The Old Man
The Old Man
This is a reprint from my blog published October 2020
The old man was no stranger to danger. He had faced it many times, sometimes accompanied by fear, but not always. He had lived boldly, not seeking a soft, safe, or comfortable life. No, he had lived for adventure and experience, he had traveled around the world, he had served in the military, and he had been toughened by harsh experiences.
A few times in his life, he had experienced fear, most notably the occasion in the northwest when he had faced an enraged mama grizzly with his back pinned against a cliff and nowhere to go. Then he had experienced fear. After a tense moment that seemed to last forever, the bear moved away, but hours later, he could still smell the sweet, sickly odor of fear on his skin. That was a short, intense fear, unlike the fear he had experienced in the war.
Oh, the war in that barren, godforsaken desert! He shuddered at the memories. Separated from his men who had been ambushed and slaughtered, he had run, eventually burrowing under some rocks to evade the horde of savages that pursued him.
For three days, he lay motionless under a covering of loose rocks, not daring to make the slightest movement. From the corner of his eye, he saw the feet of his pursuers within inches of his face, so close he could smell the rank odor of unwashed bodies, stale urine, and the sour goat milk they drank. Unable to make the slightest movement, in fear of imminent discovery, afraid of his fate if he was discovered . . . that’s why during the desperate battle and subsequent flight he had saved the last bullet in his .45 service pistol. It was meant to deliver him from a fate worse than death should he be discovered.
Unable to move, the man relieved himself in his clothes where he lay under the rocks. Nearly dying of thirst and exposure, burning up in the desert’s heat by day and freezing by night. After three days, he heard the sound of helicopters overhead, of gunfire, screams, and curses of men as they fought and died. When at last the noises died away, his friends came.
More dead than alive, he was still able to move enough for his friends to see him and pull him from under the rocks. Leading the group of searchers was his friend Charlie. They had grown up as lifelong friends, attended school together, Charlie had been the best man at his wedding, and they had gone to war together. Charlie had saved his life more than once.
Charlie! Now tears came to the old man’s eyes as he thought of Charlie, his one friend who had been closer than a brother. Charlie had died of the flu this winter, and because of the intensity of this particular flu season, the old man was unable to go visit him. He had not been permitted to see his friend or be there in his final hour, unable even to go to the funeral.
“It’s not safe, Dad,” his daughter had told him. “You HAVE to stay at home. The flu is horrible this year, and many people are dying.” His daughter and grandchildren didn’t even visit him anymore. They were staying away to keep him safe, they said. Instead, they FaceTimed him, and he could see the fear in their eyes and hear the anxiety in their voices as they told him about school being shut down, businesses closing, and people dying.
“I lost my job, Dad,” his daughter told him. “I don’t know what we’ll do.” So the old man sat alone with his thoughts, staying safe in his house.
One morning, he couldn’t stand being at home alone anymore, so he went out. Before this strange flu had come around and everybody stayed home, he and his friends had gathered every Wednesday morning at the local cafe to eat breakfast, drink their coffee, and catch up with each other. They would reminisce of years gone by, fume at the politicians, and share proud stories of their grandchildren. They hadn’t gathered for quite a while, so on this morning, the old man went and sat at their usual table, but no one else came. The flu had taken a few of his friends, and the others were staying at home, afraid to go out. But it seemed even if they stayed home and took all precautions, the flu found them somehow.
I had a little bird,
Its name was Enza.
I opened the window,
And in-flu-Enza.
As he sat at the table, the waitress approached him. She was wearing a mask and a face shield to cover her eyes and was wearing rubber gloves.
“What can I get you?” she asked, standing well away from his table.
“Where is Maureen?” the old man asked. Maureen was the waitress who always took care of him and his crowd.
“Maureen doesn’t work here anymore,” the new waitress said. “She quit because of the flu. What can I get you?” she asked again, a bit impatiently.
“I’ll have a coffee, two eggs, and a piece of toast,” the old man said. The waitress scribbled the order on a piece of paper and wordlessly disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she reappeared and set a cup of black coffee in front of the man and walked away. The old man looked around his table, but there was no creamer and no sugar. He looked for the waitress, but she was sitting behind the counter staring at her phone. He waved to get her attention.
“There’s no cream or sugar on the table,” he informed her.
“No, we don’t have it on the table because of the flu,” she explained as she dropped a couple of creamers on the table. After his food came, the old man needed salt and pepper, but there was none on the table.
“The shakers spread germs,” the waitress said. She brought a few little packs of salt and pepper out, dropped them on his table, and then retreated behind the counter to sit on her chair and become engrossed with her phone again.
The old man looked at the food, the cup of watery coffee, and all around at the empty café. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore. He got up, signaled to the waitress that he was leaving, left money on the table, and walked out. As the door closed behind him, he sensed that he and his friends would never return—that those days were over and that chapter closed.
The old man drove slowly home. The day dragged on until evening came. He went to the kitchen cabinet and carefully selected a bottle of single malt Scotch, a souvenir from a trip to Scotland years before. He had not really expected to ever drink it; it was just a memento of a memorable trip.
He had always been a light drinker, mostly enjoying wine while analyzing its subtle flavors of fruits and the bite of the tannins. He never got drunk, but lately things had gotten hard, and he was drinking more. His daughter no longer came with the grandchildren to brighten up his day. Instead, they spoke to him through FaceTime or text messaging, telling him how dangerous the flu was, and how scary the world had become. Rioters were burning up the cities, the government was infiltrated with radical extremists, and there was an undercurrent of fear in the country.
Even in his isolation, the old man felt the fear in the atmosphere. It was not the short, intense fear of the grizzly attack. Nor was it the horrible days of extended fear when he hid under the rocks during the war. This was a soft, quiet fear of low intensity. It was like a morning mist, silently covering the land and filling the inhabitants with a cold chill, making them shiver and button up their jackets. So now the old man found himself drinking, but not a glass of wine with dinner or a sampling with friends. Now he drank to escape. Escape what??? He wasn’t even sure. Perhaps it was the loneliness, the endless days with nothing to do and no one to see.
People no longer went to restaurants and clubs to socialize, and churches were empty. Instead, people communicated via Zoom and Google Meets and on social media.
“It’s not worth the risk to go out,” they said. The happy laughter of children playing on the school playgrounds was replaced by silence. Where once children played, weeds grew up around the swings and playsets, birds roosted on the playground equipment and covered it with their droppings. The wind blew and covered it with dust.
The deadly flu was making its way around the world. Like a silent, subtle viper of death it moved silently, secretly, striking here and there, creating terror in the hearts of the people. The old man didn’t fear the virus. He had lived a long, full life, and he was satisfied. But yet, he felt fear; a silent, slow, insidious fear that just seemed to creep up on him. He couldn’t quite explain it and wasn’t even sure if it was justified, but he felt anxiety—fear for the future, fear for his daughter, fear for his grandchildren, and the loneliness of the new normal. Yes, he feared that.
He opened his bottle of Scotch, added some ice to the glass, and carefully poured a shot. He started sipping. Fear, he thought, that’s what it is. Fear is killing us, and fear is killing our country. Fear of loneliness, fear of instability, and fear of the future.
He thought of the conversations he had with his daughter on FaceTime where she spoke of the political situation in their country, of politics hijacked by radical extremists, of red China rising, of Russia, of the radical Islamists vowing death to Western civilization. They spoke of the disconnect in society where people no longer socialized with one another, and they mourned the intolerance of people who disagreed with each other.
With disconnection, intolerance and hatred come easily, and the value and sanctity of life withers away.
The old man finished his first glass of Scotch and then poured another. He didn’t care much for the taste of this liquor that burned as it went down his throat. He drank it for the warm feeling, the numbness of mind, that allowed him to escape reality. Idly, he looked at his Facebook profile. He had 1,000 friends, but he hadn’t had a visitor in three months.
In his younger days, the old man had traveled extensively around the world and had also studied history. He reflected on the early days of the twentieth century, of Russia, China, and Germany. When revolutions came to those lands with their false promise of a better way and a better system, ruthless dictators rose up. He had studied it all and had even visited many of those places.
We are in the midst of a revolution here, he mused. Not a revolution of guns and bloodshed, at least not yet. We are experiencing a revolution that uses technology as its weapons of war.
The old man had always been a jealous protector of American freedom. He had guns in his cabinet and was ready to use them. But with the enemy we’re facing today, he thought, guns are useless. We’re facing the enemy of radicalism, intolerance, and the heavy, intrusive hand of electronic surveillance that watches everything everyone does.
The old man sighed and felt fear, not for himself, but for his family, for his daughter and his grandchildren, for his friends, and for his country. He knew they felt fear as well: fear of uncertainty, fear of turmoil, fear of this deadly flu that was paralyzing the world. He remembered that in his youth he hadn’t known fear. He had felt immortal and ambitious. The world was exciting and full of adventure, and he was ready to take it on. Now, the old man saw a different spirit in today’s young people. Their heads hung low, and their eyes were dull with anxiety, fear, and uncertainty of the future.
The old man filled his glass again. He was drinking too much and he knew it, but it was the only escape left to him now. He filled his third glass, leaned back, and closed his eyes. A dark mist swirled about him and tried to envelop him, but he pushed back against it.
He had seen the dark mist before, during those interminable, horror-filled three days under the rocks. He had almost died, and he had seen that black mist approaching several times. He had a strong will to live in those days, and filled with the courage and resilience of the American warrior, he had resisted the black mist that he had instinctively recognized as death.
If you allowed the black mist to get close, you wouldn’t escape. Tonight, though, it didn’t seem so threatening. Instead of feeling black and cold, the mist seemed warm and friendly. It beckoned him, but still he pushed it away.
The alcohol numbed his body and brain, and he drifted away in memory. He lived again as a little child in the arms of his mother, going to school with his friend Charlie . . . he lived his wedding day, rejoicing in the pure, innocent love which later shattered into a million pieces. That day and time was long gone. He relived the war and its horrors, and then he smiled at the memories of happier years when he traveled, explored, hunted, and fished around the world. From Alaska to South America to the great, dark continent of Africa with all its hidden mysteries, its dangers and charms, its people so wild and savage, and yet so beautiful.
The mementos of his travels filled his house. Mounted fish and animal heads hung on the walls next to photographs of his exploits around the world.
All in all, a pretty good life, he thought, but now things are changing. He remembered his childhood and the fear of an imminent nuclear war with the Soviet Union. In those days, his family had lived in the Midwest close to Whitman Airforce Base, and he still remembered the chills he got as a young boy watching those black aircraft streaking overhead. Sometimes a stealth fighter drifted silently like a black apparition in the sky. He wouldn’t see or hear it until it had passed.
He thought of the emergency drills to prepare for a nuclear attack, of crouching under a school desk. How pathetic, he reflected, to imagine that crouching under a desk would offer protection. But we’re doing the same things today. It’s not about protection; it’s about psychology and making ourselves believe we can control our destiny so we can feel assurance that someone is looking out for us.
“In those days,” he muttered, “there was an Iron Curtain in Europe that separated the free world from the communist. Today, that Iron Curtain has been replaced by another curtain. It’s not iron this time, but it’s a curtain nevertheless; a silent, heavy curtain that is descending over the free world. It’s a curtain that silences freedom of thought, dissent, and differing opinions. The curtain silences people lest their thoughts and opinions are judged unacceptable. A curtain of fear and hopelessness is covering the world.”
“An iron curtain has descended across the continent.” Winston Churchill
“We don’t need the Secret Police,” the old man mused, “or secret informants to spy on their neighbors.” He looked at the smartphone in his hand before continuing, “This little device has changed and is changing the world. It gives freedom, and it takes it away.”
The phone slips from his hand and drops to the floor unnoticed.
The black mist comes in hard, but he pushes it away.
His glass is empty once again, so the old man gets up unsteadily and makes his way to the kitchen counter. One more, he thinks, one more, and then I’ll sleep. He sets the glass on the counter and picks up the bottle. It seems heavy, and his hand is shaking so much he spills the liquid down the side of the glass. He curses at himself, sets it back down, and picks up the bottle with both hands. Carefully, he pours.
And now the black mist comes in hard, but this time, he can’t stop it.
When the old man doesn’t respond to text messages for three days, his daughter notifies the police. They break down his front door and find him crumpled face down on the kitchen floor, lying in a pool of alcohol and blood where he was cut by the shattered bottle. The policeman stands over the old man, writes his report, notifies the coroner, and drives away.
The coroner arrives in a hazmat suit, collects the body, and takes it away for disposal. His family has a memorial service via Zoom. Much later, someone comes and lays a single red rose on top of his grave.
The old man’s house is filled with rich mementoes of culture and history from his travels around the world, but his family doesn’t want any of it. “What would we do with that stuff?” his grandchildren ask. Besides, it might be contaminated from the flu. Professional cleaners remove the furnishings and souvenirs, the photos, and the animal heads. Everything goes in the dumpster. The truck comes and hauls it to the landfill with the head of a South African eland peering over the edge of the dumpster as it rides down the highway. Two weeks later, the house has been sanitized, and there’s a For Sale sign in the front yard.