The sun was low when I stepped onto the porch—one of those Oklahoma evenings where the air’s still hot, but soft enough to forgive.
I had a beer in my hand and the gentle aimlessness of a man who didn’t want anything more than to sit still for a while.
And there he was.
Sitting in my chair. Dirty. Grinning like a god who’d been sleeping in a ditch.
My first instinct was habit. We've had our share of wanderers around here. I said what I usually say when someone posts up on the porch uninvited:
“You want a beer if you'll move along?”
He took it. Drank it like it was holy. Looked me dead in the eyes and said:
“Name’s Diogenes.”
And just like that, my night changed.
Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe I was talking to myself. Maybe I’d had one too many and he’s just a projection—the patron saint of radical freedom conjured by a tired man with too many ideas and too little money of his own.
Mary came out halfway through the second beer.
“Who are you talking to?” she asked.
I pointed vaguely at the man beside me.
She looked at the empty chair.
“You’re weird,” she said. And went back inside.
But I swear to you—he was there. And if he wasn't, then some part of me was. And that part knew how to bark.
We sat in silence for a while, watching the street breathe. A car passed—chrome so polished it looked like ego distilled into matter.
Diogenes barked. Loud.
“You always do that?” I asked.
“Only when the leash is invisible,” he replied. “People think I’m barking at them. I’m not. I’m barking for the part of them that’s still chained.”
“You think they hear it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I do.”
“You free?” he asked.
“Ish. I don’t buy much. I wear the same shirt most days. I ask for soap as a gift. I’ve sort of removed personal money from the equation.”
He nodded slowly. “Then you’re freer than kings. Kings are slaves to gold. You’ve started walking backwards out of the labyrinth.”
“Crowley said you’re only truly free if you’re rich or poor, but being rich is more fun.”
He grinned. “He lied about the second part. Rich is just a shinier shackle.”
I gestured at his tunic. “You always wear that?”
“This isn’t a tunic,” he said. “It’s a protest. Every hole is a rejection of illusion.”
“It’s full of them.”
“So’s the marketplace.”
“You work?” he asked, mid-sip.
“I have. Streaming, marketing, content stuff.”
He squinted. “You ever dig a ditch?”
“No.”
“Then you’ve performed labor. You haven’t worked.”
“Pretty sure those things matter too.”
“I’m not judging,” he said. “I’m just drawing lines.”
He leaned back. “Real work makes you sweat without needing to lie.”
I told him about Jettie. About her dollhouse and the tiny red ‘Supreme’ blimp on top.
He lit up. “You know, we think we’re here to pass on wisdom. But it’s the children raised without bullshit who are our only chance.”
“She’s six.”
“Then she’s still sacred.”
“You believe in anything?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Soap. Sunlight. The sound a dog makes when it sleeps on something soft. The laugh of a child who doesn’t yet know shame.”
“No gods?”
He shrugged. “If they exist, they’re probably laughing at us. Best I can do is laugh back.”
“You know what makes me bark more than anything?” he said.
“What?”
“Influencers.”
I spit my beer. “You even know what that means?”
“I saw a phone once. It told a girl she wasn’t enough. Then sold her a serum.”
“That’s TikTok.”
“That’s trickery,” he said. “The Oracle of Delphi was vague, but at least she didn’t sell teeth whiteners.”
“You ever been in love?” I asked.
He looked out at the darkening sky. “Once. With silence.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“No,” he said. “That’s Diogenes.”
“What do you want to leave behind?”
“A story, maybe. A quote. A smell.”
“A smell?”
“One that makes the future wrinkle its nose and remember it’s alive.”
“I’m still trying to let go of things.”
He looked at me like I’d just spoken the name of a god. “Good,” he said. “The ones still letting go are the closest to flight.”
By then we were out of beer.
“I’ll grab another six,” I said, standing up.
“Excellent,” he grinned. “Maybe we’ll talk about sex or death next.”
I stepped inside. It took me maybe three minutes.
When I came back out—
The chair was empty.
No footprints. No smell. No echo.
Just a warm breeze, a barely sweating can, and the strange feeling that maybe—just maybe—I had been talking to myself all night.
But if so, I’m proud of the company I keep.
Author’s Note:
This is the first of a few evenings I’ve spent talking with Diogenes—on the porch, over beers, under the fading light. Whether he was real, imagined, or some strange fusion of both doesn’t matter much. He spoke truth, and I listened. I’ll be sharing more of our conversations soon.
Stay weird. Stay free. Bark when necessary.