The Dream

I waited in the bushes until these thugs came by and started taunting it – my sculpture. Well, it was not really a sculpture. It was two stuffed but realistic dummies I had fashioned. They were entangled with each other and seemingly kissing on a bench. And they were dressed as two men.

The taunters had bats and knives and wore scarves about their faces. Perhaps they were the same ones who had brutally murdered that poor young man in another park a week or two ago.

I’d been practicing. I took aim and fired. I got them all. Each fucking one of the miserable lot. It felt good, very good.

Then I woke up. I’ve had that dream, or a variation of it, many times. I seem to carry it around with me. My therapist said it was unresolved anger. You can say that again. Unresolved, and lurking in the recesses of my mind for most of the last 50 years.

And it is the 21^st century. It shouldn’t still be this way; at least not in the western world. I realize many places in the world are still living as if it were the dark ages. They have never progressed, or if they once did, they quickly regressed into old superstitions, and phobias.

But I am thinking that we also got stuck here in the west too. There are still lots of old thoughts drifting around, resurfacing. There are still lots of phobias. They find places to ferment and develop into hate.

We use religion and education subliminally, and sometimes overtly, to brainwash our children to be heterosexual. We nickname our boys “Butch” and our little girls “Princess”. We dress the boys in blue jeans and the girl’s in pink frocks. We encourage the girls to play with dolls and the boys to play baseball.

We don’t let children find their own comfort zones. We impose them. It may not be as pervasive as it once was, but it persists. Society is, perhaps unwittingly, the big bully.

So, it is true: I do have a lot of unresolved anger. And I know it is not good for me to carry it around inside of me. I try to dissolve it or at least to learn how to live with it as one can sometimes learn how to live with chronic pain. The hope that even small advances in tolerance give to me is a balm. But I know that there are always those who stand opposed.

I am told there is healing in telling one’s story. So herein lies a tale.

****

One of my earliest memories comes from when I was four or five years old. I know this because I know the relatively short period of time we were living in the particular house. It was a very English home of the early 1900s. It was perched on a sizeable piece of property and sat back from the road on a small incline. There were tall yew trees on either side of a circular drive and a woods on the hill behind. There was a kitchen garden and numerous perennial flower beds. Closer to the road there was a small garage and, next to it, a wooded area. I used to play in those woods alone – lost in a child’s delightful, imaginary world. I can still smell the moss and bracken of springtime.

The bus stopped just at the edge of the woods before the garage. It was a red double decker. I waited for it. I remember the driver getting out and chasing me into the woods. I wasn’t afraid. He would catch me and tickle me. It’s what I wanted. I remember laughing at this joyful play. I do not remember much more however. I don’t know if this was a single occurrence or whether it happened more than once. I know I loved the game. The memory of it is always pleasing to me. I remember it with a feeling of being whole. I am sure that at four or five years old I did not see it this way. But I experienced it in this way.

****

Back in the 1950s and early 1960s, people still went to church – and back then our world was largely white and Christian. Every Sunday people dressed up, men, women, and children. The women wore hats, often with small veils. And they wore gloves. The men and boys were in suits and ties. Their shoes highly polished. The dressing was the real ritual of the day. Going to church was more of a social thing to my recollection, than it was a religious thing. Certainly it was not spiritual.

I remember the sermons. Well not exactly the content; but the tenor of them. They were long rambling things. The priest droned on and on. The congregation got drowsy and fidgety. Some even went to sleep. There was a lot of nodding, but not in an agreement sort of way. It was enough to drive people away; and, in time, it did.

However, for several years, from about the age of seven to eleven years, I was in the choir. I loved wearing the cassock and surplus. I must have had a good soprano voice back then because I eventually became head boy chorister. Apart from the robes, I liked the drama and the music.

Regardless, I was a boy and I did tend to fool around a bit during choir practice. The choirmaster nicknamed me “Poopsie”. I am not sure why. Perhaps it was a term of affection, but I didn’t like it. It made me feel small – smaller than I already was.

Anyway, one time when we were practising this Anthem for the Sunday service, the choirmaster was fussing over the clarity of this one note we sopranos were supposed to be singing. It was a very high one. Now, the practices were long, and fastidious. They occurred mid-week in the evening after a long child’s day. I must have not been paying attention to his instruction. Perhaps I was even fooling around.

He obviously caught me at my distraction. He was visibly irritated, even angry with me. I guess he wanted to make an example of me. He said in a loud and “how-dare-you” voice: “Poopsie! Sing the note I just played.” I hadn’t heard it. At least, I thought I hadn’t. But I just closed my eyes and reached inside myself, opened my mouth and my vocal cords, and sang that high C as clear, as rich, as pure as can be. He was shocked. I think the entire choir was. And he didn’t know what to say. I am sure he was amazed. I was too. But I got this very self-satisfied look on my face – a “so-there” look. After this, he treated me with more respect. After this, I did not fool around so much during choir practice.

****

In church, everything seemed both, subtly and not so subtly, about being a good husband, an obedient wife and a well-behaved son or daughter. It was all about family. Everything seemed to be saying I should find myself a pretty little girlfriend, eventually marry and have kids. I was maybe twelve years old.

Well, the choirmaster had two daughters. One was blonde and pretty. The other had more character and was almost tomboyish. She had short brown hair and a lovely mischievous twinkle in her eye. She was cute.

One day I got up the courage to ask her out on a “date”. I had never had a “date” with a girl before. I asked her to go skating at a wonderful public rink not too far from the church and our home. It had great music over crackly loud speakers. I had been there many times before with one or more of my brothers. Even though I was not a great skater, I loved that this rhythmical music made me feel like I was dancing on air.

Now my date lived nowhere near us, which meant my father had to be our chauffeur. How uncool was that, even then. We picked her up at their suburban home. And at the park, we skated awkwardly together around and around the rink. There were difficult silences. We did not know what one was supposed to say to one another on a date. We took a break for some hot chocolate. Maybe I even held her hand. But I am sure we did not have a pre-pubescent kiss.

This was our first and last date, although I think we stayed friends for a while afterwards – at least until my voice started to break and I quit the choir. I never was able to mend that broken voice, no matter how hard I would try.

****

Public School sent out the same message as did the church. I was a rolly polly little boy, until I was twelve. I got picked on a lot. I didn’t have many friends. My mother knew I was having a hard time at school. I was not like her other kids who were all lanky and athletic – and tough. No one would bully them. If they did, they would live to regret it.

I was always the last kid to be picked for a team during gym class. It didn’t matter what the game was. That ordeal of waiting to be picked, wanting to be picked was dreadful. I hated it. Therefore I hated the games and I hated the other kids and I hated the teacher who put me through the humiliation.

My mum had been something of a tomboy herself as a child. She would try to teach me how to throw and catch a ball. If you had seen her out there in the backyard with this round little guy tossing the ball again and again, you would have laughed. But eventually I got the knack of it.

And she would get my older brothers to teach me how to fight. They were fighters – champion schoolboy boxers. Tough. Really tough. But I never did get the hang of boxing. What I did learn, however, was how to use my weight in a fight, or in a game. I got to be good at that. I broke one bully’s shoulder in a game of British Bulldog. The trouble was that when he cried, I did not feel very good. I felt terrible in fact.

****

Maybe my young body wasn’t the greatest. But I was smart. I liked the learning part of school. In grade four I was the class monitor. I even helped the teacher arrange the class dances. Yes, we actually moved the desks to one side and learned how to dance.

In grade five, I was chosen to be the president of the Red Cross. My teacher would drive me downtown to the Red Cross office during lunch break to pick up 8mm films for class. We drove in her Austin. She drove fast. I loved that.

I only remember one of these films. It was about puberty. Even then I knew it was a dreadful film. It was all about pimples et cetera. It was the closest we ever got to sex education.

And then there was St. Valentine’s day. While most days many of the kids went home for lunch, we all brought sandwiches to school for lunch that day. It was a party. We got to give out cards to all the people we wanted to. This was another horrible event for those who got few if any cards.

I made my cards out to Nancy, and Patricia and Valerie. I even made one out for Ritchie. But I never gave it to him. I wanted to; but something in me said it was not a good idea. So I kept the card and eventually tore it up into little pieces. I didn’t want anyone to find it. I had written it in a moment of frivolity. I knew it was wrong. At the time, I didn’t know how I knew that. I do now however. It was all that subtle teaching at school and at church. The television was also a tool for subliminal messaging. No boy ever gives a valentine’s card to another boy. It’s not because they have to say it is wrong. It is because they never say it is all right.

****

Well, I survived Public School just fine. In fact, I was Valedictorian at our grade 8 graduation. I had learned public speaking well at that school: all the memory work, the poetry recitations, the oral presentations we had to make in front of the class. I had excelled at all of this. Even the bullies had backed away or matured. And of course, I had made a concerted effort, with my mother’s help, to lose weight. At 13 years of age, I had slimmed right down and felt wonderful.

So when I went off to boarding school at the age of 14 for five years of high school, I went with full confidence and self-esteem. Of course there were the usual jitters of being sent away from home for such long periods of time. My parents had cleverly introduced me to the concept by sending me away to summer camp for a month each of the past three summers. Whether this had been an intentional aspect of their benevolence or not, I do not know. But it had worked.

Now the camp my brothers and I were sent to was small. There were only sixty campers – all boys. It was on a lovely large lake nestled in the woods. They had everything: riding, sailing, archery, riflery, crafts, nature hikes and swimming and canoeing. Of all of them, I loved swimming and canoeing the best. I could have spent all of my time at these two endeavours if they’d have let me. I got all the badges. I think that some of the older boys were annoyed that I managed the mile swim across the lake and back so early on. And I know there were those who were incensed that one so small had won the “good camper” award for my work during our longer canoe trips. But I had paddled hard, carried heavy loads on the portages and I worked hard at making and breaking camp. I had to show people I was as good or better than them, even if I did bear this unnamed burden – something I could not identify, but which I knew could do me harm.

It was as if I carried around this tally sheet all the time with GOOD on one side of the dividing column and BAD on the other. As long as I could rack up enough on the GOOD side of the ledger, maybe it would not be so terrible if they discovered whatever that lurking bad thing was.

****

So yes, off to boarding school at age 14. Many kids went much earlier. But I am glad for the public school years in retrospect. And I would love my years at boarding school too.

Despite what some people think and others will tell you about life at a boys’ boarding school, I experienced no “hanky panky” with either other boys or with teachers. I was oblivious to things sexual. Although my memory is that the education was fairly decent, sex education was not on the curriculum.

Of course, there was a lot of talk about girlfriends back at home. And some of the older boys had dates with some of the younger women who worked in the dining hall. I also had a girlfriend. One had to. But she lived conveniently far away. In fact, I had not met her in person. She was not imaginary. No, she existed. She had been my pen pal since I was aged 12 and she was 9. In each of our minds, however, we were boyfriend and girlfriend. Our communications were very frequent. They even were not only romantic but could be expressed in the most passionate of terms. Although I did not recognize this at the time, it was all so safe. This was a comfortable and comforting relationship for one who was so sexually naïve.

I worked hard at school. I joined the drama club, the art club, the debating club. I played squash, soccer, football and cricket. But I excelled at gymnastics and rowing. These last two sports consumed my passion and my sexual energy.

Academically, I achieved honours year after year. I won most of the top academic awards and graduated head of the class. I was even chosen as best all round student. I was certainly racking up those points on the GOOD side of life’s ledger.

****

I don’t recall ever hearing the word “homosexual” in my entire adolescence. Even at the age of 18, after my first summer experience when I was working away from home at a resort, I am sure I had to look the word up in a dictionary.

My “coming out” was not a smooth one. Once I knew the word, and knew the often venomous and always demeaning response it elicited, I would slam the door on that closet again – and again. I would be in my mid-twenties when the door finally came crashing open once and for all.

After that first wonderful sexual experience I returned to school for my final year of high school. I wrote many poems during the period of my adolescence. One that I wrote that autumn tells of my shame and fear concerning that summer’s awakening. It was a desperate apology. Many years later I would read another poem written by a man at a similar age about a similar awakening. That poem was by Oscar Wilde. Although his is by far the better poem, they both express much the same angst.

****

After university, one by one, my school chums were getting married (and divorced), settling down and having babies. Meanwhile, I was running off to Europe, India and Africa. Without fully being aware, I was hiding from the peer pressure and the societal pressure to join my friends in marital bliss.

During those years of running and hiding I had kept a diary. It was an honest one, a detailed one, except for one telling and repetitious lie. When I had expressed feelings for a man that I had met, I always wrote “woman”. In doing so, I was living the imposed shame inside of myself. I so desperately wanted to express the truth.

However, life can sometimes take one by surprise in a very simple and endearing way. At the age of 25 I was living far away from and out of touch with those I had grown up with. There I was unknown. I did not have to be that person they thought I was.

I was still running from myself, however, when I met a doubly closeted but very kind man. He was a cloistered Benedictine monk. However, he was on sabbatical from his brotherhood. We became close. Our times together were intimate and joyful. But, even as he struggled with his own homosexuality, he awakened and encourages and honoured mine. Although he would soon retreat back into his cloister, he said I must open my door wide and run back out into the world – to discover myself, to be true to myself. To do this, then, I needed to return to a larger city where I would meet others like myself and come to understand that I was not a pariah. He brought me to understand that I was a bright, caring young man with much to offer the world.

To this day I find it ironic: I had come to hate the church – any church, any religion – and yet it was a deeply religious man, one who struggled in anguish himself, who had given me the courage and the permission to set myself free.

****

The freedom that had been granted to me was a freedom I had chosen. It was not one that society offered to me. It was one I seized.

Although to myself I was no longer a pariah, to the social masses I still was. But little did I know that because of this I had taken a path that I had not anticipated. One that would be much more fulfilling than social norms would have offered.

Let me digress.

When I had started university, I had my eyes set on a career in the diplomatic corps. I thought I would be good at it. And I thought it would offer me the kind of life I would love. I was enrolled in a programme that would take me to that career goal. But the more I struggled with those damned persistent inner feelings, the more I realized I would have been a sitting duck in that profession. It was after all, 1971.

It is funny how things go. After being in the college’s theatre production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, I decided that theatre would be a better and safer fit. I had loved the experience and was good at it.

Although I passed that first year programme with honours, I transferred to another college with a notable Fine Arts programme. I loved it. And there were people there like me! I was in heaven.

A decade later, I was your stereotypical struggling artist. No instant fame for me. No fame at all. I grew tired of auditions that led nowhere, or to bit parts in big productions. I was tired of waiting on tables to make ends meet and tired of living in rundown apartments with others like myself. While this might be fine at the age of 30, it would not be fine at 40 or 50. Not for me at least.

I had gotten the odd contract job in the social service sector during this time period. I had worked with street people, with the disabled, with youth involved in the criminal justice system. All of these had been short term positions filling in time and earning enough to pay the rent. But I was starting to think that maybe a career in social work was an option. I was getting ready for a career change anyway. I was planning on going back to school.

Then all hell broke loose in my new comfortable community. The police storm troopers raided a number of quiet gay bathhouses arresting hundreds in humiliating fashion. The community was terrified; but soon the fear turned to anger. Lawyers with a social justice and human rights conscience came together to challenge this brutal and excessive police action and the criminal justice system that had allowed it.

I had been out of town at the time. I returned home immediately and volunteered with the legal defence team. It was my road to Damascus. I decided then that I would become a lawyer. And I did.

****

I dedicated myself then to work for change. I became an activist. These are despised almost as much as homosexuals. I marched with others in protest. I spoke at rallies. And I confronted the police and politicians. I was heckled, insulted and laughed at by these honourable middle-aged men. The mainstream media was no less abusive. But I did not care. I was angry and determined. And I had discovered a wonderful community of likeminded people to bolster my resolve, my pride and my spirits. Rising up, resisting: these felt good.

It was during this period of transition from actor to activist that I met the man who would be my life partner, my best friend and staunchest supporter. Together we forged a loving and lasting relationship without the aid of the church or of society. Together we worked for change, not only by action but by example.

And slowly, ever so slowly, change came about. It was not easy or logical how it happened. It took a community emboldened by despair and death to come together and to demand recognition.

One by one, our friends and acquaintances were getting sick and dying on us and on the world. These were the ones I had danced with, partied with, protested with, loved and cherished. What a loss, not only for myself and my partner and others who loved them, but for the world.

But out of this came a community united and strong. It gave us a voice. If the politicians would not listen, in time the courts would. In time … in time. Too late for so many.

I grew to pity their ignorance. If they remained so closeminded on this one issue, how many other issues had they turned their backs on. What ongoing harm were they doing to others, to the world, to generations to come. I had little respect for the politicians.

And even the courts’ esteem suffered in my mind. When as a fresh lawyer I was granted the supposed honour of working as a law clerk for some high court judges, I soon discovered that there was a less than honourable side to the justice system.

There was an early constitutional challenge before the court concerning the denial of provincial benefits to a female couple of the same sex. Two of the judges, once they retreated behind closed doors, were like vulgar high school students making jokes about the women who were advancing their claim. One of these learned men said, within earshot of me, that he would be the laughing stock of his neighbourhood if he found in favour of the women’s claim.

At that moment I lost my respect not only for these judges, but also for the institution of the courts. How many other decisions were being made on this base reasoning. It was 1987. It would still be years before a yet higher court would rule differently.

****

So, there have been ups and downs in my journey. There have been highs and lows. The dream has periodically reappeared to unsettle my nighttime slumber. Although the plot is not always the same, the theme is. Sometimes the tormentors were gangs of thugs, sometimes they were politicians or judges, and sometimes they have been clerics of different faiths. In my dreams, at least I get even with them. In my dreams.

I worked for thirty years as a lawyer for social justice. Even that choice was made for me by a caution from one closeted corporate lawyer: “You won’t get ahead here if they know you are homosexual. You can never be one of the boys here”.

And I never wanted to be one of those boys. So, I turned my back on Bay Street and I worked to advance the rights of marginalized people, with people who shared my drive for social justice. I worked to restore the dignity of those who have been marginalized for any reason by churches, governments, and by society in general.

For every gain, there were so many losses. When I retired, I wondered if I and my colleagues had accomplished anything. We had of course; but whether these will be lasting achievements remains to be seen. Justice is like a pendulum not a balancing scale. It swings. It is so easy for rights hard won to slip away.

****

So I have now told my story. Well one of them anyway. I have put it down on paper. I have come to realize that the obstacles put in my way have forced me to forge a path of my own, rather than to blindly accept the one that was laid out for me. And the journey on this path has been a rich one, shared with the most wonderful people. I have had to question my very being. And the answers have come in the life I have lived. There is no longer any shame. For quite some time, there has no longer been a need in me to apologize for who I am. I no longer care about that tally sheet.

I am resolved that I shall continue to have my dream. In a world of virtual reality, where face to face contact is fast fading away, we too easily become pawns for those who would mislead us.

I shall continue to do my part. But I shall do it in different ways now. That way is through theatre and writing. But I am approaching my eighth decade. Younger people must take up the torch of justice for people and care for this planet and the forms of life on it if they want to live in a world that embraces tolerance, respect, co-operation and compassion.

**

The Siren

I had not noticed her. All morning I had been sitting on the beach, mesmerised by the waves as they rolled in, listening to the almost hypnotising sound of the wind and water. 

I must have looked away, captivated by the flight of a pelican over the wave crests, or of a frigate bird soaring high in the clouds above. Or perhaps I'd been distracted by some scantily clad bather walking by.

But there she was, standing in the waves that broke about her. A long red dress clung wet to her body, her arms folded across her ample breasts, her long hair hanging limp.

Her eyes were hollow but eerily piercing. One could not tell what she saw, no more than one could know what she thought. She was simply standing there with the breakers washing over her. Almost defiant; challenging the world.

She was diminutive in size but large in presence. Alone and seemingly out of place and unknown on that beach. The waves were her security as they embraced her.

Later, I would learn that her heart and her mind had both been dashed. The father of her infant child had abandoned her and taken the baby far away, There was, perhaps, good reason for this; but it had left a young woman standing alone and cursing a world that was no longer hers. The sea her protector now.

I never saw this woman again, although I would return to that beach many times.

On Being Liberal in Canada

It was a lovely, still morning. The sea was almost flat, the occasional wave breaking gently just off shore. The beach was quiet and unusually cleaned of litter that day.

My partner and I had taken our two camas and a sombrilla, as is our custom. While I was reading my book, he had taken a stroll along the beach in search of shells or sea-stroked coloured glass. I had not joined him because my back was feeling precarious after a day of strolling the cobbled alleyways of old Havana. Besides, the book was engrossing and I was enjoying the tranquillity of the moment.

Slowly, the sense of a presence came over me. I looked up. Standing at the foot of my cama was a tall, slender young man looking down at me. He was smiling. He could not have been much more than 17 or 18 years old. But then as one's own age advances, it becomes harder to pinpoint the age of youth.

I can't remember exactly how the conversation began. However, he asked me if I was alone, although the towell on the empty cama beside me ought to have indicated otherwise. No doubt it was simply a convenient and well-practised opener, such as "Do you have the time?" or "Do you have a light?".

I replied that no, my friend was walking on the beach. Then out of the blue, in very broken English he said "You are very beeeutiful". Just like that. I wanted to laugh. I thought, now I have heard everything. It took me a little off guard.

I mean, I am gay, but I did not think, lying there on this public beach reading a book and minding my own business, that it was that obvious to the uniformed. There I was sitting among the Cuban families and the old male tourists with their far too young women in tow. So the context was not right for digesting this unsolicited declaration.

In the moments that followed, I had let him know that I was Canadian and happily married to my male partner of 37 years. He could not digest this information, even though I thought my Spanish was impeccable.

I was, to say the least, bemused. He soon invited over his sister who must have been lingering nearby, and they promptly seated themselves on either side of my legs. His sister, if she was indeed a sibling, was a lovely young woman, older than he. She declared herself a lesbian. She hoped I could find her a Canadian lover.

They were both interested in Canada and its acceptance of gay relationships. She far more than he. He was interested, I believe, in only one thing.

After carefully picking my words in explaining to them the law in Canada and its relatively recent acceptance of same sex marriage, he asked me in broken English if I was Liberal. I eagerly said yes just as my partner arrived back to this gathering amused at the scene before him. I quickly explained to him what was going on. I went on to explain that in fact Canadians were for the most part quite liberal.

The young man smiled and became more interested. But it had already dawned on my partner what the young man had meant by this question. He said wait a minute and told me that "liberal" to them meant that we had an open relationship. We don't.

We laughed and I quickly backtracked, explaining that I had only meant "liberal" in the ideological sense of the word. The young man's smile faded and his interest in our new friendship clearly waned. 

They soon left our side. We laughed heartily at my faux-pas.

The Bread Man

Every morning the bread man goes past the house where we stay for three months each winter. From the rooftop terrace one can hear his distant whistle getting closer bit by bit. From time to time he will call out in his language "Bread, fresh bread". And people will emerge from their homes to eagerly greet him.

His vessel is a rather old bicycle, which he pushes as he walks along. There is no tyre on the front wheel. A large wooden box is attached precariously to the rear of the bike. It is filled with long loaves of crusty bread fresh from the oven.

I was standing on the terrace, looking out over the town at the turquoise sea as is my early morning custom. From this perch I do my stretches. This is a ritual I started many years ago to alleviate the aches and pains of ageing. The bread man's whistle pierced the silence and his call announced his coming. There he appeared, round and jolly. He glanced up and greeted my usual rooftop wave with a vigorous one of his own.

I watched as he turned the corner. I heard an old woman's voice call out "Wait, Wait". It came from deep inside the house across the road. He stopped by the garden wall and dutifully waited. Meanwhile, people appeared from up the street waiving their money as they ran. They came on foot, on bikes and scooters and in cars for their loaves of daily bread.

I returned to my exercises. As I lay on my mat, I assumed that he must have moved on when I had heard nothing further. But when I looked over the railing several minutes later, there he was, still standing at the wall. His bicycle was at his side. From time to time he looked into the garden - just waiting.

I thought how inconsiderate that old woman was to keep him so long from his routine. In fact, the house had newly changed hands, so I was not sure who this person was. I had heard that an important government official had moved in with his family. Perhaps this was his mother.

Eventually, after many more minutes, she appeared from a door at the side of the house. She was wearing a long pink nightdress. Here hair was dyed unnaturally black. It did not suit her wrinkled complexion. Because of the height of the wall, I could only see her torso. The house was being renovated and she took a rather circuitous route, carefully shuffling through the reconstruction debris.

I was annoyed that these people felt so entitled that they would hold up the progess of the breadman. People would surely be waiting anxiously for his arrival further along the route.

As the woman drew closer, the breadman peered over the wall and reached out a hand. When he retireved it, he held in his hand a large mug of what I assumed was hot coffee. I could only see the head of hair of the old woman on the other side of the wall. The two chatted as the breadman drank his coffee. He  looked pleased and handed the mug back over the wall before he took hold of his bicycle once again. He disappeared up the road lost eventually in a canopy of trees. His call "Bread, Fresh bread" being sweetened, no doubt, by the lingering taste of good coffee.

The Old Man

I watched an old man sitting there on a bench in the park. He was across the way a fair distance. He was just sitting. I do not think he saw me there, watching.

His trousers seemed to be too large for his frail body. Once, perhaps, he had filled them out. His shirt appeared to have seen better days; but I thought it had once been of good quality. I wondered if he had picked them up at a thrift shop; of just maybe once upon a time he had worn them new.

He wore a hat, a floppy one that hung down over his brow and his ears. A big moustache adorned his upper lip. It was thick and unkempt. It seemed he hadn’t shaved in days. I tried to envision him younger with a well-kept beard or goatee. One never really knows a person’s history unless one has been privy to it.

It is, however, interesting to watch people. I have always enjoyed that. Not staring; but observing. Not judging but wondering. Imagining what their life has been. What their story is.

He just sat there. A statue of intrigue in my mind. Occasionally he would lift an arm and scratch an ear casually. Some time later he would swat away a pestering insect – not impatiently but as a horse does with its tail – naturally, spontaneously, unthinking.

He was not a stereotypical street person or derelict. He wasn’t muttering or ranting. He wasn’t agitated. He just sat there calm and silent – one might say serene.

I wanted to talk to him; but I didn’t. He didn’t appear to be engaged with his surroundings. People walked by. He didn’t glance at them. They did not seem to be aware of him.

His face was sunken but not heavily wrinkled. It was not easy to guess at his age. He was old, that’s all one can say. Was he 70 or 90? It is anybody’s guess. Once the face would have been more fulsome. He was probably quite handsome. Sitting there like that, it was hard to tell how tall he might have been.

He wasn’t exactly slouched, but he had surely seen better days. He didn’t have a cane; so I’d figured he was still relatively mobile. He must have walked here from somewhere after all.

I wondered where he lived. Did he live alone or with others? He must have lived somewhere close by I presumed. Although his appearance was somewhat tattered, he did appear to be clean. He was thin, but he did not look malnourished.

What would he be thinking about – just sitting there. Not looking around. Peaceful in the filtered light of an afternoon under the ancient chestnuts.

When I went to leave, I had made a point of walking past him. I said “Good day”. He didn’t look up. But he said “Yes”.

I had only been visiting the town for a few days. Business. I had been there a couple of times before but had not come to the town centre. This time my hotel was only a short distance from this lovely park, something one finds only in the centre of older towns and cities.

When I got back to the hotel, I had asked the concierge, a young fellow, if he ever went to the park. He said he had but only to walk through as he went somewhere else. When I’d asked him if her ever noticed an old man sitting alone on a park bench; he’d laughed. He said there were all kinds of old guys who sat on park benches and some even slept there too. I guess it had been a foolish question; but I was fairly certain that my old man was not a vagrant.

That evening I did not eat at the hotel. I had been told about this rather unique little restaurant on a back alley just a couple of blocks away. It was still light outside as I walked there. The town was quiet. The air still.

On my way I passed this retirement residence. It was an old building; but it seemed to be smart enough. I had wondered if the old man on the bench might live there. It was certainly close enough to the park. Or perhaps he might live in one of the many flats in the neighbourhood.

I didn’t know why this old man intrigued me so much. I wanted to know more about him. So the next afternoon I went back to the park. But there were two young lovebirds nestled on his bench. I did not see him.

I sat there for a while. Then I heard this commotion on the far side of the park. I saw flashing lights. I got up and ran closer. An ambulance was driving away; but I did not hear a siren.

By the time I reached the place, there was a small crowd dispersing and a police cruiser parked at the curb. I asked the first person I caught up to what had happened. She shrugged and said she thought one of the old street people had been found dead in the bushes. She didn’t seem interested in engaging further with me.

A police officer was standing by the cruiser writing in a notebook. I asked him what had happened; but he got a call on his car radio at that moment and went to deal with it. I waited, but he just drove away after a few minutes.

I realized if it had been a suspected murder, that there would have been yellow tapes stretched here and there and much more commotion. But there was none of that. The park returned to tranquility. However, I had this terrible feeling that my old man was dead. I had to know his story.

*

It was several weeks before I was able to come back to this town. One day, I had decided, I would like to live there. When I retire. Of course on always has to convince one’s spouse of such things. It’s a lovely place. Small, but it has all the conveniences of a large city. It’s old, but clean and it has a stately atmosphere. It was relatively quiet. I liked that about the place. Lots of trees. Majestic. And parks of course, several of them scattered about – the way well-planned cities and towns used to be. The way they should be.

I don’t know why I was so curious about this particular old man. I didn’t know his name. His story I had invented. Maybe he had just looked like all old men. But there was something about him. Something familiar. And something I could not put my finger on. I had to know.

I don’t know why I had not done this before. Why I hadn’t looked in the papers to see if there had been a write up about the person who had died in the park that day. So, I found the library. 

This was a lovely old building, mid-19^th century probably. It sat across a square from the historic town hall. I climbed the steps to the large, imposing front doors. Inside the hall was very grand – a vaulted ceiling with large windows. Lots of wood. Lots of light. The smell of musty old paper. The silence echoed.

An older woman stood behind the desk. He hair pinned tightly. She was well dressed – perhaps one could say well put together. I approached her. She looked up and smiled inquisitively. In a clear but hushed tone she asked me what I was looking for. I replied in a too loud voice and she put her finger to her lips. I whispered awkwardly that I was looking for copies of some more recent local papers for the days following the incident.

She asked me to follow her and we walked into a side room – smaller than the main hall with a lower ceiling and only one window. There were several long oak tables and very old ceiling lights hanging from long cords. One wall contained a number of wooden file cabinets… the others stacks of shelving. There were stacks of old newsprint. She said these would eventually be microfiched. This was, after all, before the advent of scanners, computers and the internet.

I found nothing. That seemed odd to me. A death of someone in a park and nothing. I realized this was not a murder, that had been made apparent to me at the time; yet there ought to have been something – a name, an age, something.

The more I failed in my investigation, the more of an obsession it became. Who was he?

The next day I looked in the local phone book for funeral homes in the area. There were three listed. As soon as breakfast was over, and before I went off to work, I had called each one. The people I spoke with were pleasant enough in a funereal sort of way. I explained the situation and what information I was looking for. They would give my name and contact information to one of the directors when they became available. None were at the time of my calls. One was out of the office, another was conducting a service and the third was seeing a family in the office.

When I got back to the hotel later that day there were three messages waiting for me. No one had any record of handling a cadaver of an older man who had died at the time I had indicated. One of the directors suggested that perhaps the family had taken the body to another location for burial. Another suggested that I check at the city morgue. The body may still have been there awaiting identification. I hadn’t thought about that possibility.

The following morning I had called the morgue first thing. There were no unidentified bodies on ice at the present time. Indeed, there had been none for quite some time. A friendly fellow there suggested I speak with the police about the incident. Now, why had I not thought about that before! So sensible. I was annoyed with myself for that oversight.

I went immediately to the police station and inquired at the desk about whether I could speak with the officer who had attended at the scene that afternoon. They had to check their files to see who was on duty that day. They asked for contact information. Someone would get back to me in a day or two. They were very busy at the present time.

I was going to be back home the next day so I gave them both my home telephone and work telephone numbers. A couple of days later, I did get a call from a Sargeant Laliberte. He said yes he had been on duty that day and had responded to a call about a death in the park. Suicide he said. Drug overdose. Why did I want to know? Did I know her?

I said “her?” You mean it wasn’t an older man? He said “No”; then “why would you think it was an old man?” I stammered. I said I had met this nice old guy in the park one day and never seen him again. The officer asked me his name. I told him I didn’t know – that we had just spoken with each other. I said that I thought I would see him again. Then when I discovered someone had died in the park I was concerned it was him. I didn’t think he had any family.

The officer looked at me somewhat suspiciously – or at least I thought he did. He said sorry he couldn’t help me and started to write something down in a notebook. He closed his book, gave me another look and turned to go.

He stopped abruptly and turned again towards me saying “Wait a moment”. He disappeared into the office behind the desk. In several very long and uncomfortable minutes, he returned with this other officer… tall and gruff. After a few questions, this fellow told me about an incident about a week later than the one I was inquiring about. He said it was probably suicide too. They couldn’t be sure but it seemed likely that it had been. He was an old man. He had lived in a rooming house not too far from the park.

His landlady had reported him missing. His walker had been found abandoned near the canal. No body had been found. The officer said that this was odd because the canal was not that deep and the current was not strong. She had told them that he had kept to himself mostly. A nice fellow though. He had been no problem at all.

His landlady said he had been used to taking walks, well shuffle along really, with his walker. Apparently he had been reasonably well off once; but she said that he was outliving his money. Maybe he’d decided it just wasn’t worth going on.

For some reason I didn’t think this sounded like my old man. He didn’t seem suicidal, but then I supposed many who commit suicide don’t. But I had not seen any walker with him that day.

Years passed. I never did find out what happened to my mystery man. And years later I would still think about that day in the park.

*

Fifteen years later, I did move to that town after I had retired. My wife had died almost five years earlier. I had rented a wonderful flat near the centre of town, close to that park. It was an old building, but it was well maintained. It had large windows overlooking the street. There was a small balcony where I used to sit with my morning coffee. From there I had watched the town come alive.

I don’t know many people other than to nod at them as I pass by or to raise my cap and say good day. Most people smile; but there are those who always seem to be in a rush or to be cautious of old men who shuffle along, or sit for hours in the park. What if I actually wanted to talk with them. That scares them.

Anyway, they are busy. They don’t have time to talk to someone like me, who has all the time in the world, at least what is left of it.

I am not as spry as I once was. After that first stroke, I couldn’t cope on my own. I moved into a retirement home – the one near the park that I’d walked past years ago. Like most of the buildings, it’s an old place; but it looks good enough on the outside. Inside was a different story.

I had to share a room with some old guy who moaned all the time. We never even spoke to one another. I had tried. I had to take my meals at a table with three others who drooled. It was enough to turn my stomach. I couldn’t eat. And all those pills they wanted me to take. I had never taken pills before. I didn’t even know what half of them were supposed to be for. And then there was that nurse who always preached at me, even though I said I was an atheist.

They didn’t like it that I wanted to go outside once I got some of my strength back. I wanted to walk to the park. I was determined to do so. They said I might get lost, or fall, That wouldn’t look good on them. They tried to keep me in, but they couldn’t. They said  I was a danger to myself, that I had better smarten up.

All hell broke loose when they discovered I wasn’t taking my pills. Even when the nurse – or someone who looked like a nurse anyway – was standing next to me and handing me the pills, I’d fooled them. I got a good laugh out of that. I wasn’t the fool they thought I was.

They had tried to force them on me. But I still had enough strength to fight back. I gave one of them a good smack, sent her flying. That really started a commotion. She’d hit me back – the religious one. None of that turning the other cheek stuff.

I was black and blue. They tried to restrain me. They said I was uncontrollable. I was sent for an assessment. But when the ambulance came to get me, I was gone. Flown the coup. Gone A-wall. Unlike some old folk, I still had a nest egg – my own money and my own control over it.

I’d had that stroke, but it hadn’t set me back too far – not far enough that I couldn’t get back up to speed – well not the same speed, but in time good enough to get around on my own. Slow but steady.

I found myself a room in a lodging house. It was still quite close to the town centre and the park. I got there most afternoons. It’s my redemption. I just sit there and watch and listen to the sounds. Sometimes I have a book to read but not often. I just like to sit there quietly.

The old woman who owns the lodging house, well she’s not nearly as old as me, she looks after me pretty well. Anyway, as best she can. In fact, after my heart attack a year ago , she looked after my finances until I got better. She paid my bills, not that I have many of those anymore – just the room, meals and so on. But it was a relief that she looked after even those. She probably looks after other people in the house like that too.

I know she looked after dear Jesse in the room next to mine. She wasn’t much older than me when she died. I miss her. We’d become good friends. We used to have coffee and cake together at the bakery down the road. We’d been there the morning of the day she died. She seemed fine to me. But then I didn’t know she had run out of funds and was going to have to move to one of those dreadful subsidized places. They say she took her own life. She didn’t seem that sort somehow.

Old age isn’t for the faint of heart. My grandmother used to say that. She said a lot of things that made sense. And she was right. I just take it a day at a time.

*

I like sitting on that bench. Sometimes I go there and there’s someone sitting on one end. The other day there were two of them: young love birds. I just sit down on the other end. I don’t say anything. I just sit. After some time you can tell they get uneasy and move off. So usually I am just here by myself.

I could sit there for hours and most often do – like today. I just sat and watched this young fellow across the way. He was pretending that he wasn’t staring at me. I pretended I wasn’t even seeing him. He sat there for quite a while. I wondered what he was doing there. I thought maybe he was unemployed. Too young to be retired. He was well-dressed. He had smart trousers and an expensive looking shirt. I’m not yet too blind to tell that.

After some time, He got up from his bench and came my way. He was trying to look casual. I kept watching, pretending I wasn’t under my hat. Then as he passed by he said “Good day” and nodded. After he’d gone a few paces, I said “Yes” even though it wasn’t.

My landlady told me this morning that I had to move as I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent anymore. She couldn’t afford to let me stay as much as she liked me. I couldn’t believe it. I came to the park to think. After that fellow left, I sat for a while longer. Then I got up. I picked up my walker from behind the bench. I had folded it up and leaned it against the back like I usually do. It must have fallen down…

It was then that it dawned on me. I knew what had happened to my old man of years ago. But I will not confront my landlady. I will go to the police.