A small man was squatting in a cabin in the woods. A gun barrel was pointed towards him by another, slightly taller man.

'Well, I am playing my game, just as you are playing yours,' the small man said as he slowly got up from his crouching position.

'What the hell are you talking about?' the man with the gun yelled. 'What are you doing here?' That was the third time he had repeated that question.

'I'm stealing,' the small man declared with a soft, simple voice that lacked a trace of even the faintest tremble.

'I'm Alexander. I'm passing through this area. I have not eaten for two days straight and I saw that cabin, and I thought ...' 

The man who called himself Alexander was now fully upright and slowly approaching his captor, who was, for his part, tracing all the careful movements of his counterpart with his rifle. He cut off the avowal harshly.

'Shut up! I did not ask for your story! Step back and sit on that box over there!' he commanded.

As Alexander did as he was told, the gun-wielding man winded down. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, holding the gun at the barrel whilst it was standing on the floor with its stock.

'Listen, kid.', he said as he took a drag on his cigarette. 'How old are you?'

'I'm twenty-two. May I have one of your cigarettes?', Alexander aked. His voice was that of a man who tells his grandchildren war tales of how he was nearly shot once. He was very lean, bearing a tired face.

The man with the gun reached in his pocket. He took out a pack of cigarettes, got one out and threw it over to Alexander. Then he passed a box of matches.

'Thanks,' said Alexander, as he stooped to pick up the stuff.

The other man was calm now. His hair was sparse and thin and grey, and his face was very wrinkly. Brown specks of old age covered his cheeks and nose, as well as his hands. His eyes were very blue and vivid though, and stood in great contrast to the rest of his features, which made an impression of fragility, now that the man had come to rest.

'My name is Peter,' the elderly said. 'I won't shoot you, because you were indeed crouching in front of those lacerated boxes of canned soup instead of packing in those radios and other expensive tools over there,' he explained with his brittle voice which sounded like crumpling parchment. 'Enlighten me, what have you been up to lately, that you find yourself burgling a cabin in the woods and stealing canned soup from a geriatric?'

The small man named Alexander sighed as he reached for a backpack that was leaned against some of the boxes. He took out a filthy plastic bottle, which seemed to contain something water-like. At least if one ignored the floating, brownish particles in it. He took a small sip and began.

'I was led astray by my so called friends and, most notably, by my family until i reached the age of nineteen. I had been the flagship-child of our clan for the better part of my life. Ma 'n Pa were rich folks. Really rich, you know?'

The self-proclaimed geriatric sat there frowning. It was obvious that he didn't believe the latter part of Alexander's speech. That was not something you could blame him for, regarding the fact that the boy in front of him looked quite ragged in his patched jeans and dirty shirt.

'I studied hard. I constrained myself to set my priorities in a way that they always matched my parent's wishes. Not that they changed alot. The values and objectives never altered. Study. Visit college. Get a degree in a good-paying field, which is suitable to the family business. Join in.' 

Alex took yet another sip from his bottle. Peter was so disgusted by the look of that thing that he winced. 'Hold on!', he uttered. 'I'll get us something else.' With this, he got slowly up, propping against the rifle. 'I'll be right back,' he said. 'Don't run!'

Alexander shook his head, grinning, as he watched the old man move away.

He came back some five minutes later, carrying a bottle of cheap Bourbon. After both had taken a sip, the old man bid Alexander to continue his tale.

He took up again.

'So, I constrained myself to statisfy my parents, but I hated it. The older I got, the more anger grew inside me. By eighteen, I felt nothing but hatred and disgust for my surroundings. My family was always cold and sterile.' 

Alexander's candor concerning private issues made the old man increasingly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat loudly, shifting around on his seating.

'Conversation was always shallow. I remember vividly how I tried to talk to my Dad about that girl I liked in school. He was a master of changing the subject and not even roughly interested in my personal life. So, within one minute of our talk, he was giving me a lecture about how I had to study a lot in order to get a fine degree because that was the thing which would get me women. He didn't even ask about her name.'

'What was her name?' Peter interrupted, taking another sip from the bottle.

'Tanya,' the boy replied with an unruffled voice. 'The point is, that was the moment I decided to leave them. At this very moment, when my Dad continued to tell me about the necessity of my education for the thousandth time, instead of listening to me, I couldn't take it anymore. I remember roaring at him, insulting him, I even gave him the finger - something I would never have thought of before - and finally leaving the house, slamming the door. I crept back in by night and packed some stuff that came to my mind. You see, I still was very angry. I hadn't my shit together. So I ended up on the road at 4 P.M, with nothing but the clothes I wore and a backpack filled with trinkets.' He tried to clear his dry throat. 'Would you pass me the booze?' he asked.

Peter did. By this time, he was somewhat accustomed to the talking, brought on by his drinking. 'Haven't you mentioned that you were nineteen when you realized your misdirection?' he asked.

'Indeed,' Alexander replied. 'I hit home again two days later. I have slept some four hours in between and - oh irony! - was starving. When I came home, my father ignored me for a week straight. My mother burst into tears over how I was changing. That was understandable, for I had lately begun to show some rebel attitude. I was arguing with them about pretty much anything.'

'What was it, that made you a rebel?' Peter asked. His tongue was loosened by the drink. His thoughts were about to diversify, they reached those corners of his mind that could only be reached while under the influence. He began to contemplate Alexander's situation, for he was getting curious about this boy. His mood was about to become of the same sort it was when he sat at home, alone, swearing unintelligibly at the TV, the bottle either leaning in his arms or standing by his feet. He became interested in stuff he did not care for otherwise in this condition, but also bitter and resentful.

'They were snobs,' Alexander said. 'They were avaricious. Folks of your age would perhaps call them purse-proud. Money was everything to them. When I did fine in school, they gave me money. When it was my birthday, or christmas, or fucking Thanksgiving, they gave me money. They payed me for being their son. Whenever I had an issue, they would excuse themselves and provide me with a bill to 'go and amuse myself'. They thought I would forget about the issues, I believe. But I only learned to hate money. I projected that hate for money on other things, like people who felt the need to have the newest generation of phones each year, or the government when it built spikes on the ground next to markets, because owners claimed that sellings drop when a freezing man lies next to the entrance.' Alexander was in an uproar. His voice got louder, he began to gesticulate madly whilst speaking. He glowered. Silent, he held out his arm for the bottle. After he had taken a sip, he managed to calm down a bit.

'To cut a long story short,', he picked up his story, 'They didn't listen to me. So I prepared to leave them behind me. I applied for a college some miles away from home. They payed the rent. They payed for my car. Monthly, they sent me a certain amount of money to spent. I moved. I selled the car and went by bus. I lived ascetic and spent my time reading the works of Thoreau, of Huxley, of Marcus Aurelius. The money i saved by eating normal food instead of 'dining at the most exquisite places at town, darling' plus the profits I made by doing small jobs in my leisure time went to my piggybank, which I robbed one and a half years ago. By now, that money is long gone and you can get an idea of how things turned out by looking at me. And that's why I am stealing canned soup from a geriatric, Sir.'

They both sat quietly there. After a while, Peter asked if Alexander possessed a cooker and when he said yes, the old man got slowly up and picked a can of soup from one of the torn apart boxes. He handed it to Alexander on his way back to his former seating.

'Earlier, you uttered that you are playing 'your game', just as I am playing mine,' Peter said. 'Well, as far as I can gather, you have to cheat to avoid defeat. You can't burden yourself with all the misery in the world, kid. Well, you can, obviously, but doing so will get you nowhere but to your own misery.'

Alexander looked at him with his dark brown eyes moving quickly in his face. He evaluated the old man. 

'You are right. I'm heading straight towards misery. But with a little help from everyone, we could divest ourselves from misery or at least the bulk of it. Instead, we neglect humanity and embrace economic growth. By your condition, I'm pretty sure you have long retired, Peter. But once, you did a middle-class job, am I right?'

'I was a carpenter for the better part of my life,' Peter replied.

'A carpenter! A cabinet-maker? You built furniture. I mean, who doesn't need a new sofa or a new set of chairs or even a new armchair every once in a while, right?' Alexander scoffed.

The old man looked affronted. He straightened himself.

'Yes!' he barked. 'Unless one is willing to sleep in the dirt, just like you, or what? We're civilized, you know?'

'Why, yes! Oh boy, how civilized we are! And no better place to discuss - in a civilized manner, of course! - the newest happenings than in a new armchair. The old one was bad anyway. To the trash with it! We deserve better! But, let's go back to the happenings which are being discussed. Such as refugees drowning in the sea. Or starving kids halfway around the globe. Isn't that dreadful! Fortunately, we're sitting in our lovely armchair instead. Isn't that wonderful!'

Peter put him off, angrily. He snorted.

'So, you're saying I should have quit my job because people can sit on the damn floor just as well and travel to africa to feed some starving babies whose mothers were unable to do it themselves?' He had grabbed the gun by its barrel and was rapping the floor with it. 'Talk is cheap to you, having wealthy parents which blew smoke up your ass! I had to work for a living!'

With these words, Alexander relaxed. He looked at Peter, quietly, for some time.

'You think? Well, tell me about your so called living. What was it like in the morning when you had to get up for work? Did you feel delighted? Did you feel pleasant anticipation? Did you feel like you were going to do something valuable? Or were you perhaps more in the mood of a man who feels like a slave when he has to get up at five in the morning in order to work for a company that can easily replace him at anytime and makes him quite aware of this fact?' Alexander rightened himself. ‚What was it like in the evening, Peter? Did you rather feel fulfilled or exhausted?'

The old man was seethering with anger by now. He leaned towards Alexander, looking him dead in the eye.

‚You know what? If I was a slave for being a participating member of society, I am the most proud slave ever,' he said. ‚Now clean your plate and leave my cabin before I reconsider my earlier decision.' He raised the gun some inches, then averted his gaze and made an effort to stand up. He rejected Alexander's hand, which the boy had reached out to help the geriatric up, gruffly. His trembling body moving towards the portal, shakingly, he mumbled inaudible words to himself.

Alexander packed his stuff. When he stood outside the cabin, he turned around and, looking at Peter, he thanked him for the meal apologetically .

When Peter came home that evening after a long ride, he sat on his armchair, pondering. After quite a while, he got up and reached for the phone.

‚Hello?' his daughter Mary responded.

‚Hi honey, it's Daddy. How are you?'

The other end remained silent for a moment.

‚Well, I'm fine Dad. How about you?' Mary finally said in a suspicious voice.

‚Listen, Mary, I know we had some differences lately. I called to apologize. I do not intend to bother you at length, I just wanted to tell you that I am going to send you the money you asked for.'

‚What? Why?' The Woman sounded astonished.

‚I met someone today. He brought up some things I've been pondering about lately, but I was too haughty to admit. I know how important that trip is to you. You deserved your chance to do better in life than your father had. Fly to Africa, Mary, and participate in those social projects you told me about. You think I did not listen to you, but I did. Those are great people, greater than I ever was. Go with them. I love you.' He hung up before his daughter could respond.

Later that night, the old man sat in the grass in his backyard, eating baked beans he had simmered gently on an open fire, made from his armchair.