A short story. Mostly true. 

The old man sat at my booth. His hair was gray and longish. Like his clothes, it was unruly. He pointed to my computer. “Are you writing?” he asked.

I nodded, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I am a regular here, often coming in for a cup of coffee and to write. But I had never seen him before. I looked closely at him. Blue eyes, startlingly clear. Like a child’s, but darting, unsettled. A two day growth of beard, mostly gray. Yellowed teeth. I had seen that yellow before. My father had teeth like that. A smoker then. He had a cup of coffee in his hands. I had heard him order it. Black. No sugar. No cream.

“I used to write.” He said. “I was a word thief.”

“A word thief?” I asked.

He sipped his coffee and sputtered. I could see steam rising from the cup. He probably burned himself. “A word thief.” He repeated. I would come to places like this and sit and listen. No one pays attention to someone like me. I’m invisible. So they say anything, their whole life’s story. Love. Hate. Money. Children. Sex. As if I weren’t there. I’d hear all of it. And I would go home and write it down.”

“Why?” He had my interest now.

“Because people say things. Things other people need to hear. Things that would help others to know. But they won’t ever tell the world because they are afraid, or they don’t want to hurt anyone, or get sued. So it all gets lost and sucked up the chimney like smoke.” He took another sip of his coffee. “But I steal their words and write them down and no one knows who I am. They only know the words. Words that bring them solace, or excites them, or brings hope, or makes them laugh.”

He smiled. A wide yellow toothed smile. “It’s good to be a thief.” He paused. “Only….”

He looked up. “What would you write if you didn’t know anyone? If everyone who read your words was a stranger? Would it make a difference?”

I thought a moment. “Yes, it would.” There are things I could say that are to close, or too close to people I love. Things I would never share.”

The yellow smile again. “And that,” he said, slapping one hand on the table. “is why we need word thieves. Our secrets need to be told, safely. To save others from themselves. ”

And he stood up, and left.

I never saw him again. And I began to write.