This is the Story of an Old Man

This is the Story of an Old Man

This is the story of an old man, a very old man. I am not old. I am a college student. I go to a moderately sized university in the southwestern United States. I am in my senior year now and have enjoyed nearly every class I have taken there. My favorite days are those when I don’t have to work and get to spend the whole day at school, sometimes with hours in between classes, which gives me a perfect excuse to go to the library and read things my teachers have not assigned. My life now is not an exciting one. It used to be. It used to be, dangerous. I am happy now. I am content. I am in love. My time is managed, more like a responsible adult. I have seen my friends dwindle and fade into history. My days are quiet. I stay at home and read to avoid getting traffic tickets and rude stares from drivers who can afford to keep their air-conditioned cars running. When my fiancé is at work I watch Hitchcock films and dream of being a director. I don’t know anything about film.
On Wednesday evenings from 6:00pm-9:00pm I have a class at the University. It is a class on Modernist and Post-Modernist fiction. I imagine sometimes when I am reading, that I have befriended the authors and go drinking with them and my professor in old English pubs-odd considering that the authors are all American-and then I have to re-read long passages, trying to find where it was I first began to daydream. At the front of the class, nearest to the professor’s podium sits the oldest student, Helmond. He is 88 years old. No one in the class knows much about him. We all know that he talks more than all of us combined on any given Wednesday. It is difficult to see if the professor appreciates his enthusiasm or is just too polite to show any signs of annoyance.
Helmond loves to give reference to the popular culture of his day, which more than usually is beyond a frame of reference for even our professor. Helmond wears dark colored suits to class along with plaid hats, sometimes with bright feathers sticking out from the side. He has huge coke bottle glasses that sit firm into the deep ridge of his old sagging nose. He looks as if dust might rise up into the air if you were to hug him awkwardly like a grandfather on Christmas day. This was a stark contrast from the typical khaki colored cargo shorts and rock band t-shirts scattered about the room. For many older people that attend the university, there is hesitation in their voices, even in some cases an underlying terror the younger students can sniff out from the obvious fact that something or someone in their room was out of place. For Helmond, this was certainly not the case. He had an air of confidence and a presence in the room that quieted those of us fresh from adolescence. We respected Helmond. We looked at him like we would an animal that gets brought to the zoo only for special exhibits, one whose viewing area sadly displays a plaque of its imminent extinction.
Half way through the semester it occurred to me that because of this respectful distance we all kept from Helmond, he might never get the chance to experience the warmth of those late night study sessions with wayward college students who chaotically call each other for desperate assistance the night before an exam. That would be a pity. Or at least I assumed so. I myself had never had the desire to take part in these. I hated group work almost as much as I hated people in general, but poor Helmond may not feel this way. Should I deprive him of his experience just because I am an obstinate, cynical introvert?
As midterms approached, I came up with a plan. I would befriend Helmond Bender. It would be just like I had imagined in my literary daydreams. We would discuss how terrible music and television had gotten while reminiscing about the swing jazz era over glass after glass of single malt scotch on ice. I would refrain from cursing in front of him, because I have gathered from parental figures that it is only in our reckless generation X world that this sort of language is tossed about so haphazardly.
It began by simply saying “hi” to him as he waited patiently in the hallway, half an hour before class.
“Hello Helmond. How are you today?”
“Well, fine I s’pose. Just finished that weird one last night, ‘Balloon, or The Balloon, something or other.”
I looked at him with a smile, a reassuring smile.
“Right, right. The Balloon. What’d you think?”
Helmond would turn his lower lip out as if to say he was truly giving the story a chance to mean something to him.
“It was alright I s’pose.”
I would return the favor with a turned lower lip as well as if to give his comment the proper amount of time to settle.
“Alright, well, see you inside,” and then I would dart off somewhere pretending to have some very important young-person thing to do in the other direction. I was constantly terrified of screwing up my plan with language that would create barriers between us. This was a difficult task. I could not use language of the 30’s and give my self away as a fraud, a disingenuous little prick that was up to something. I also had to avoid any hip lingo that would put him off, something to the effect of, “right on man,” or “yeah, fuck that story.”
Slowly, my plan began to work. Our conversations increased by a few sentences each time we met. The week before midterms I no longer felt the need to run away from him. Just as I had relaxed around Helmond I became aware of a larger more pressing problem that threatened to destroy my plan. So far, in this class, as well as all of my other classes, I had spoken to no one other than Helmond. Not once did I lend anyone a pencil or pen. Not once did I attempt to exchange phone numbers with anyone who could provide me notes for a day I missed class due to illness or lack of motivation. Who would be worthy of the magical time spent with Helmond Bender? Much work needed to be done.
School days were very busy for me. Although I had only one night class, I spent my days thoughtfully planning “random” encounters with fellow students. In order to explain the difficulty involved in doing this, I feel I must reiterate the deep loathing I have for casual conversation or “small talk” with anyone. I would watch countless students, hours before class started, one hundred yards away from our classroom in all directions with binoculars, waiting for those I recognized to pass in front of my scope of vision. This was done conveniently from the balcony of the student food court. When a familiar face would pass in front of my binoculars I would rush down the stairs into their path, explaining that I was winded because I was late for my next class and had to give a presentation. My false sense of urgency kept the encounters brief and the conversation to a pleasant minimum. In three days time I had produced five possible candidates for Helmond’s study group experience. I knew that more would be needed because at best, only three of the five would actually show up. This was college and people were even less dependable than in what some have dubbed, “the real world.” Running out of time, with only two days until our midterm, I confirmed the date with the others and presented the idea to Helmond on his way to his American history class.
“Hey, Helmond.” I was nearly shaking in anticipation.
“Hey there, young feller.”
He continued walking and after being slightly winded from my excited jog, it was difficult to catch up.
“Helmond, there are a few of us that will be getting together to study for Wednesday’s exam. Would you like to join us?”
Helmond stopped and moved about his lower jaw quite a bit. He stared into the leaves of the elms on campus that had started turning brown. He squinted and pushed a ball of air out of his mouth in a valiant effort to laugh.
“No…heh. Heh. That’s o.k. You go right ahead.”
I was crushed. He had obliterated my plan and after all of that terrible mingling I had put myself through. I was furious but also incredibly sad. How could this old man deprive himself of this very typical life experience and go to his grave so lonely and bitter. I had to act, I had to insist.
“But, sir,” I had dropped my guard and violated basic rules of language exchange I had set for conversations with him. “Wouldn’t you like to experience what it’s like to be with a bunch of rowdy, enthusiastic college kids that have just met but come together joyously for a common cause, laughing hysterically at the mannerisms of the professor, imitating him, drinking beer and bonding?”
Helmond began heaving violently with amusement at each additional comment I had made describing this magical event. He looked like the joy might kill him. I was worried and very, very angry with him. I got closer to him and patted his back to see if he would regain his breath.
“Are you ok Mr. Bender?” All rules were out the window. I was exposed for the young fraud that I was.
“Are you ok?”
He regained his breath, finally straightening his back, eliminating the hump that appeared when he had bent over laughing.
“Shit son. You’ve never been to one of these have you?”
I then watched as he walked with a swagger, laughing at the old fart behind him.