In this clandestine life he has the opportunity to meet people, mostly at work. They come in all sizes and shapes and races and nationalities. Some are good, some are bad, some are pretty. Others not. They exist in different classes: some in suits, some in work-clothes, others in pajamas, others in bathing suits. If you decide to enter the health sciences, there are others.
Nurses in white, doctors in a smock, technicians in green. No blue, red or purple. Then there are the suits. Wearing a suit designates a human entity as administrative. Does the maker wear a suit? Late at night in a hospital, an ethical human being can find him there. Why is it always a him? He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t have to. Actions speak louder than words and when you are close, so very close, speaking does not make any sense.
He is tall, like most Celtic or Germanic men are. He is not muscular or overly emaciated, just thin like a long distance runner. He wears an expensive thin wool tweed suit in black or dark grey with something. Attornment of the very best. He sports a black tie, a small one neatly inserted into a white linen shirt. We never did get a chance to look at his shoes, he was entirely occupied. This man sports official credentials in a plastic placard hanging from a lanyard on his chest. This person seems to have contacts of the highest echelon and favor and has no friends. At least it doesn’t seem he has friends, the staff don’t seem to see him.
If a person dares to get close, and few people have, he contains light brown hair, a fair complexion, a normal nose with a slight crook to it and lips within the standard stanine. He might have freckles on his cheeks, only the lord knows. His eyes seem aquiline of the grey spectrum and he does not speak. We in the youth identified him once in a hospital at the witching hour of two AM. The occult seem to be fixed on this number for reasons unknown to the faithful. Of all things to have, he has a small book, all in black with white pages, and he outstretches his hand and shows it to you as if you know what it is, but you don’t. Then you leave, and don’t look back.
Upon the squalls of impending death this author saw him again, some fifty years later, looking at him with the hospital staff and they did not seem to see him, and he showed us the book, again, as if we know what it means, but we don’t. The author lives to write this and has not seen this man again and he hopes he never does. This man does not evidence, hate, envy, lust, greed or otherwise, he just is and when he shows up it is important. He might be an Englishman or worse a Teutonic but at times they are all the same.
If you see this man, turn around and walk away if you can.