This guy is just standing in the middle of the hall looking
at the restroom doors. Is he waiting for
someone or summoning up the courage to go in?
Old guy – in shorts, calf length socks and brown oxfords. He’s stooped and wears thick glasses. He stands there quietly watching the doors;
his hands together in front of him like a fig leaf. People pass by on either side and still he
stands – serene.
What did he do in life?
Maybe he was an engineer, or an accountant. Perhaps he worked out production schedules
for a small manufacturing plant. Whatever
it was, he became accustomed to solitude.
He is certainly comfortable in his own skin. He may have been a writer, except he has no
interest in what’s going on around him.
If he wrote, it was of a technical nature - instruction manuals or such.
Whatever he’s up to, he is little affected
by others. He is practically invisible,
even in a busy hospital hallway.
What kind of family life did he have? Did he have kids? If he had, they have probably moved some
distance away. His aloofness left them
drift. There are only very weak ties
between them. His small pension allows
him to dutifully send token birthday and Christmas gifts to the grandkids, but
they don’t really see each other very often.
His hobbies were of the model airplane sort. He never cared much for sports. He would have liked to travel but was
unwilling to pay the outrageous motel costs.
But there were a few significant vacations. Perhaps a trip to Philadelphia to see the
Liberty Bell. Maybe to Niagara Falls on
a special anniversary.
He seems to be healthy enough. A little worn, but after all, he’s been
around for a while. Why is he here? Did he need a procedure? Some tests?
What is he doing? If we evade
sickness and accident, one day we will all be like him; living in a world that
gets smaller and smaller because there is less and less concern with what is going on around
us. And as I watch him there’s a woman
on the other side of the waiting area watching me. I sit here inventing a life for someone else
and she’s no doubt reconstructing mine!
I look around; there are a half-dozen of us within an area the size of a
modest living room. Two are looking at
magazines. One is playing with an
electronic devise of some sort. The rest are staring off thinking of somewhere
else - all of us waiting in our own world-bubble. If we could hear our digital clocks, they’d
be tick, tick, ticking away. Time going
by. Waiting. Detached.
The old guy across the hall is still waiting. Staring at the restroom doors. Waiting for something his whole life. Waiting.
Waiting.
The
restroom door starts to open and he jumps to hold it so. An elderly woman with a walker struggles
through the doorway and his purpose is apparent. All this time he has been waiting for her - his
thoughts and actions poised, ready and waiting to help. What others thought or whatever else he could
be doing matters not. Even doors and
walls did not severe the connection he had with this one person. And they hobble off down the hall - together.
