Meeting with Harold
By gedosproject at 16 February, 2009, 10:35 pm
cometa mcnaught chile
I have spoken before about my friend, TomArt, in the story Revolutionary Sympathizer. I am happy to report that he is alive and well. He arrived in Nepal around two months ago, and although he only met the Buddha Boy briefly, he said it was a very enlightening experience. Tom is now able to comfortably communicate in Nepalese, and is busy learning their mystical ways, in hopes of applying their teachings to the true American Revolution, which, I assure you, is gaining support every day.
Thinking about TomArt earlier today, I found myself reminiscing about a story which I did not have time to relate in Revolutionary Sympathizer. It was shortly before the election, probably two Saturdays before McCain’s now-infamous replay of Bush’s highly segmented 2004 electoral map. I know it was on a Saturday evening, probably the 25th of October, a fall evening that held the tangible warmth of the harvest season in the air. It couldn’t have been the following Saturday, which would’ve been November 1st, because that evening I took a lovely Korean girl, with whom there was an irreconcilable cultural difference, to a Halloween party sponsored by my alma mater. Yes, it must have been October 25th.
Tom and I were sitting across from each other at our favorite coffee shop. I like this place because, when sitting there, I can detach from my Midwestern city and picture myself in a European or South American capital. Tom was reading Gold and Economic Freedom, by Alan Greenspan; I was attempting to proofread A Soothsayer in Disguise for the fifth or sixth time. We had only been there for about twenty minutes when an older man walked in and sat down in the corner nearest to us, arguably the nicest seat in the entire cafe due to its floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides. I made eye contact with him and then he started speaking:
“Hey, it sure is packed in here!”
“Yeah, It’s always like this,” I replied. TomArt acknowledged the man but said nothing. The old man had an invigorating look to him. Although shorter and with a little extra weight, I imagined he made quite the impression in his youth. I continued: “It’s kinda nice reading here, with all the people. At least you have something to drown out.”
“Oh, I don’t come down here any more, makes me feel too old. It’s just that my lady-friend took me and her grandkids down here. She’s waiting for the children at the playground.” Then he added, presumably referring to TomArt, “I hope I’m not bothering you guys too much.”
TomArt immediately shot up from his book, twisting a perfect 90 degrees. He had digested enough of the Greenspan article for that particular moment. “Not at all, sir. I’m Tom, this is Chris. What’s your name?”
“My name’s Harold. It’s nice to meet you guys. You seem like you have a lot on the ball.”
Tom, like all people, loved the complimentary reference to his intelligence. “Yeah, well there’s a lot to keep on the ball about. We’re just doing our job, you know?” Even though speaking to a man 55 years his senior, Tom was treating him like a peer.
But Harold wouldn’t have any of it. “Well, you know son, if it’s the economy you’re referring to, I lived through the great depression.”
Tom retorted, “Yeah, it’s about to get that bad, you just wait and see.” After that followed about 15 minutes of casual economic conversation. I mainly listened, but did interject about the fear that had been mongered at the Buick dealership that I was working at, especially after the initial failure of the House bailout bill.
I didn’t care to get heavy with politics at that particular moment, and casually turned the topic towards baseball. Naturally, Harold was a fan. “Of course I was a fan back in ‘48! I went to a game, I remember it was August, Indians won 5-0, guy pitched by the name of Satchel Paige.”
I was delighted. “Boy, what I would give to have seen that game.”
“Yeah, there was nobody who pitched like Satchel. He had pitches that even he didn’t know where they were going.”
TomArt, who had sold hot-dogs at Fenway Park for several years, casually said, “Yeah, baseball is the greatest game that could ever be invented.”
A few more minutes passed, but still the man was sitting all alone. “Geez, it’s getting dark, they should be coming soon.”
“It shouldn’t be too much longer, Harold,” I said. “You know, I want to ask you, what it must feel like to have seen all these events.”
Harold replied, “You know, I’ve been around for a long time. And I fought in World War II. And I was also the youngest of thirteen brothers and sisters, and…I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I’m the only one who’s still alive.” He put his head down, clasping the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger. “Oh god, I’m one of those weepy old guys. I’m sorry.”
Tom Art responded, “Hey man, not a problem. Not one bit.”
Just then the lady friend and her two grandchildren came up to the table. She was probably twenty years younger, but they made a nice couple.
“Hi honey.” She smiled.
“Hello, dear. These young men here had me all choked up.”
“I hope they weren’t pushing you around.” She had cropped black hair and wore a big pumpkin pin on her sweater. The children, a wild-banshee pair of blonde boys, had already run up to the pastry window. “Ready, honey?”
We said goodbye to Harold, and I felt somewhat embarrassed to have asked such a personal question. “Tom man, I just made an old man cry.”
“Yeah man, you got a real way about yourself.”
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About three days ago, I ran into the coffee shop to grab a quick slice of cheese pizza. I saw Harold sitting alone against the wall, somewhat close to where TomArt and I had been when talking to him the first time. He told me that he had had a heart attack and triple bypass surgery, and was recently released after five weeks in the hospital. But he still had his good spirits, and said that at least he didn’t need to use the cane anymore.
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