The sun is in its prime, young children throng to the Ice Cream Van, the smell of wet grass and lime juice fills the air; a rhythmic tune of the typewriter initially interrupts the sound of chirping birds and laughing children, but soon becomes one with all around it, encompassing every sound, every detail within itself. Inflicting on paper, a subtly enjoyable torture, a permanent tattoo.
He types away furiously, fingers never pausing to rest. The typewriter, irritates at first, but slowly turns into a lullaby. Hector falls asleep at his master's feet, there's no leash or anything of importance to retrieve. His master sits by a piles of sheets, some tattooed, some not. Fascinated by this solitary heaven, I look up from my book to smile at him. His face is blank, it says nothing, it sees nothing. It remains lost in thought, remembering, recollecting, re-living. Then as though possessed by an invisible power, he types away, with fervor and passion, stronger than his body can sustain, younger than his appearance will allow. Hours go by, in a similar fashion. It is time for me to leave, and I do. Not thinking much at all, about this strange man with a dog by his feet and a typewriter across his lap, not thinking for the hungry dog's patient loyalty. I live my life, and see him the next morning. Same place, same clothes.
He has not gone home.
Once again I try to establish eye contact, once again the vacancy of his expression rejects me. I go on with my life. The day has grown older, I return home, he is still there. I fight the impulse to go over and ask him what his business is. A fortnight goes by before I ask him what he wants. "Nothing" he says, and types away. "Do you have someplace to go?" No response. I try to sneak a peek and Hector objects, with an unfriendly bark, miffed by the distraction, I'm greeted with the embodiment of physical agony and irritation in the eyes of this man. I walk away with an apology so sincere it stings my own eyes.
He has still not gone home.
The next few days go by with no interaction, though Hector and his master look weaker, paler, but never morose. I go over, the next afternoon, not to impinge, but to unhinge - myself from this growing feeling of ruthless observation, and overpowering rejection from this strange man and his dog. I bring a portion of food over, leave it by their side. I'm once again greeted with those same eyes, but confusion shrouded the agony of irritation. I smile and walk away wordlessly. The next week flies by in this fashion.
All this time goes by, and he still never goes home.
I catch a glimpse of him now and then from my kitchen window, never stirring from his place, unless an emergency presents itself. I live my life, but now this man and his strange dog are a small part of it. There is no relation but a strange connection. Summer is coming to an end with the cool breeze grazing our skins. I'm on my way, across the street, into the park where this strange friend, and his dog sit. I place the food where I usually do and turn to walk away. A breeze teases him by running along with a few recently tattooed pages. I offer to help, but I'm shunned away. Just like I was, the very first time, all those months ago. I try to walk away, but turn back around. He's too busy typing. The papers around him are collected, and haphazardly placed under the weight of the food container I just left there. I walk away. Once more, restrained by unfamiliarity, to ask of him, the meaning of his actions, or the lack of them.
Summer has passed, and the rains reign over with their scintillating blows. I'm constantly pushed away by this strange man with a typewriter and dog. I don't see him in the park anymore. It seems he's moved away to a better spot. But of one thing I am sure, he's never gone home. Not once since that afternoon in the early summer. The rest of the year goes by. My life goes by. Unaffected by the change in routine; no more daily trips to the park with food for a strange man with a typewriter and dog.
...
Summer comes around once more. The world is warm with happiness again. I'm at the park with my book again. But the strange man with the typewriter never returns. I go home to find a parcel at my door. It seems a bit too heavy to just lift off the floor. I let myself in, throw my belongings at the couch and reach for the parcel and set it upon my table. It bares no indication of the sender, yet the wrappings are untidy and hurried.
...
Reader, it was a Typewriter.
And with it a small typed note (with several muddy paw prints) that read as -
"This typewriter, has written of and witnessed many phases in my life. I have very little memory of the person that you are, but your kindness of spirit is etched deep into my heart.
Thank you,
J."
I was both surprised and moved to tears. How did he know where I lived? When had he delivered the package? Why did he have to send me anything at all?
The only thing I knew him by, was now sitting atop my table.
...
Several months have gone by since. I heard a strange knock on the door one afternoon. A strikingly beautiful young woman stood before me and said with quiet disbelief, "you are exactly as he described you."
...
She was J's daughter. J was an aspiring writer and an Alzhimer's patient. He could never finish the any of his works because he often lost track of the plot. He was always too stubborn to seek treatment and left home without a word. He'd traveled too far and had no means to find his way back, he was too afraid and obstinate to ask for help. So he did what he knew best - observe and document.
The last interaction I'd ever had with him, was the same day the search parties found him. Took him to a hospital and started treatment unsuccessfully and forcefully.
His last words - " she'll know what to do, just tell her, I'm going home."
.jpg "Wasted Time")
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