Old Man

A young man, about seventeen years old, was running up a hill, middle of the street, a good half block ahead of the rest of his friends, a few classmates from school. An older man, about sixty, was raking leaves on his corner lot. It was a sunny Saturday, mid-October, the leaves had mostly fallen, covering much of the dark green grass with patches of rusty brown, amber, and faded orange. The older man wore a gray hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and white tennis shoes. The younger man coming to a stop in the middle of the street atop the hill wore black running shorts, a baggy green t-shirt, and multi-colored cross-trainers. He was sweating even though it was a crisp morning. His friends slowly caught up as he breathed in deeply, panting, putting his hands on his hips and arching his back. He sucked in the air.

The old man stopped raking and watched the young man. A boy, he thought. A boy with expansive lungs. I want those lungs, thought the old man. I wish I was him and he was me. Let me have what he has and let him have what I have. I want his youth. Give it to me, boy!

He looked down at the leaves he had been raking and then back up again at the young man. He hadn’t said anything aloud, but he had been thinking hard and glaring at the boy without realizing it. He saw the evidence on the boy’s face, his mouth agape, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes gleaming and maybe even screaming, “What the fuck, old man?!” He had crossed a boundary, he had let slip his desire and the young man saw it. He is just a boy, thought the old man, but he knew he was lying to himself. The boy was a young man. He may not have the mind to understand what his body can do but he does have the body that can do what a man does. Inexperienced but full of confidence. What the fool doesn’t know.

He looked back down at the leaves. He heard indiscriminate chatter amongst the group of young ones in the street out front. Should he call the police? They are standing in the roadway. They are a danger to motorists and to themselves. Do I have a responsibility to report this activity? If I don't then who does?

Or is this just the indiscretion of youth? Don’t they need to be able to explore their boundaries, to exert themselves? They are on the verge of freedom, of gaining power. Do I want rule-followers strictly and wholly? Don’t I want the exuberance of youth that dares to dash up a hillside in the middle of the street? Or is that too rash, too impetuous? Wouldn’t they learn a lesson in exchange for a very meager punishment, maybe even just a warning? Perhaps.

The old man made up his mind. He dropped his rake, turned toward the house, and walked up the steps to the front door. He turned back to the street. The younger man, the first one up the hill, stared back at him. He shook his head at the old man and shrugged his shoulders before turning and gesturing for the rest of them to follow. The old man watched them go. His shoulders slumped and he let the door close. He sat down, gingerly, on the stoop and put his head in his hands. He wept.

At three o’clock that afternoon, the old man rose from his nap. He had taken his cry inside. When he had finished, when there was no emotion left, he rested his head on a pillow on the couch and drifted off to sleep. He hadn’t slept so well in ages. He felt fresh, awake. He took a deep breath and sucked in the air. The windows in the living room were open and the cool afternoon breeze made the white linen curtains glide and wave. He sat up, the sunlight blinding him for a moment. As he adjusted his eyes he saw that he’d left the refrigerator door open. He got up and closed it. On the counter next to the fridge was a note.

“Kevin,

I took three hundred dollars from your wallet so I could have some walking around cash today. Hope you don’t mind!

Kisses,

M.”

Fuck you, M. Who the fuck are you and how do you know me? More importantly, you stole my money, you bitch!

But then the old man thought for a moment. My name isn’t Kevin and I didn’t have three hundred dollars in my wallet. I’m Maurice and I don’t think I have more than a twenty in my billfold. Where is my billfold, anyway? I think I left it in my gray pants. Where are my gray pants? I wish Alice was here. She knows where my gray pants are. I wonder if I should call the police about those young kids in the street. Maybe they were harmless, but they could be part of a gang. If there’s a crime will there be blood on my hands? Who is Alice? Am I 'M.'? Did I take three hundred dollars from Kevin's wallet? Who is Kevin?

Oh, Lord, have mercy on me. I am confused. I must pray this evening. I will not watch television tonight. Instead, I will pray for my soul. I’m so alone.

The old man went back to the couch to sit. He stared blankly in front of him. He did not see the TV console, the plants in pots on either side, the painting of a prairie landscape above the old vacuum-tube TV, or the coffee table littered with magazines, scattered coasters, and the morning's newspaper. He didn't see the chair to his left, the one no one had ever used, nor the end table with the faux-Tiffany lamp resting on it. He didn't see the hardwood floors that hadn't been treated for decades, the scratches and uneven fading of the varnish. He didn't see the oversized window to his right looking out on to the front yard and the street where the young man and his mates had been gathered after running up the hill before moving along on their merry way. He didn't see the ceiling fan above with the three dingy, under-watted light bulbs nor the ceiling with its stains and cobwebs in the corners. Hew saw nothing and thought nothing.

Eventually the man stirred from his still, thoughtless gaze. Where am I? What time is it? I'm thirsty, he thought. He walked to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was open. He saw the note next to it and read it.

“Kevin,

I borrowed your gray pants. Hope you don't mind.

Kisses,

M.”

Damnit! Those are my favorite pants! Who the hell is M.? My name's not Kevin. What is going on here? I wonder if those kids are still lingering outside. I wish I was that young. Where's Alice. She'd know what to do about all of this. I'm so tired. I should just sit down and watch TV. The old man returned to the living room, grabbed the remote from the coffee table--it had been hiding under the newspaper--and turned on the TV. Jeopardy was on. The old man sat back and watched the show in a haze, barely conscious of the questions, never even trying to think of answers. By the time the show was over he was asleep.

He woke around ten o'clock. He turned off the TV, got up to get some water and a snack from the fridge. The refrigerator door was open. He saw a note next to it.

“Kevin,

I'm staying with Alice tonight. Too tired and drunk to drive. See you soon.

Kisses,

M.”

Who is Kevin and why is he staying with Alice? Where is Alice? I thought she was here. I should check the bedroom. The old man walked upstairs and went to his bedroom. The bed was made. He checked the other bedrooms, but they were also empty. He went to the bathroom. Not there, either. He dropped his pants and sat on the stool. When he was finished, he wiped and washed his hands. He brushed his teeth. At least I still have teeth! I'm not that old! As he left the bathroom he had a vague notion that he had been doing something, but he was too tired to think about. He went to his bedroom, changed into his pajamas, pulled back the covers, got into bed, clapped, and the lights went out. He drifted off to sleep.

He woke the next morning at five o'clock. He went to the bathroom and then walked downstairs to make some toast and drink some orange juice. He saw the refrigerator door was open. There was a note on the counter next to it. He picked it up and read it.

“Kevin,

I returned at four this morning but you were still asleep. Went out for a morning walk and then I'm going to church. See you later!

Kisses,

M.”

Who is Kevin? why the hell was a person here at four in the morning? Did I forget to lock the doors? I wish Alice was here. She would know what to do about this. I wonder if those damn kids are still outside in the street? At this hour? The old man thought of going to the living room window to look out, but he was thirsty and hungry. He made toast and drank a glass of orange juice. I should probably rake the leaves today, he thought.


To Be Continued ... maybe