I don’t have pictures of exciting things or new artwork.
But there is a board game I am working on titled, Sustainable Gullibility. It is the advancing on a path to a goal of “Ignorance is Bliss”. The players advance spaces along the path or are “marginalized” for a period of turns. With today’s America in mind, I began to think of the irony of beliefs. So a toss of the dice determines the color card you will have to obey. Politics and religion are what require a sustainable gullibility to flourish….and both are flourishing in America right now. Only six can play the game and each advances, or sidesteps into marginalization, with his chosen token. Tokens are objects of where we Americans get our beliefs…neighbor’s fence, TV, radio, cell phone, remote control and of course, a tin hat. Examples of instructions are ie. “You have a fish symbol on your car – advance 2 spaces” vs “Your fish has feet – step into marginalization for two turns”. The player never knows what card he will choose. There are some other opportunities to get to that state of bliss, like someone getting a card that says “Church Pancake Dinner! take three marginalized players along with you back on track 3 spaces.” Who can resist those church socials? Anyway, you get the idea….
I used to love sculpting old men using plaster and worn tool parts donated by men who tried to understand and contribute to my artwork. Almost every one of the patriarch sculptures are gone now. Only three stay with me.
Inspired by the men I see most mornings and the old patriarchs who stay in view on a shelf, a story came to me via an old fellow I call Harold. It is a story only two pages long, not because I tired of Harold, but likely he just wanted me out of his hair. I am happy he showed up one day to let me watch a bit of his life. (I like reading this story aloud).
Harold – a short story by S. Webster
He sits there near the end of a table, drinking coffee with about five other men.
Takes a sip and mumbles something.
“You talking to me?” asks the man closest to him.
“No.”
Ten minutes ago, he wanted to talk to someone. Anyone who noticed him. Anyone who would make eye contact. But not now. They were too late to hear him tell his story.
Too late because he already forgot half of it and needed too many words to fill in all the blanks that forgetting lets in.
He pushes his coffee away to stand. Fuck growing old! Fuck memories with not enough words. Come to think of it, fuck everything! And he walks out the door.
Here I thought of writing, “walks out the door, across the sidewalk and into traffic.” But I don’t. Something about him makes me want to know why.
With the slightest of pauses, he turns left. Hands in his pockets, keeping his gaze just enough ahead to make sure he doesn’t bump into anyone. He has no “sorrys” or “excuse mes” left. Everything about him is used up.
I think I heard someone call him Harold last year. So, let’s use his name from now on. There’s a bit of dignity in that – using his name.
Harold walks to the corner and waits for the light to change before crossing. He’s pulled his hat lower on his face to shut out those around him, grateful it is not a MAGA hat that openly begs for comment – cheers or sneers. No, his hat only says, “Ernie’s”, giving no location.
In the next block, Harold goes into a deli and points to a sandwich in the case. He pays for it and a can of coke that are put in a bag to take with him.
He jaywalks across the street and makes his way to the park. His usual bench beneath a large oak is empty. Once seated, he tries to remember if today is Tuesday. He used to only come here on Tuesday, but for the life of him, can’t remember why. So, just to be safe, he now comes every day. One of them is bound to be Tuesday, right?
Harold opens the bag to take out the sandwich and can of coke to put on the bench beside him. Pressing the bag flat, he places it across his knees. Then he picks up the can to study how he will get it open, remembering to lift each side of the tab with his gnarly fingers until he hears it make a sizzing sound that lets him know he pulled in the right direction. He takes a slow drink to wet a dried throat from breathing through his mouth for the last four blocks. He opens his sandwich and pulls back a slice of bread to remove the lettuce, which he tosses under the bench.
Harold bites into what is left and tries to guess what kind of sandwich it is. Chicken? Tuna? Egg salad? It’s not ham. He knows this because he is not chewing enough for it to be ham.
The next several minutes are spent thinking about what he is eating. Tuna, by the smell of it. The rubbery crunch of celery and onion can’t hide the fishiness of a sandwich that smells like cat food. Can he remember not to get one tomorrow when he goes back to the deli? Probably not.
After putting his empty can in the bag with the uneaten part of the sandwich, he stands and heads toward the closest trash can.
Once back on the sidewalk, Harold starts his two laps around the park before walking over to the library.
They know him here. “Hello Harold, do you need any help?”
“No.”
He only comes here because he remembers it is a quiet place. No talking. Here he can sit at a table, shade his face as he looks down at pictures in a magazine.
But not today. The doors are locked. A sign says, “Closed” and the reason why, that Harold doesn’t read.
He grips the rail as he walks back down the steps and goes home. Four blocks with three right turns.
In the front room Harold sits at the piano and plays the few melodies he can remember before going up to bed.
It will be a few days before someone notices he has stopped coming around. No longer coming in for coffee, buying a sandwich, walking in the park.
I don’t know exactly what happened to Harold. I only know he caught my eye one day while tossing lettuce leaves under his bench. We never spoke because he seemed a man of few words. His last might well have been, “Fuck this!”
The end
So maybe next week I will have something better to share…though, personally, I think an ornery old man is an okay bit of sharing.
Marla comes for a couple days’ visit next week. We will go through the last of what I thought was important to save – just in case that is not going to happen.
The few things left are firmly in the “what was I thinking” category.
Til later….
