DuPierre was not like the old men who played dominoes, old men who lived to be in companionship with others. He was and always had been one to walk through life in the company of his thoughts and his thoughts alone. He had no need for chatter. He had no need for small talk. He had no need to rattle around in the ignorance of lesser minds. Having found no better mind than his own, other minds bored him.
But pass the domino players, he had to do. They took their places early, these retired fishermen with nothing else to do. Always the same five men were there. There on the wide wooden porch of Alito's General Store, there seated at two tables, the two teams of two would scramble their bone white tiles with their tobacco stained fingers. All this being supervised by the red faced, bearded man who smoked a meerschaum pipe all day long. He never played. He just watched and grunted and nodded off now and then.
The sculptor DuPierre would say nothing to the domino players, excepting if had to go into the store. One of the men who remark, "It's mighty hot today," and DuPierre would answer with a point of the finger. They all understood that this gesture meant, "You have a good point there, yes, indeed."
On the days DuPierre went into the store, he would buy cigarettes and toiletries, soap and chalk, cans of beans and cans of peas, and other everyday such as these. Once he ordered a case of beeswax candles from France, a whole case.