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Losing Touch

One of the many issues I have had with Age is the impermanence of things that surround me: things to which I have grown accustomed over the years; things which I have grown to love. At some point, though, I realized that these things, like myself, are unique; substitutes or replacements can never be the same. Isn’t it the difference that makes each of us special? Something is attached to each individual that makes them exceptional, distinctive. Irreplaceable, and yet changeable… ‘I contain multitudes’ as Whitman wrote.

I used to think that there was an I who accompanied me through the years -an I with a firm commitment to bringing along things acquired along the way, the rich, experienced-filled me with all its warts and mistakes. It was a mistaken belief however. As I’ve aged, it seems to me I have left much behind that could have been useful, and what I have managed to carry is different from what I might have chosen in those early years.

We all travel along different roads, and much of what we thought we should save has become too heavy to carry all the way. We are different beings by the time we arrive…

I was sitting in my favourite coffee shop on George Street in Dunedin; I had tried for a window seat so I could both read and watch the people walking past in the rain, but even in New Zealand, things do not always go as planned. Still, I was alert to change and ready to dash at the first sign that a window table was about to be vacated – no easy feat holding a full cup of coffee, a hardly tasted bowl of muesli, and a backpack full of books. Of course when you really want something, you have to be adaptable, I think.

The man in the closest window table next to mine, stood up and thoughtfully transferred the morning newspaper he’d been reading to a nearby seat so someone else could read it. He was dressed for the rain outside, but his clothes bespoke those of a construction worker: he was wearing heavy leather boots, a wrinkled face, and a tattered baseball cap to match. There were a few unfinished dishes on his table, and I wondered about the orange hard hat still lying beside them. I made a move for the table anyway; it pays to be quick about these things on George Street.

But I was too quick and a broad smile lit up his cheeks when he saw me. “Ya want to trade tables, is that it mate?” His eyes were twinkling with mischief as he spoke. “I’m not too keen on muesli, though,” he added, looking at the bowl I’d left on my table in my rush to claim his.

I think I blushed at that point, and quickly apologized for my mistake. “I’m so sorry… I thought you were leaving…”

His smile wrinkled even more of his face. “American?” he asked, as soon as I apologized. “That probably explains the muesli.”

“Canadian,” I replied, a little too defensively perhaps. “And muesli is not offered at most of the coffee shops where I live, so I always look forward to it when I’m here.”

“Where are you from in Canada, then?” He sat down at his window table as the barista brought some sort of a large coffee and set it down in front of him.

“Vancouver,” I explained, moving back to my adjacent table. “Years ago, I occasionally did some work near Wellington, but Dunedin is still my favourite city… I come back whenever I can…”

“Retired now?”

I nodded.

“I’m close to that as well,” he added. “What did you do?”

“I was a doctor in those days… It was a working vacation, filling in for another doc in Lower Hutt…”

He nodded, uncertain what to say to a doctor in a coffee shop, I suppose. “Must be exciting, living so close to the action… Vancouver’s close to the American border, isn’t it?” He finally decided that was an appropriate response.

“What action?” I replied, genuinely surprised.

He stared at me for a moment, unsure how to proceed. “The election… you know, Trump’s rise to power again.”

“Well, he’s trying to rise, but a lot of people hope he doesn’t succeed.” I decided not to share my opinions before I knew what his were -although it was already pretty obvious. Still, I was curious to know what his reasons were. It is probably unwise ever to argue with a powerful looking stranger in a strange city.  “Do you think Trump has a chance of winning?” I tried to sound neutral.

His face immediately clouded. “The polls are overwhelmingly in his favour! And people seem to love him…”

“Some people, perhaps,” I corrected him gently.

He sat back in his chair and thought about it for a moment or two while he sipped his coffee. “America needs to chart a new course, doc! Wall Street and the California elite have had their chance… and failed miserably.”

He seemed so energized about it, I thought it might be more prudent simply to listen. It was easy enough to make eye contact with him -his eyes had locked on mine already.

“I mean, the poor and the disadvantaged have got nothing to lose by voting for him. Anything’s better than what they have, don’t you think?”

I was pretty sure he wasn’t actually asking for my opinion, so I merely tried for clarification. “How do you mean, nothing to lose?”

He rolled his eyes at my question. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said, raising his voice. “The poor are not making any headway in the country: they’re still poor. Trump is their only voice.” He reached for his cup, had a large swig at it, and put it down rather loudly on the wooden table. “When something isn’t working, only a fool keeps trying it to see if it’ll be different the next time round…”

He sat back in his chair and stared out of the window for a few seconds, clearly agitated.

I waited until he turned around to face me again. “Do you think Trump will be the answer -if he wins again I mean?”

His face softened, and he shrugged. “I’m not an American, but I’d likely be one of the disaffected group over there that is starved for change. I’d sure vote for him…”

I had a few spoonfuls of my muesli while he thought further about it.

“I take it you are not a Trump supporter…” he finally asked. I could tell by his wry smile that he’d already guessed that.

It was my turn to shrug, but I mounted a more friendly smile. “No… but then again, I’m not an American either. They’ll have to live with the result…”

He sighed when I said that; he even warmed his smile. “We’ll all have to live with it, I expect.” He checked the battered watch on his wrist and stood up. “My name’s Geoff, by the way, doc,” he said, extending a workman’s hand towards me.

“G,” I answered and shook it.

“You know sometimes I feel there’s a hope for humanity…” he said before he turned to leave. He was quiet for a moment and then smiled at me. “Here we are, total strangers -you, a doctor, thousands of miles from home in a faraway country, and me an aging working class sod. And yet we can still talk about politics without arguing. We can still agree to disagree and remain, well, friends.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

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