We eat and chat.

Now, Augustus is the first proper member of the male Elven universe to whom I can relate to. Lucillus is too refined for my tastes. Antoninus, instead, is on the other end of the spectrum.

Augustus is the perfect balance.

And, as all men do when they meet each other, we talk about two things.

“Are you telling me that there are sex shops in Amorium?” I widen my eyes.

Yes, sex-related stuff is the first thing.

“Oh, can you show me the wink-cum-tongue-click again?” Augustus asks, fascinated.

Women-related stuff is the second.

I don’t know if Augustus is a master in deceiving others and actually wants to gut me as soon as he gains my trust. To be honest, I don’t really care. I’m having a really good time here.

…

“Joey, I have to say I did not expect to have such a pleasant conversation,” the tall Elf says, “I think it’s getting late for me. I still need to run quite a few errands for my master. But I’ll seek you out tomorrow after you deal with your baking negotiations. I’m sure Lucinda will take exceptional care of you.”

Augustus goes for the counter, but then he stops and bends over the table. He doesn’t sit, he just bends with urgency in his eyes.

“It’s going to be really hard if you want to date Lucinda, my friend. Not even I know what she wants. But I think you have something special in you. Use that and you might have a shot.”

Augustus leaves me with this cryptic judgment and we both leave after he has paid the full bill.

I stumble a bit, full of meat and beer. I’m not tipsy, but I’m a bit tired, to be honest. I feel like I’ve not had a proper rest since the revelation at the bakery.

Plus, what is this thing with Elves and eating like starved tigers? We were supposed to have breakfast, not a banquet!

I’m walking to my house when I have to take a street that I don’t think I’ve ever crossed before. And it’s here that I see one of the most peculiar things.

A homeless man.

An Elf. Who is. Homeless.

He’s not particularly dirty, but he has a big dog with him and he has a long beard.

Now, why am I mentioning the beard? I shouldn’t mention things that are not important, right? Chekov was always curt and purposeful with his words, and I like that approach.

So, when I mention his beard it’s not because that hairy protuberance is going to kill someone at the end of the play, no. It’s because this is probably the first Elf I see with facial hair. I had to let grow my stub a bit, and now I can feel it poke my hand when I touch my face. But this guy has a proper ‘I don’t give a damn about your opinion beard’. Hell, he could give Gandalf a run for his money.

People stop and give him some money while he pets the dog and simply basks in the sun, doing nothing.

“Hello!” he suddenly turns and waves toward me, spotting my stare.

“Yo,” I raise a hand and walk toward the guy.

“If you like the dog, you can pet it,” he says with a sweet tone.

“Oh no, thank you, I’m more of a cat person,” I say with a nod. “Name’s Joey, by the way. Joey Luciani.”

Now that I look at him up-close, this guy has silver-like hair. When I say ‘silver’ I don’t mean that to sound sweet about his age. No, this guy has hair that some of my millennial female kin would probably kill to wear on their head. It’s like his hair is made od Tiffany silver, the one that’s so precious it almost looks white.

“My name is Stan, friend,” he smiles.

I don’t know if you have ever met a homeless person in real life. But in NYC, if you meet a homeless person, they are not sweet and compassionate as this old guy. In fact, Earth-homeless people are 75% dangerous, 20% crazy-cute, 5% warm and compassionate.

I know this guy who makes little sculptures with used newspapers and some glue. I’m pretty sure he also eats the glue or sniffs it or whatever you do with glue. Before coming here, I made a point of bringing the guy some food every day or making sure that someone from my bakery would; first, I don’t want him to eat the glue. Second – and this might sound really smug – I love the way he uses newspapers to do something actually useful. I don’t like the news – hell, I don’t even vote – but this guy makes something out of all the trash the journalists like to write. He makes these beautiful little things, from swans to little families. After spraying such sculptures with an ungodly amount of disinfectant, I even sold a few in my shop.

One day I told him that he could make a little business out of it, that he could take himself out of misery.

That day I learned another thing about homeless people. Most of them are on the street because they want to. They could do otherwise, but they chose to become what they are. It’s not always true, obviously. There is a good deal of poor people who got poor enough to resort to that. But usually, they sleep in cars, not proper tents or on cardboard boxes.

Anyway, my guy told me that he was good. As long as I could feed him some bakery stuff, he was happy, and he had hella fun with his little sculptures.

In my unrealistic dreams, I like to think that he’s a Michelangelo who doesn’t care about fame or success, someone who just wants to enjoy the little life has provided him with.

However, something brings me back from my trip down memory lane.

“Stan?” I ask, confused.

“That’s the name,” he says with a laugh, copying my mannerism.

“Is it short for something like Stanlius? Stanus? Stanimium?”

I have no idea what Latin name starts with ‘Stan’.

“Names are important, young Human. I wouldn’t shorten my name,” he nods toward me. “I gave up my name a long ago and a friend gave me this one.”

Stan goes on.

“In fact, it was a human just like you.”

My mind reels.