The desperation of this elderly in the writer’s community, in need of someone to listen to him talk, but, everybody avoided him, because the neighbors had heard him again, and again, and, everybody is tired of hearing what he had to say, and he’d, died of cancer, all alone, without anybody, such a sad life that’s, lived by, this, elderly, man…translated…
As I’d Moved Back, I’d Become, Too Fatigued on the Subject of Him Then, Because of How His Tales were Too Long-Winded, and, Worried Even More, that My Careless Words May, Lead Him to State What He’d Already Said, in Another, Way, Again……….
As I’d Moved in, I’d Felt He Was, a Avid, Conversationalist
In a black shirt, black slacks, black shoes, when it was cold, in a black cotton filled coat, colder, with that black yarn hat on his head, even colder still, a black scarf around his neck, the all black way of dress, was his, own. But what’s even more, unique was, the myna that stood on his shoulders, the man in black, with the bird of black, became a sight, unique to our, community, we’d called him, “uncle Black-Shirt”.
Uncle Black-Shirt’s myna was the species with the white tail feathers caught from the wild, although the bird’s been, domesticated, but not completely, and so, there were the echoes of the man’s voice, calling out to his pet myna, Flower, Flower! The kids in the community would get curious, and, helped Uncle Black Shirt chase after his black myna for him. And, the times he’d called out to his pet myna, increased with the population growth of the wild mynas, and, the voice which he’d called to his pet became, more and more, pressing, and I’d, wondered, if he’d taken out one same myna to walk the grounds every single, time. On the streetlamps, the trees by the sidewalks, the rain roofs of the balconies, there were all the yellow-beaked, black-feathered, mynas, and I couldn’t tell which is which, but, the one that always, flew to stand on his shoulders, was, “Flower”.
illustration from UDN.com
As I’d moved in, I’d felt, that Uncle Black Shirt was very passionate and a good, conversationalist, and kind to the children, and as he’d started talking, he couldn’t, stop his chatty self. And the contents of what he’d talked about are mostly about the education of the younger generations, and the family life, then to sanitation, cleanliness, he’d stressed, that in his military career, he was placed in charge of sanitation.
Actually, this wasn’t, a conversation, because it’s always him who talked, I had no place to chime in. And, after awhile, I’d felt, fatigued, hearing what he’d told me, because of how long-winding his speeches were, and worried, that my interjecting into the conversations, will cause him to retell what he’d, already, told to me before, to make this, “lecturing” even harder to, come to a, halt. But I don’t dislike it, I treat this as listening to an elderly person, and it’d felt, good inside.
And yet, as he’d, poured everything he could talk about out onto me, a new resident, then, he’d, turned, completely aloof, like he’d never even, met me before. His face that’s, crawling with the wrinkles, with his attire, completely black, from head to toe, looked even more, saturated in gloom, and made him harder for me to get, closer to.
One Day, I Woke, to the Sounds of His, Smacking His Legs, Again
And slowly, I’d found out some things about him, from the residents who’d lived here longer, and understood why most of the neighbors, rarely, interacted, with him. What was conflicting was, that from before, he’d loved, telling about raising children, and families, and yet, I’d never even seen him with any family members. Other than the myna, he’d also kept a small breed dog, and two large ones, he was always with his, pets, when we see him, we would see the myna, the smaller the bigger breed of dogs, one of these, three.
At this time, I’d started, complaining about him, because he always allowed his dogs to pee at the turn into the door of our, building, I live on the first floor, and whenever there’s the wind, the scent of the ammonia of the urine would get in, and sometimes, the smell would become too strong. On the rainy days when he couldn’t walk his dogs the mailbox became, the spot where he’d taken his dogs to, urinate, and, the residents would enter the building, cuss, and as they exit, they’d, cussed again. From time to time, Aunty Black Shirt would come out, to scrub the pavements.
Later, Uncle Black Shirt started exercising at around 5:30 to six in the early mornings, and I’d heard him, smacking his legs at the public bench outside my window. Maybe, it was his routines, trainings in the armed services, everything was, standardized, the location of where he’d exercised, the time, the strengths to which he was, smacking his legs, day after day, after day, and I really don’t want to wake up at this time every single day, I’m a night owl, I should be able to sleep for two more, extra, hours. And when the weather isn’t right, he’d not, headed out, and my biological clock still, wakes me up at this time, I was, in a, complete, meltdown then, when I saw Uncle Black Shirt, I’d, dodged him as I saw him, farther, away from me, and if he was right at the entrance, I’d rather, circled out a few times, waited until he was away, then, heading into my own, home.
One day, I woke in his smacking his legs, again, and, started, pacing in my bedroom, annoyed. Suddenly, I’d heard him, murmured to himself, “I’m old, ill, I don’t have, too long………”, like he knew, I was, listening in on his, “confessions” or something. And I’d, pitied him, that he was, all alone, with no one wanting to be, near him.
Then, for a very long time, I’d, not heard him, smacking his legs anymore, and, my sleep returned back to, normal too, and yet, I’d, gotten the news of his death, from his, cancer. Not long ago, his apartment was, sold, the new resident took a few months to remodel the place, it’d looked, brand new and pretty, with no sign, no traces of its, former, resident there.
In the courtyard, there’s still, a flock of black feathered, yellow-beaked, myna, that hung around the streetlamps, the trees on the sidewalks, the rain roofs of the balconies, getting noisy. And sometimes I’d, wondered, would one of them be “Flower”, which belonged to Uncle Black Shirts?
And so, this, is how lonely this elderly man is, he only had a myna as his only companion, and, he needed someone to listen to him talk, and yet, he’d told those tales, over, over, and over again, to everybody who will hear him out, and that made him isolated, because the neighbors are all tired of hearing him tell the stories repeatedly, and, as the writer moved in, this elderly person found a new audience, and started, clinging on the writer, and the writer eventually felt suffocated by him, and dodged him too, and, the elderly died lonely, and alone…
The Ivory Tower of My Mind 