Somehow, I just knew I was looking at a dead man walking.

    Old John Joseph was a man with two first names; he went by both, most often run together as one, and if he did in fact have a last name, nobody had the faintest clue as to what it might be.

    I'd seen John Joseph in the bar many times before, but not on a basis so regular that I might claim him as a preferred customer. He usually came in with the dinner crowd, blended unobtrusively at the counter, and left with the happy-hour throng a few minutes shy of seven-thirty.

    Unlike the rest, however, he always came back to tell me his stories. He returned after the midnight hour on a thoroughly unpredictable basis; John Joseph was no man of habit or pattern. There were times when he came in three, four and five nights a week, then others when I wouldn't see him at all for two or three weeks--not even at happy hour. It didn't trouble me any, because he always did come back.

    This night in particular, however, I was certain that he would never return again. John Joseph appeared to be on the verge of taking that ultimate trip--the one with nothing more than a guessable destination, its only promise the fact that traffic moves only in one direction. He looked horrible that stormy, forbidding night . . . and I shall remember his haunted look until the day I book a seat on that midnight express to eternity myself.

    It snowed constantly that day, and I still don't know how John Joseph even found his way to the bar. No one else had, so I was preparing to close down early for the night when he shuffled in through the side door. According to the news reports, all roads were totally impassable; the snow had smothered the town, holding the town and its residents hostage throughout the storm's duration. But somehow, John Joseph beat the odds, all for a drink and a story.

    He looked dead the moment he took his seat but I served him, regardless. That's my job. I couldn't justify charging him anything for the drink, though, and I certainly didn't worry about any type of payment.

    "I've told you many stories, Jim," he said slowly, his words sounding much like a reverent preamble. John Joseph just talked that way; every word he uttered came across as having been premeditated, carefully structured into the context of his sentence, reliant upon--yet at the same time, somehow independent of--the other interlocking words which pieced together to form the overall picture illustrating his idea. He was quite a story teller, and I leaned forward with interest, not so much to hear the story, but to try to glean something from that which he staged with that simple opening remark. I hoped that I might find some explanation for his deathly pallor in the words he prepared to speak. Outside, the snow whispered as harried flakes tapped at the windows. Gusting winds rattled their frames.

    "I've saved this story for the last," John Joseph muttered, wiping foam from his upper lip. His eyes locked with mine . . . and I was forced to look away. His were as cold and lifeless as the infinite maw of night outside the bar. "And I think we both know it will be my last. It's about Corey."

    "You've told me about Corey," I returned, daring to look into his eyes . . . but only a quick, sneaking glance, "many times."

    "But I haven't really told you anything." His words were delivered tersely, and were muttered only slightly louder than the whispering of the winter snowfall. "I haven't told you about her smile. I haven't told you about the gentle way she held me while we danced. I haven't told you . . . "

    "Are you okay, John Joseph?" I asked with genuine concern, placing a hand over his. "I was nearly ready to shut down. I can take you home. We can save your last for another time, a more sympathetic day."

    "I have no home," he answered, finishing his drink with a shaky hand and a loud swallow. "You know that. They left me in the railroad yard when they took away the trains. All I have are the precious memories of my Corey."

    Somewhere out in the night, the storm overcame man's technology and the power snapped off audibly. Blackness engulfed John Joseph, trapping us together in the space where our dark, private worlds converged. He asked for another beer. I drew one from the tap and it was not a problem; the bar was more familiar to me than anything else in my life at that time, navigable even in near-total darkness. I kept a large flashlight under the register and turned it on more for John Joseph's comfort than my own.

    "I've told you that my Corey is coming back," he started, and I knew that I had no choice but to listen patiently. I'd already asked many of the locals about Corey and my queries were met with laughter. They all agreed that no one by the name of Corey had ever lived in this little town. I never mentioned it to John Joseph, suspecting that his fantasies of a young woman named Corey were probably about all that he had in this world, and to destroy that would be inhumane. She lived in John Joseph's eyes, and I saw her there then. "When she comes back, there will be no more sad stories to tell. When she smiles, the world stops to watch, Jim. When she holds you, she completely enfolds you in her world. And what a wonderful world hers is."

    "You've told me all that, John Joseph," I remarked, wondering how much longer I would have to listen to his forlorn ramblings. I wanted to get home at that point and was prepared to invite him to stay at my place through the cold, harsh night if need be. He coughed loudly, smacked his chest a few times, and continued talking.

    "I know you don't believe my story and you never have, but I swear it is true. I have a feeling that she is close, very close. Corey's coming, Jim. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but very soon." He took a long drink and exhaled slowly, noisily. There was a world of heartbreak trapped in that sigh. "Corey, my sweet, sweet Corey. My lovely, beautiful Corey. I was never homeless with her. I was never a tramp to her. My whole world was her, my world is her. She's coming. Corey's coming."

    I heard the ticking of my battery powered clock and the eerie bleating of snow on the front windows, then nothing more for the next few minutes. John Joseph had fallen silent, and I knew from past episodes that he was preparing to unleash the full story from start to finish once again. The pretzels in the warmer were still warm to the touch; I took one for myself and offered one to him.

    "I won't bore you with the whole story again," he continued, "since I know you are probably tired of it and you want to get home soon. But I will tell you about the postcard."

    "Postcard?" I asked with genuine surprise. That was a new twist. How could the imaginary product of a lonely old man's mind send a postcard? I asked, but used different words.

    "She didn't send me a postcard," John Joseph said slowly. The light from the flashlight cast his face in shadow, making him look far older than he really was. "I sent her one. Two weeks ago. Corey lives in Omaha."

    "How did you find that out?" I asked, finishing off my pretzel. He had yet to touch his. Even the beer sat full on the formica. I didn't believe a word he said, but it was an interesting addition to the fantasy. Omaha?

    "A lot of research," he answered mysteriously, quietly. "I've been spending a lot of time in the library lately."

    John Joseph had been spending a lot of time in the library for the past five or six years, the length of time I'd known him. Was it even remotely possible that his claim was true? I hadn't been to the library in several months; did they really have that type of information publicly available?

    "She's coming," he whispered, finally picking up his beer. "Corey's coming . . . soon."

    I nodded politely as I wiped down the counter across from him. I put down the rag and turned to ask him about what the postcard said, but John Joseph was not in his seat. A half-full beer and giant pretzel marked the place where he sat. I resumed my cleaning tasks and waited for him to come back from the restroom.

    But John Joseph never returned. I found him on the floor, his face more peaceful and relaxed than I'd ever seen it. If Corey was coming, he would never meet her now. Tears stung my eyes as I held him for a bit, until I realized that he was now finally free from his lonely life in the railroad yard, his continuous fantasy of finding love, and his tremendous burden of pain. Old John Joseph would tell stories no more.

    Outside, the wind howled louder, as if to replace the voice our world just discarded.

    Old John Joseph was buried as anonymously as he had lived. The day was as stormy and miserable as his life had been, and I think that if he were aware of that, he would certainly have approved. The casket was simple and rough, nothing much to look at, all I could afford. I believe he would have approved of that, also.

    The minister I hired to perform the rites wasted no time; I overheard him talking earlier with the grave digger about an important wedding this small funeral gathering was holding up. I noticed that the grave digger chewed tobacco. He leaned on his shovel while listening to the minister lament, turning away once or twice to spit. Again, I don't think John Joseph would have been offended. I was, slightly.

    A breeze kicked up and plastered the minister with the polyester he wore. I could see the exact shape of his knees as he leaned into the wind, his clothing flapping in the wind. His tie flew up over one shoulder as the wind caught in his jacket, ballooning it for a brief instant before popping off numerous buttons. I wondered if he would have to change into a different suit before dashing off to the wedding. Somehow, his stylish hair was unaffected. John Joseph would have seen humor there; I certainly did. I smiled for him.

    "Ready?"

    I nodded consent, quitting the smile. The minister opened his little black book. The savage wind ripped several pages from it and they fluttered away, lighter than air. I wondered if they were the wedding pages he'd need later. He sensed the folly and closed the book quickly, pocketed it, and thrust both hands into his pockets. A snowflake settled on his head. A few seconds later, his hair had turned white. I looked around to see if anyone else was coming. When I looked back, it was snowing so hard that I could see no more of the minister than his shape. The casket looked like a giant rectangular sugar cube as it took on snow.

    So long, John Joseph . . . No one came, no one cares.

    Only three of us were there. My hopes that someone else might show fell with the snow. The grave digger spat again as the biting wind chewed off my ears. It was time. I looked up at the minister and nodded once again.

    "We need not weep for this man," he finally spoke, his seventy-five-dollar-an-hour words sneaking in through my ears to settle heavy in my heart. The grave digger checked his watch, turned, and spat. "We need not weep, for we know that God cares."

    With that he was gone, swallowed by the snow, leaving me and the grave digger to contemplate his words. I wondered angrily if he made that up, or if that was what he would have read from his book had more folks attended, had the day been sunny, had the casket been mahogany, had John Joseph been a member of his church.

    The grave digger floated fluidly through the falling snow like a ghost, and I realized that he was already shoveling cold dirt over John Joseph. I stood there silently until he finished, feeling that John Joseph deserved some measure of respect. The grave digger left, his job finished, leaving me alone with a large rough square of dirt at my feet. There would be no headstone; I simply couldn't afford the expense. I didn't think John Joseph would mind. I stood with my head bowed for so long that I began to feel the weight of accumulated snow on the back of my neck. Some of it started to melt and run uncomfortably down my back. I did not care.

    When at last I looked up, I saw I was not alone.

    Someone stood silently nearby, respecting me as I respected John Joseph. The person was shorter than me and bundled sensibly. I had not the slightest idea who it was, and, therefore, did not know what to say. It came to me, finally.

    "If you're a relative, he had a peaceful end."

    The person nodded almost imperceptibly, walked slowly up to the large patch of rough dirt, and scooped some of it aside with one booted foot. Stooping over into the wind, the person put a postcard-sized piece of paper into the shallow hole and buried it, tamping the dirt back down in place until it was just right, then stood, pulling the parka from her head. A beautiful mane of golden hair spilled out, adding color to a dismal scene.

    That's when she said, "My name is Corey, you can say I'm just a friend."

    With that, she turned and shuffled away, disappearing into blinding sheets of falling snow.

    I stood there with tears freezing on my cheeks, staring down at the little hole she'd covered. I knew that if I let her go, I'd never see her again, and that really would be the end of Old John Joseph. It would also be the end of me. I would be left alone to return to my lonely life, my lonely bar, my lonely thoughts in my empty head. The falling snow was already filling in the tangible proof of her existence, those deep footprints she left while walking away.

    So long, John Joseph . . . Someone cared, someone came.

    I caught up with her in the parking lot. Again, I don't think John Joseph would have minded.

Corey's coming,
No more sad stories coming.
My midnight, moonlight, morning glory's coming . . .
Aren't you, girl?
And like he told me,
When she holds me,
She enfolds me in her world.