I counted him out yesterday morning. There was light drizzle from 5:00 am to 6:20 am, and it continued for my entire 5 mile loop around Cove Island Park. But he didn’t disappoint. There he was.
We intersect most mornings.
Never met him. Don’t know him. Never spoken a word to him.
But I imagine his life.
He’s a member of the Silent Generation, following his Parents, who were members of the Greatest Generation who survived the Great Depression. Waste not. Want not. Sacrifice. Freedom. God. Country. (I’m consciously leaving out ‘Guns’.)
He didn’t come from the Privileged. He was drafted, he didn’t seek medical deferment, he fought in the Vietnam War. Memories haunt, Demons always in pursuit. Jennifer Pastiloff’s: “Get out of your head. It’s a bad neighborhood.” So he walks.
There’s no Apple Watch tracking his steps. No iPhone pumping in music or books on tape. Nothing to shake that gnawing, that scraping…
There are two flags that hang on his house; they are worn, the whites have long lost their sheen. They don’t just make their appearance on July 4th, they hang 365 days a year.
The homes around him, one by one, are torn down, rebuilt, taller, larger, and fill with young families fleeing Manhattan. Property values have soared, his taxes have followed upward, and now pinch. He could flee to Florida, land of no State income tax, but that has never crossed his mind. He was born here, and will die here, his home town. He completes his own tax returns, reports his modest pensioner’s income and pays all of his taxes, because that is what has to be done.
The curtains are always drawn. He’s a Widower, married for 40 years, and then lost Her to Cancer. No one to open the drapes. No dog to keep him company. No cat to nestle next to his feet, purring, as he watches The Evening News. Income is tight, he can’t afford the expense. He misses his Wife.
The lawn is cut, never shaggy. A fence, freshly painted brown, provides token separation from the neighbors, with toys strewn all over their front yard.
His Story may be entirely different. But it’s what I see. What I need to see.
Yet, what doesn’t require imagining, is this.
I’ve come to look for him each morning. I round the turn to walk up Anthony Lane and there he is.
No matter how far up the street I am, he looks for me, and always throws up his hand to wave Hello.
Because that’s what he was taught. And that’s what he Believes. Character. Honesty. Decency. Be a good neighbor.
Some day, I’ll either tire of this same morning walk, or he won’t be there. One, or the other.
And, I’ll miss him.
Notes:
- Photo: DK, Saturday, Aug 30, 2020
- Inspired by: “If you can think of times in your life that you’ve treated people with extraordinary decency and love, and pure uninterested concern, just because they were valuable as human beings. The ability to do that with ourselves. To treat ourselves the way we would treat a really good, precious friend. Or a tiny child of ours that we absolutely loved more than life itself. And I think it’s probably possible to achieve that. I think part of the job we’re here for is to learn how to do it.” — David Foster Wallace, from “Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip with David Foster Wallace” by David Lipsky (Broadway, April 13, 2010)
- Inspired by: “We may be in the middle of a story we don’t know how will end, or even whether it will end, but we are not helpless characters created and directed by an unseen novelist. We have the power, even in this Age of Anxiety, to enfold ourselves in small comforts, in the joy of tiny pleasures. We can walk out into the dark and look up at the sky. We can remind ourselves that the universe is so much bigger than this fretful, feverish world, and it is still expanding. And still filled with stars. — Margaret Renkl, “A Reminder to Enfold Yourself in Small Comforts” (NY Times, August 24, 2020)
