rebus and takes a long pull, his eyes closed as the whiskey works its way through him. 

For a moment when he opens his eyes, Rebus is not there.  He blinks a couple of times and pockets the bottle.  

He begins to walk again.

He takes the next two lefts until he is back in the small green park he likes to sleep away most afternoons.  Rebus sits with his back to a large, leafy tree towards the back of the park, waiting for him.

George settles himself under the tree, taking much care to not look in Rebus’ direction or address him directly.  Rebus speaks.

You never listen. 

George speaks without turning over.

Fuck you Rebus. You’re not real.

Rebus speaks.

You don’t remember shit. 

George drinks from the bottle again, cradling it to his chest when he finishes, like a baby with a cherished toy, his knees pulled up and tucked in.

George mutters to himself, his eyes closed.  

You’re not even real.

Rebus begins to laugh.  

I’ve been trying to tell you.  It’s all in the eyes.

Rebus’ laugh gets louder and louder, spreading throughout the park, and then spilling out into the surrounding streets, filling every house, every room, spreading deeper into the city and further from it; until George can’t imagine a place where that braying laughter doesn’t exist, doesn’t fill every empty inch.  George squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears with his hands and tries to control his breathing.  The laughter gets so loud that George forgets what it was like to not have that laugh filling him; it gets so loud that he forgets what silence even means and he wonders if maybe, he had died and all there ever would be was Rebus and his laughter.  He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

George wakes slowly in the morning, a patina of dew covering his face, cobwebs cover every surface of the inside of his head.  It takes him a solid five minutes to even open his eyes.

He finds Rebus still sitting with his back to the tree, only now his eyes are closed and he is fast asleep.

George fights the urge to groan loudly, as his limbs unravel and he struggles to his feet.  Rubbing the sleep and the dew from his eyes with his fists he gathers his meagre things and sets off out of the park in the opposite direction of the sleeping ghost.  

Rebus is waiting for him at a crosswalk three blocks away.

George speaks.

Don’t. 

Rebus speaks.

This isn’t new information.

George turns to stare at Rebus, his eyes really taking in the tattered man shimmering in the morning air beside him.  Rebus turns to meet his gaze and George notices that his eyes are now different colours.  His right eye is still blue but the left is a deep black, and as George looks closer he can make out a galaxy of pin point lights.  He looks harder and the lights begin to swirl and coalesce into stars and the ethereal heavens and it is beautiful and calming and he has to snap his eyes closed and shake his head to remember that there is no tattered old man with the universe hidden behind one of his eyes standing in front of him.

When he opens his eyes Rebus isn’t there any more.  

He returns near mid-day when George is occupying his usual corner in the big downtown square.  A ragged Tim Horton’s cup sitting in front of him with barely two dollars in change.  Rebus scoffs at the few coins in the cup and settles himself down next to George with a great deal of groans and grunts. 

Rebus stretches out his legs and tucks his hat down over his eyes, crossing his feet at the ankles.  

George strains to keep his eyes forward, not paying attention to the figment of his imagination catching some shut-eye next to him.

Rebus chuckles and without looking over, speaks.

At least madness isn’t lonely, right?

His chuckle fades and is quickly replaced by a soft snoring. 

He is still snoring when George drinks deeply from his nearly empty bottle of whiskey, takes up his cup and shuffles off down the street.