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The Old Man
There's this old man I know, he's at least 80 or 90 or something, and all he ever does is sit on his chair and stare at the street. He doesn't wave when Miss Watkins walks by on her way to the grocery, and he doesn't smile when Robbie and Debbie Banks drive by in their new Chevy (they just got married) and he doesn't even blink when lightning flashes out of the sky.
I should know. I was there, one time, delivering papers, when this wicked storm brewed up out of nowhere. I took cover under his porch, while he sat there, staring at the street.
"Good evening Mr. wood."
Silently he sat.
What was he thinking?
I was just about to ask him when he started talking.
"Things didn't used to be like this. kids didn't drive brand new cars, old folks weren't ignored, the government didn't tell everyone what to do. Nope, things were sure different."
For a moment, he trailed off, and I was glad. I had already flinched in anticipation of a old-timer's lecture. Boom: some thunder clapped overhead, and that must have started him up again.
He had to practically shout to talk over the wind and rain and thunder.
"It was before the war, the first war, and there was an undercurrent of positive energy everywhere. Towns were small, stores were smaller, people were the smallest of all."
As I sat there, I closed my eyes. I could see it all. The same town now, only different. Smaller. I could see Mr. wood walking down main street, whistling, saying hello to everyone. A pretty girl, his neighbor, would stop in the middle of the street to talk. Mr. Wood smiles. He asks her to have dinner.
"Oh, that'd be lovely Edgar."
Now he's really happy. He does a little dance step as he crosses the street, tips his hat to the old lady at the sidewalk, and starts humming to himself. He has changed course now. Instead of heading straight to work (work can wait after all) he skips towards the store. He'll pick up a few supplies there; he can just see the look of jealousy in the faces of all his buddies. They'll ask him what's in the bag. Oh, nothing, just a few things for dinner tonight. Dinner, who're you having dinner with, they'll demand to know. Oh, just Elizabeth barber. Liz barber, they'll scoff. But he'll just smile and not say a word. That'll goose their gander.
He pops out of the store with a sack full of goods, starts to meander his way to work. This is his town. It looks the same as it always has, maybe a bit dirtier, but the same as he remembers it as a kid. The few stores, the local saloon, Jimmy's Hotel (and brothel, he discovered in his teenage years), the gunsmith, the shoe repair, the sheriff's office. Even the people seem the same. Most of his childhood friends are working for their parents. He probably would be too, if not for the accident. He frowns, shakes his head a bit, and continues his way down to the end of the street.
Just on the edge of town is the cattle ranch. Edgar spends six days a week branding, counting, herding, feeding, watering and tending the cattle. Sundays he gets off. The pay is decent, he gets first choice when it's time to slaughter, and the work is just menial enough to let his mind drift. It's not the worst job in the world, Edgar knows, but it isn't the best either. He's read some books about big-city life. He figures that's where he'll make his fortune. "Doing what?" all the cowhands tease him. He shrugs. law, business, something. His parents always told him he could do whatever he wanted. He still believes that. Edgar starts picturing himself walking around the city. He's wearing a custom suit. He swings a pocketwatch in his hand. He straightens his moustache, slicks back his hair, then readjusts his fedora. Better yet, perhaps he is revisiting his old town. All the old townsfolk come out to greet him. He arrives in a fancy coach. Out he steps, dapper and refined, and out behind him comes Elizabeth, holding in her arms a ...
"Oh, pardon me sir."
Edgar has nearly bumped into a stranger on the road. So engrossed must he have been, that he didn't notice this man, a civilized man, wearing a grey suit and top hat. Spectacles rest on his pinched nose.
"My fault entirely."
"Well, good day," and Edgar starts to walk past.
"Excuse me sir, perhaps you could help me. I'm looking for someone." Edgar stops. A gut feeling, a warning, tells him to keep walking.
"Who are you looking for?"
"Well, let me see here." The man reaches inside his vest, pulls out an envelope. It's hard to read the parchment in the bright sun. The man tilts his head, peers through his glasses.
"It says here, 'To a Mr. Edgar Wood.'"
For a second, Edgar starts. Then he calms down.
"That would be my father."
"Oh, fine, excellent. Where might I find him?"
"On the other side of town, in the cemetery, beside my mother."
The man looks embarrassed, stumbles over some apologies, hands the document to Edgar, and makes his way off. Edgar stands a few minutes, clutching the envelope, his mind imagining all the possibilities contained inside. Instead of opening it, he shoves it into his sack of goods, and heads straight to work. He works fiercely. A bull gets loose, and Edgar goes to help catch it, armed with only a rope. The bull charges once, and Edgar slips through the fence just in time to avoid being gored. His mind bounces back from one thought to the other: Dinner with Elizabeth, letter for his father. He feels a bit silly for not opening the letter, but still, even during his lunch break, it remains sealed shut.
The other cowhands, naturally, ask him about the sack. Absently, he tells them he's eating supper with Elizabeth. "Man alive, Liz barber! Edgar, you old dog you." They joke and jostle and give him a hard time, but Edgar remains distracted.
When they leave, Edgar sits awhile longer at the table. Hands Malone, the owner of the ranch, sees him sitting quietly.
"Heard you're having dinner with Liz barber ... " Hands starts. "No, don't say nothing. You look like a man wrestling with a big problem. Let me just give you some advice. Something I read long time ago, in some book: Love is selfishness. Don't get me wrong, it feels nice, and it makes you all bubbly inside, but really, think about it son. You don't want to fall in love with someone so that you can make them happy. No, you want someone that'll make you happy. Someone that will complete you. Not just any person will do. Oh no, to make you happy, you got to go out there and find the perfect one, the one that looks just pretty enough, acts just smart enough, has that wonderful laugh. But it has nothing to do with the other person. It's just an extension of yourself, or, as that German psychologist says: an extension of your own ego. Listen: when you say you love someone, how do you say it? You say: ' I love you.' the 'I' is the most important part of that. If love was about the other person, we'd all be saying, 'You make me love,' or something like that. None of this 'I' business. But that's just it. We can't separate ourselves, or combine ourselves with another person. Nope. The best kind of relationship we can hope for is a subservient one: a master and a slave. And nine times out of ten, I'll say, the master doesn't stay in charge for long. That's just something to think about. You keep your head together. I saw you out there trying to get Butch back in his pin. you almost got gored. That's not the head of someone who is his own master. Just think about that."
For the rest of the day, Edgar was even more confused. Thoughts swam around like blinded fish. Dinner with Liz; letter from the city; be your own master. The rest of the day passed quietly. The cowhands offered a few pieces of their own advice on what to have for dessert. Edgar waved them off and shuffled his way back home.
Home was at the other end of town. His father, Edgar Sr., had built the house himself. His parents had moved here from the city just after Edgar was born. When he was young, his mother told him stories about the city, about stores as big as his town, about baseball and dog racing, about buildings as tall as the buttes, which would sway in the air on really gusty days. Edgar would get dizzy just imagining it all. He would fall asleep and dream of places like the city, only the buildings in his dreams would reach up into the clouds, and the stores would go on without end, and always, just before he awoke, he would see himself from above, a small speck, a dot, amidst a horde of people busily going somewhere but never being able to escape the store. These dreams always filled him with fear, and awe.
He arrived home with the distant sound of thunder. His old dog, Rex, greeted him by raising its head off the ground, then settling back. He cleaned himself off, put on some fresh clothes, and dumped out the contents of the sack. Some vegetables, some cured meat, a candle, matches, and a letter. He sat back, breathed out, opened the letter.
He read it once, quickly, barely breathing. He set it down, picked up his pipe, lit it, and reread the letter, slowly, letting every word sink in. He sighed. The rain started slowly outside. It kicked up dirt and dust as it splattered, and Edgar could barely make out the rest of the town from his chair in the kitchen. Smoke rose lazily out of his pipe, as the rain dropped harder and harder, until it hit a steady pour. Lightning, every now and then, with rolling thunder, briefly lit the darkened house at the edge of town. Inside, still Edgar sat, while the pipe burnt out.
Lost in thought, Edgar hadn't realized how much time had passed. Rex started to whine. Someone was approaching the house.
Still it rained. Rap rap rap. Edgar looked to the door. A flash of lightning in the distance illuminated the figure of Elizabeth. She called out:
"Edgar, are you in there?" Rap rap rap, louder now.
"Edgar!"
He saw her in the darkness, a white dress clinging to her body, damp, protected by a small umbrella. He stood. He was no master. He opened the door.
In the morning, Elizabeth would wake up, alone, in Edgar's bed. She would find the letter on the table, along with a note written to her. She would never see Edgar again.
The old man Wood started coughing, a hacking cough from deep within his chest.
The rain caused it, he said. He asked me to go inside, fetch him his pipe. My mind was full of questions. "So why did Edgar leave?" I asked as I handed him the pipe. The storm was beginning to clear, and I knew I had to leave soon.
The old man slowly, meticulously, packed his pipe, lit it, puffed. The smell was pleasant, like the smell of sweet, burning leaves.
"The letter, boy, the letter." He paused. "Edgar had become rich."
I started to say something, anything, I don't know what. A "but" had formed on my lips. The old man looked at me, not quite a glare, but a raw look, hard.
"Be your own master," he said.
Then he turned and looked at the street. The story was over. The rain was gone. I picked up my sack of newspapers, turned to leave.
"That's my best advice, boy." The old man continued to stare. "Be your own master."
I wasn't sure, but I thought I heard a hint of sarcasm in his voice. But I wasn't sure.