His name was Eben.
You could find him most days back in the early ’70s at Market Square when Watson’s was the big draw and there were no restaurants or bars like there are today. Before Market Square was populated with people talking or texting with cell phones or plugged in to their iPods, oblivious to the people around them, there were lots of old guys like Eben then who divided their time between Market Square and Central Avenue, just to talk to each other or tell their stories to anyone would listen.
Eben’s story was that he’d once been a railroad engineer and retired here, where he was born. He lived somewhere near downtown and got by on his railroad pension.
Eben is gone from Market Square now. So is Watson’s.
And so are Eben’s stories.