The Lonely Old Man - Part II

"Good morning," I ventured.

"Yet another," he replied.

A smile tugged at my lips. I had heard from the neighbors that he was dreadfully pessimistic, and these first words seemed to fit the mold well. So too did the tone in which he said them: slow, almost cautious, with more than a hint of apathy. In any case, he proved his neighbors' statement to be true. I should have listened closer, I thought, considering how absentmindedly I had conducted the interviews.

I cleared my throat, dragging the nearest chair to his bedside. "You have made quite the name for yourself," I began. "Just the fact that I'm here is really..."

"I care nothing of names," he interrupted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The name of which you speak is my reputation. I don't care for it!"

I furrowed my brow, expecting him to say more. But he didn't. So instead, I sat in expectant silence for over a minute, watching his bony right hand fluctuate in a pattern of tight and loose grips upon the umbrella handle. Eventually, I attempted once more.

"You might be interested to know, sir, that..."

"Son, interest is dead in my bones."

My eyebrows rose involuntarily. For a long moment I sat very still, unsure of how to reply. Through what limited experience I have, flattery tends to be the greatest lubricant of conversation. For everyone alive cannot resist speaking highly of themselves, and even if their own lips deny self, it is usually in the hope that someone else will counter with a kind word. So I've found that handing out compliments is very handy indeed. Plus, it eliminates the other person's need of fishing for those compliments. If there is one thing I can't stand, it's fishing. I think it's vain and unattractive.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," I said at length. "Perhaps you might be interested in answering a few questions for me? To our mutual benefit, I assure you." 

He scowled. "What benefit of mine?"

I shrugged pitifully and said nothing. To be honest, it was something I read once and thought it sounded eloquent. There really wasn't any benefit but my own. And even that I was beginning to doubt. But I persisted, saying, "I'd very much like to hear your story. That is all."

"My story?"

"Yes, if you're willing."

"My story is eighty-three years long."

"I'm sure it wouldn't take eighty-three years to tell," I said.

The old man smirked, simultaneously furrowing his brow and raising one eyebrow. His mustache danced as he attempted to chew it. "You're right," said he. "In detail it would take even longer."

"What if you just...explain your solitude? That would suffice, and will probably shave a few years from the eighty."

"Eighty-three."

"Yes, eighty-three."

The old man hesitated, taking a moment to peer up at the umbrella. He shifted and spun it, as if to avoid being struck by rain. Then: "Very well. But I must explain by three separate tales, and you must stay for the length of each. Because if you leave before their completion, I'll simply continue on my own. And I'll not repeat myself! Are you willing? Then do make yourself comfortable. Yes, I will allow your machine. It is a good thing to have, for I'll not repeat myself!"

The machine of which he spoke was a recording device given to me for graduation. I had used an old cassette recorder during high school, so it's nice to have something compatible with my laptop. And I was glad to have brought it. The Lonely Old Man was long winded to say the least. Inflection occurred often, casting him into a memory daze of sorts, during which I would pause the recording and sit patiently. In the end, however, he remained true to his word, completing each of the three tales, or "events" as he frequently called them. I have transcribed each word to the best of my ability, and subsequently arranged them in this manuscript.

So. Herein lies three tales as spoken directly by the Lonely Old Man...