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The Old Man

"Do not leave me alone."

I stared hard at these words, written in decorative cursive that the old man had given to me on a paper that had been torn out of his notepad. I was flabbergasted, knowing full well that the old man never wished to have any prolonged company, nor was known to have indulged in such even in his youth. I was confused, but I consented.

The old man nodded his head vaguely as I agreed, still peering out of the shut window with his weary, dark blue eyes, time and wariness having formed large bags underneath them. His large grey paws shook with the arthritis, which he so often complained about but never acted upon. I had suggested time and time again that he should get a pair of those hand-warmed packets that displaced the pain, and had at one time offered to buy a pair for him, but he shook his head and that was that.

I became caretaker to the old man many months ago, then still in my junior year of high school. I was at first, to be very blunt and not at all lovely, disgusted at having been offered the job, and sickened still at having found out it was required for one of my classes. The old man, apparently, was just as annoyed and disgusted with me being there. Whether it was myself he was angry at or the very fact that someone was taking care of him was another matter altogether. The old man was a paraplegic, in need of a steel chair and a pair of wheels in order to move, but he was also unable to speak, after having suffered a botched surgery many years ago. He carries a notepad on a small silver chain about his neck, which he never takes off. It was very difficult, those first few weeks, but I soon adapted to the conversational procedure. He could read lips very well, I discovered, which was good, but he was also very aloof and laid back, and prone to staring off into space for infrequent periods of time, which was an irritation. The old man had taught me to be patient, but only to a point.

I gleaned from a number of the other residents that the old man had once been a singer and a skilled player of the trombone, quite famous in many a small-town nightclub, casino, and the occasional dance hall. Being an avid player of the guitar (I am fully aware that the guitar is of no musical bloodline to the trombone, only being supremely interested in the history of music and its many impassioned supporters), I forsook my blind irritation of him. What had once been ignorance and aggravation had become respect and admiration. I hope for my sake that the old man, who in his current extremity of age had grown apart from the rest of the world and had probably never had admirers chatting with him each day, felt the same way.

I visit the old man each day, sometimes for hours at a time. I will be at his apartment at nine in the morning with the sun angling against the ground and leave at eight, with the sun already gone beneath the horizon and leaving a crimson-golden sky. His room is not so very large, yet I would not say that it is small. "Barren" would be the correct word to describe it. Its only real furnishing is a spring-mattress bed and a bathroom the was settled to the left of the doorway upon entrance. It was always dark, as its owner found it easier to think in dark places, and it was very dusty. The floor was wood-paneled with boards that were aged and groaned when a casual foot was placed on them. I have often seen a spider inhabit an area where a cobweb to another, thankfully long-dead spider had once resided. There was a large window placed in the middle of the wall that faced the old man's bed. I have never once seen a curtain hanging over it.

We talk, so much as the extent of our method of speech can permit, for very long interludes about many branches of subjects that transcend the old groups of philosophers who would convene in crowded rooms and argue and bicker. But lately our conversations have grown toward the more occult and legerdemain topics, far beyond my interest I assure you, and the old man must have noticed this and ended the subject altogether. I was afraid for the old man during this time, thinking that he was plunging into a fit of depression, but my fears were allayed when he quit that topic of discussion.

It was nighttime now, as is often the case at seven o'clock this time of year. The old man continued to stare out from his window, deep in thoughts that to me would have seemed disturbing. At least, that's what I thought as I looked at his face. He was worried, anxious about something. I looked out the window myself, seeing nothing but fingerprints, dust, and small bits of cobweb interwoven with the dust on the surface of the glass. It was difficult to see anything, what with the glare of the candle seated at the table in the middle of the room. Two stacks of cards were placed on either side of the table. Just recently we both found the joys of competition in a good two-man game of hearts or chess. The stacks of cards remained untouched, looking lonely and distant from one another. I tapped the old man on the shoulder gently and leaned in closer to him, angling myself so he could see me.

I said, "Sir, what are you looking at?"

The old man did not blink, nor did he write in his notepad, nor did he make any kind of visible response to show that he acknowledged me. I grew impatient and repeated my question, complete with shoulder tapping. He did nothing again. I was about to walk away to the table, perhaps occupy myself by shuffling the cards or playing solitaire until he overcame this unwarranted stupor, when I felt his large fingers grip my left forearm, his claws digging slightly into my skin. I looked down at him, shocked at this sudden action. He held up his notepad, took the little pen that was attached to the little silver chain, and began writing. His dark blue eyes did not move from their spot beyond the window.

He ripped out the little sheet of paper and offered it to me. I took it and read the ornate cursive handwriting. "Do not leave me alone. I'm afraid," it said. I looked from the paper to the old man, who was still except for the evident rise and fall of his chest.

I was unsure of what to do. Perhaps his mental faculties had finally snapped, the wires cut all at once. He was, after all, an old man. But I doubted this possibility very greatly. He had never before shown any inclination toward senility that I was aware of, and he wasn't quite that old. Still, I was afraid.

I had tremendous respect for this man, who was staring off into space through the single window in his dark and dreary room at things only he could see. He wanted me to stay with him because he was afraid, thinking that I would protect him from such things that made him so. I was not a guardian or protector of any kind. I looked at the first paper he gave me, and then at the other one, and then to him as I felt a swift chill gallop up and down my spine. I started to consider the possibility that he really was becoming senile, as sad as it made me.

Presently I resolved to make us a cup of coffee, or tea if there was none of that. I walked away, but was forestalled by the old man's grip again. This time he looked up at me, his eyes dark and afraid, yet commanding and surly, as though he were a general and I only a private who had committed an act of insubordination. To him no doubt it would have felt like abandonment. I put my hand on his shoulder and said I'd be back, I was only going to make some coffee. He seemed somewhat averse to my leaving him, but I could see he was considering it, and finally, after a minute's worth of deliberation he nodded his head. He turned back to the window, and I went to the cupboard, which was to the left-most wall of the room. I opened the cupboard and searched for any coffee. Seeing only a pack of chamomile and lemon tea, I grabbed that, shut the cupboard, and walked out of the apartment, padding softly downstairs to the kitchen where they kept their pots and cups and microwave.

I dipped the small, flimsy packets into the hot water and squeezed with my thumb and forefinger to get all the flavor into the cups. Then I went back upstairs, to the dark, dusty room with its superior quality of lonely emptiness, to the old man, who would be staring out the window, his eyes dark and nervous. Whether he would take the time to pull himself away from his mind and drink the tea was something I pondered as opened the door.

The room was cold, much colder than it usually was. I looked and saw that the window was open. I could see the moon outside, high and gleaming brightly in the sky like a fortuneteller's crystal ball of magick. But there was something missing, something that should have been keeping me from seeing the shining moon. I took a step inside, and saw that the old man was gone, his steel chair lying just as it was when I left. The cards were scattered all over the dusty floor, strewn about in random order as though it were in the middle of "fifty-two pick up." I walked over to the silver chair, still holding the hot cups full to the edge with chamomile and lemon tea, listening to my heart play a percussion solo. There was definitely no one in the chair, but...something, a flash, a glimmer in the moonlight. I edged forward, and saw the little notepad with its silver chain, lying in the center of the black seat. The small pen dangled from the edge of the chair, swaying slowly back and forth.

I looked outside, afraid and thinking he had fallen to his death (his apartment was three stories up; a fall from that height would surely cripple him further, if not completely destroy, the old man). Looking down, I saw only the tall hedgerows and crabgrass that dominated the flat, open land. There was no old man down there, in spite of the fact that there should have been.

By instinct, I looked up to the moon, to its glittering, blindingly bright glow. I looked at it, staring at its odd, darker features that dotted its surface. The cold October wind blew hard against my face, making my eyes water and my muzzle twitch defensively. The stars were scattered about the dark blue sky like the playing cards on the floor behind me, glinting and flashing to one another in a game all of their own. A three of clubs there, winking at a six of diamonds over there, who was leering at a five of diamonds beside it. And in the middle of this massive board of celestial solitaire lay the queen of hearts (or perhaps it was the ace of spades), glowing with a white-hot light, daring any challengers. I looked upon this massive orb in the sky, my mind reaching far and distant places where it should never go.

As I looked at the surface of the moon, its features seemed to change, to shift themselves into amorphous shapes and insinuations. The darkness on the its surface actually changed before my very eyes, and I was at a loss to put a tag on just what I was seeing. The longer I looked at it, though, the shape seemed to form a sort of face, faint and indistinct at first but slowly forming nonetheless. As I stared, I couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity, a feeling that the face was one I had seen before...

As I looked, the moon slowly and steadily became the gaunt and staring face of the old man, looking at me with an expression awaiting shock and horror.

I turned and fled the room, ignoring the resounding crash and liquid splatter of the tea that I had dropped in my terror. I didn't hear it; all that I could hear were the quick reverberations of my shoes striking the aged floor and my heart as it pounded loudly in my ears. I scattered the playing cards further about the room as I ran. Let them stay there, I thought, so long as I'm not there with them, in that grim and desolate room with years of piled dust and generations of cobwebs lying within its dark corners, where I had spent many a month and hour in tranquility, where the old man once had been.