One particular night, we sat with two others on the sand, about 200 yards from a large cement culvert that emerged from the beach open to the sea. We were drinking orange juice, engaged in animated discussion. We had been there for hours, gazing at the ocean and at the sky, and the topic had shifted from running grunion to music to politics to the nature and origin of the universe. The night had become completely quiet around us, and our words wound wonderfully into the dark, falling like silent stars onto the sand. Our backs to the east, we almost sensed dawn's approach as the subject turned to books. There was one among us who had never read Stephen King's It. My friend, the quintessential Stephen King fan, erupted into an explanation of the story, and how Pennywise the clown lived in the sewers beneath the town. Soon we were laughing, pretending Pennywise might appear at any moment. My friend pointed at the huge open culvert, whispering in mock fear, "Omigod, omigod, Pennywise probably lives in there - he'll probably come out of there at any moment!" We all fell into the game, telling each other he was there, in the dark, about to approach us, calling us saying, "we all float down here," holding out balloons. We burst into laughter, falling into one another tired as can be.
As our laughing faded and the depth of the silence tucked itself back around us, we heard the sand shift. Looking up, we saw a wizened old man approaching from the direction of the culvert. It was so dark in that direction that he seemed to materialize from nowhere. We all caught our breaths, transfigured by the surprise of his presence. He was thin and bent, wearing black clothing covered with an old green Army trench coat. The old man walked directly to us, stopped, and pulled a jar from inside his coat. He held it gingerly between his palms, and held it out to us at the full extent of his reach. Were were all almost afraid at what might be in the jar. It was three o'clock in the morning. We had thought we were alone on the beach for hours. We had just frightened ourselves to death telling Stephen King stories. We moved closer to one another, and looked at the old man.
His arms still outstretched, the jar nestled between his hands, he stepped closer to us. He bent forward a little further. He took a deep breath, and his face wrinkled up into a hideous, ancient grin. I shivered, and sensed my friends do the same. He thrust the jar towards us and said in a thin, cracked voice, "Would you care for some Hhhoneeeeeeey?"
We stared at him silently, aghast. He stood there a moment, looking at each of us, and then he put the jar back into his coat and walked away. He was gone in moments, blinked into the darkness as if he had never existed. We all rose in unison and shuffled to our respective homes.
My friend and I spent other nights at the beach near the culvert, but never again did we see the little old Honey Man.
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(c) 2000 Suzanne B. Jacobson