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Can a Leopard change his spots?

One thing that Age attempts to teach is that one must always be open to being taught, open to examining context as it changes. Open, even, to being wrong about needing to be alone…

Sometimes I change bus stops to avoid unruly, noisy crowds; sometimes I feel I need time and space to think about things. Even though I’m retired, and time clings to me like spider webs strung across the path in a morning field, there is something valuable about the tranquility of an undamaged space where buses arrive quietly, then sated, only disgorge should the need arise. Otherwise, with a smile and a wave of my hand, they merely slow and pass as if they had no obligation to me. No duty to accommodate.

The bus stop I love to hike to reach is surrounded by trees, and except for summer birds, and rustling leaves, is as quiet as a forest path. I’m not sure why they stationed a stop there; I’ve seldom had to share the space with anyone, although from time to time, an older person sits there, preferring the transit bench to the seat on their walker, I suppose. Still, even though I smile, I think they feel encroached upon; it is no longer a rural idyll, so they stumble awkwardly to their feet and hobble away at my arrival. I understand their dismay; I feel it too…

There is a smaller bus which visits there that always amuses me; it is on a schedule I can never predict, and for whatever reason is either empty, or contains passengers that always sit on the opposite side, and watch their progress through opposite windows as if the curb half of the bus were forbidden to them. Sometimes, however, I am surprised. Today, the bus slowed to a stop despite my dismissing its need to consider picking me up, with a disdainful flick of my wrist. I didn’t mean to be rude, or anything, but when it stopped nevertheless, I wondered whether I had been using the wrong hand signal all these years.

Suddenly, as if to absolve me of a misdemeanor and justify its worth to the community by proving it did sometimes carry passengers, its door opened and a rather poorly-dressed elderly man with dishevelled hair and carrying several threadbare bags stumbled awkwardly onto the curb. He wasn’t dirty, or anything though; he wore no objectionable odours except of tobacco, and despite his unsteady gait, did not appear to be impaired. But there was something about him that alerted me to be careful.

He headed for the bench at the little shelter by the bus stop and plunked his bags onto it. Then, when he realized he was not alone and might have to share the space with me, he mounted a smile on his wrinkled face. “Mind if I light up a smoke?” he asked politely.

I shook my head with equal courtesy and smiled back at him. I really don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke, but we were outside and if it bothered me, I could easily walk away.

He had a few puffs on his cigarette, and presumably feeling better, decided to engage me in conversation. “Tried the new doughnut shop…?”

I pretended to be interested and shook my head politely. “Sounds like a good idea for this area, though,” I added, careful not to encourage him unduly.

He smiled and pointed his cigarette. “It’s just down the block from that corner, thank goodness.” He had another drag on his cigarette, and seemed anxious to explain. “When it rains, I have trouble with walking very far on the sidewalk -it has areas that are slippery around here, you know.”

I nodded my head as if I’d noticed them as well.

“I have trouble with my balance nowadays… ever since the concussions, anyway…”

“Concussions?” That was an unexpected confession for a stranger.

He nodded his head firmly. “Yeah, it’s why I finally had to leave my job -took early retirement, actually…” He glanced at my face to gauge my interest. “I was doing a lot of heavy work at the marina, and although I’d worked there for years, I think they realized they needed a younger, stronger man.” He took a deep puff on his cigarette and sighed. “I never got much education so I’ve always had to take what work I could get… Worked on the railway for years before that…”

My face brightened. “My father was railroad -Canadian National Railway- so our family used to travel on his pass to visit my grandparents out here when we lived in Winnipeg.”

“I worked for their rival, the CPR -the Canadian Pacific Railway,” he added unnecessarily to a fellow railroader. “We did the mountain route through Banff rather than Jasper where the CNR went through on its way to the prairies.”

“Wow,” I said, the memories of those days flooding through my head. “I was born on the prairies – Saskatchewan, actually. How about you? Were you born out here in B.C.?”

He shook his head. “Nope, Ontario,” he said, proudly. “My family was, well…” I could see him searching for a suitable word. “Unreliable, I suppose you’d say. Everybody seemed to drift away from each other -financial issues at first, but alcohol played a big role I was later told…”

I shook my head sadly. “I’m  sorry…” I realized that I didn’t even know his name, and he smiled at my confusion.

“Lester,” he said, extending a clean, but trembling hand to shake.

“G,” I offered in response as I shook his hand. “Don’t ask, eh?”

He chuckled at that, and his face lit up. “G’s a better nickname than ‘Loser’ -the name I used to get called in Windsor…” He stubbed out his cigarette on the sidewalk and carefully picked it up, made sure it was out, then put it in the trash can beside the bus stop sign. “Only the indifferent thrive in foster care, G; I cared too much, I guess…” He shrugged as he saw another bus turning the corner and saw me reaching for my pass. “Maybe things have changed in the system, but it’s too late for me now…” He mounted a weak smile as my bus slowed to a stop. “Thank goodness I’m old, eh? I mean, I’ve made it this far anyway…” he said, turning to check that his bags were still on the bench.

Just before the bus doors opened, I couldn’t resist gently patting Lester’s back as he hobbled slowly away. He stopped and looked back at me. “Thank you, G,” he said. “Sometimes it’s important that others know our histories isn’t it? Know that we exist… somebody other than ourselves anyway…”

And you know, he was right: a shabby old man carefully laying his bags on a bench so he could have a smoke finally became somebody special -if only for a moment in his life. If only to me.

I think we all need to believe we matter…

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