Prologue
I was looking for past healthcare articles for an academic
article I am writing. I knew I had saved them on a thumb drive years ago.
A quick look at the list of the saved document and I stopped
on one that said “Twooldmen”. Hmm?
It was part of diary-like essays I used to write during
my travels or when an event had captured my moment. I wrote these in a free
format hoping that one day I can use the stories for new writings.
I remembered the moment – it was at Gunpowder Park in
Baltimore about 15 years ago. But I did not recall writing the lines.
So, here it is. I did not edit. I did not add or
subtract. I just added an old photo I had taken in Madrid sometime in the late
1990s. I think this photo was made for this essay!
Two old men sat by the
tree. It was August and they were
wearing coats. The felt casquette was
very becoming to both of them. And yet they sat down on the ground.
I was waiting to see them
pull a plastic bag from the bulging coat pocket. A bag full of crumbled stale bread. Rye bread perhaps, which is too dry even when
it is fresh. Bread they could not finish
last week. Bread for the pigeons they
probably knew by name.
They hardly talked. I was on a park bench shaded by an ash
tree. I was feeling lazy. My big toe was hurting so I cut my walk
short. My foot got caught on a root end
a few days ago. I thought my toe was
fractured but wanted to wait and see.
I could see the green eyes of
the man facing me. It was the sun on his
face adding color to his eyes. He looked
my way but not at me. I took my shoe off
to rub my toe. It was very tender.
And the other man, the one I
did not know the color of his eyes, pulled a small bag out of his pocket. It was a leather pouch, a large one. It had a string tied around its neck. Something one sees in movies. And he held it in the palm of his hands,
without looking at it.
It was not bread for pigeons,
I realized. But he was holding the bag
as a magician would hold a white pigeon in his hands after pulling it out of a
hat. A pigeon which would fly for a
short while before landing on his head.
Or his shoulder.
They did not talk. And I was wondering why they were sitting on
the ground, near a tree. I felt bad that
I had taken the bench from them. I wore
my shoe, got up and walked toward them.
“You have to take care of
that foot,” the man holding the pouch told me.
His eyes were brown, yet they seemed red. He was still holding the pouch in both hands. I could not see a pigeon in it.
“Please use the bench.”
They looked at each other and
smiled. It was a capricious smile, one I
did not expect from old men wearing coats on a balmy August afternoon.
“We used that bench for
years.” The blue eyes of the other man
were of a color a jeweler would dream of before going to bed. They were not only blue, but of an old blue
hidden in the shade the large casquette had shielded them.
“Please, sit with us.”
The three of us sat without
talking. Nor looking at each other. My toe was not hurting anymore: my heart was
racing and I could hear its rate. We
were like monks in an urban park. One of
us was holding a leather pouch. I was
the only one who did not know what was happening.
“We were hoping for a windy
day,” finally the man with the leather pouch said. “But I do not think it will pick up.”
It was an oppressingly hot
August day near Baltimore. Nothing was
moving. The forecast was for passing
evening thunder and showers. But evening
was hours away.
Then the magician-man gave
his pouch to the blue-eyed third monk.
Slowly. As if he was giving his
liver. Then, after a slight clearing of
his throat, he adjusted his collar, pulled slightly on his shirt’s cuffs, and
dipped his hand in his coat pocket. I could
hear metal.
“Gracie would have loved a
bit of wind.”
And he pulled a red dog
collar from his pocket. I saw his hand
tremble. And slowly, he pulled out
perhaps five feet of a thin leather leash attached to the collar by a short
metal link chain. Now he looked like a
man pulling his entrails out. It seemed
as painful as him doing so. Slowly, yet
with conviction. It had to come out of
his pocket. Even if there was no breeze
in the park.
“Fifteen years of love,” the
other man said. And holding the pouch
close to his chest with his left hand, he turned around and hugged the
self-eviscerator. I could see his eyes—they were blue and red. More blue then red.
Then they looked at me,
holding each other’s hand, the pouch between their chests, as if birds
protecting their chick. And they held hands like lovers would. Not old men.
Perhaps like old men who were lovers.
“It is time for Gracie to be
in her favorite spot.”
The ashes looked like the
ashes one finds near a barbecue stand in the park. It was anti-climactic. It was Gracie.
…. I got up to leave the old
men lone. They were hugging and now in
tears. I felt the pain in my toe again.
As I was walking away, the
blue-eyed man softly bid me a good day.
“I was good that you joined
us,” he said. “Gracie loved meeting new
people.”
September 26, 2009
Posted on August 10, 2022
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2022
