The Lonely Old Man - Part I

The title of this paper is not a descriptor.

It is his name.

None other can be remembered, nor can it be found.

At least, I'd rather not find it. There is something romantic - in the most primitive definition of the word - about a nameless person. Especially when there is somewhat of a legend attached to him. In a sense, that legend becomes his name. Hence, the Lonely Old Man.

Some say he lost a wealthy fortune. Others say his heart was broken. Still others say he was part of a secret government project that involved nuclear cardiology and birthday clowns. Personally, I like to think he's some sort of a basket case. You know, something that can be diagnosed. But whatever the case, he now lives in the uppermost room of my grandfather's apartment complex. Alone. And he has for as long as I can remember. Of course, I'm only eighteen, so that's not too incredibly long. But still...all alone?

The building was an old one, thus the liveable attic, and so did not have an elevator. Some unholy number of steps reached to the final hallway, where a tiny flight of stairs led the way to my destination. I'm not entirely certain how long it took me to climb up, and I'm even less certain I want to remember. But regardless of said hike, the highest hall finally appeared, whereupon I stopped before the Lonely Old Man's doorway.

The idea for this dissertation had come weeks ago. I, as a future psychology major, wanted to enter my freshman year of college with a glowing resumé of completed diagnostics. When reminded of this old man, I eagerly sought an interview with him. To decipher a seemingly unsolvable mind...what better way to disprove any and all doubters of my genius? 

There I was. About to enter the abode of the Lonely Old Man himself. All those hoops I jumped through to get to this point were of no consequence now. Ascending the six steps to his door, I took hold of the brass nob and stepped inside. The room held a musty scent, not unlike an old bookstore. It was as if a thousand ancient novels had opened their leaves and vomited every grain of mold into the air. My nose itched terribly. 

The room was not especially large. It was rectangular in shape and not wide at all. Each wall was constructed from vertical wooden boards, cut away just enough to fit the door-frame in which I stood. As the building's roof was directly above, the room's ceiling was very much slanted. It's highest point was at the left side of the room, coming down at a warped slope to the right. Pots, pans, books, papers, photos, clothes, and shoes littered every available surface; including the floor.           

Finding a place amongst the clutter, I saw a bed to the far right of the room. It was liberally arrayed with patched quilts and multicolored pillows. The Lonely Old Man sat at the end of it, his crooked back pressed against the wall. He had a long face, with wispy eyebrows and a white mustache. Thin, equally white hair sprung from beneath a knit hat. The right sleeve of his long underwear was the only bit of clothing, that, aside from the hat, wasn't smothered by the quilts. In his right hand was held a black umbrella. Its copper tip scratched at the low ceiling like a one-clawed cat.

"Good morning," I ventured.