The Old Man

Listen. I’m going to tell you a story. 

There once was an old man who lived by himself in a dark forest. He hated water in large quantities and so lived in a place where the only water came from shallow pans scattered around his property. Every morning he walked to the poplar tree and carried the blue tin bowl inside. After making a weak rust colored tea, he would splash the remaining water over his head and sprinkle a little bit over his armpits. At night, he walked to the spruce tree and carried the yellow plastic bowl inside. For food, he ate tinned green beans and instant mashed potatoes. For entertainment, he had a portable hand-cranked radio that when the skies were clear received two stations very clearly and one station muffled by static.

He wasn’t stupid, this old man, he was willing to suffer a little but not too much to humor his madness. There’s a lesson in there for you.

A boy came upon the shack. He knocked on the door and the door didn’t open. The old man was listening to the radio and his eyes were closed, he might have been sleeping. On the table was a half-eaten bowl of white mush. The radio was playing Spanish jazz. 

Old man! The boy shouted.

The old man opened his eyes and then closed it again.

Old man! The boy shouted and for good measure kicked the door. The door opened, the old man stood shirtless in the doorway. 

Put some clothes on, the boy said. He came in and turned off the radio. While the old man was digging through a pile of rags in the corner, the boy took out a long oblong shape wrapped in brown butcher paper from the plastic bag he was carrying. The old man put on a dirty white shirt and tried to use his hands to smooth out the wrinkles.

Here, eat this, the boy said. 

I just ate, the old man said. 

Eat this, the boy said.

So the old man did. He unwrapped a hunk of meat from the butcher paper. Sprinkling some oil on a cast iron pan, he fried the entire thing and ate it without salt or bread. The boy sat by him turning the now useless buttons on the radio. They didn’t talk, the only sound was from fork hitting plate, knife sawing through flesh, ill fitting dentures chewing on tough gristle. 

Clean up, the boy said after the old man was done. So the old man went outside and buried the butcher paper under the spruce tree, the fork and knife under the poplar. When he came back the boy was already gone. The old man should have been relieved but he wasn’t.

The next day a man knocked on the door which promptly opened to reveal the old man standing in the doorway in a yellowed shirt and frayed black pants. There was a strong smell of onions and must. All people who live alone have to be vigilant against this odor but the old man had ceased to notice it for a long time now, or perhaps he had ceased to care. It is hard to tell the difference with him sometimes.

Hello sir, may I come in? The man asked. The two of them sat down at the kitchen table, the man sitting where the boy sat yesterday.

How are you doing sir? The man asked. 

Well enough, the man said. 

I heard that he came to see you yesterday.

He did come yesterday, but only for a short while. 

Did he bring anything with him?

Nothing but some meat. It was good meat. 

What did he bring it in? 

If you were listening, you would remember that the old man wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to tell this man anything important. 

I don’t remember, he said, some bag, it’s not here now, he must have taken it back with him. 

The man nodded, he seemed to have been expecting this answer because he smiled. 

How do you get water out here? The man asked. The old man explained his system. The man asked more questions: why did the old man hate large bodies of water so much, where had he come from, what was his youth like? The old man talked and talked and talked until his tongue numbed and his words came out slurred and syncopated.

I would love to see your property, the man said. The old man wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to show this man anything important. 

It’s nothing, he said, nothing but trees. 

What kind of trees? 

The old man described the beauty and variety of the temperate rainforest where poplars, spruces and birches came together to live in harmony in a damp and misty atmosphere. There’s no place like this in the world, he said, I fell in love with the sound of my own movements.

I love trees, the man said. I used to climb apple trees when I was younger. The old man said he used to climb trees as well, and broke a few bones doing so. They compared broken bones. The old man got up and showed the man a long scar on his side. 

They talked for a long time. When it got dark, the man shook the old man’s hand and left. The old man should have been relieved but he wasn’t.

The next morning, expecting a visitor, he used water from the blue tin bowl to wash his shirts and pants. While they laid damp and drying on a chair, he sat naked and shivering at the kitchen table. Someone knocked on the door. 

Open up, I know you’re in there! 

He sipped his rust colored tea and waited. The knocking continued for a couple of minutes and then it stopped. The old man touched the sleeve of his shirt, still damp, a couple more hours to go. The knocking started up again. The old man turned his head, as if listening to a far away noise.