I was an angry young man with a motorcycle and an attitude and not much else going for me when, left with no alternatives, I moved back in with my folks. They lived on an island that was a Jersey Shore vacation locale for clean suburbanites in the summer, but was almost uninhabited in the winter. Vic was the old guy living down the street from my folks. He must have started life small, and old age made him look like a miniature person, bleached in the sun and ready to blow away. He was easy to overlook, almost as if he was half there and the wind would blow him away. His skin was pearl-white, and you could practically see right through it. His eyes were a washed-out blue that must have changed over the years because I couldn’t imagine seeing it in a young man’s eyes.
He wasn’t much to look at, but waving asd I rode past on my way to work didn’t cost me anything, so it became a ritual for me, giving me a tiny burst of feel good before going to a job I hated. I met Vic just about every day. Whenever I came home from work, he would be out in what he called his garden, a small square of dirt hemmed in by the increase of concrete in the neighborhood. Every year, the sidewalk would get bigger, or someone would build a bigger fence, or one of his kids would need the driveway bigger for his new car. His garden would get smaller, but Vic would be out there; big garden, small garden, it didn’t matter, working away as if his family’s sustenance depended on it.
It was sparse and scraggly-looking, making his daily routine seem pathetic, but I liked watching him anyway, and if I had time, I would stop and watch. After a while, I would say a few words to the old guy, telling him his garden was looking good or commenting on the weather. For some reason, this tiny man with a whispery voice made my anger disappear every time he looked at me. I was a hardcore biker back in those days, and the other neighbors either avoided me, which made me hate them for being snooty. If they weren’t avoiding me, they were cordial, fake friendly, which was even worse. Vic didn’t do either. He was pleasant, not seeming to notice that I was a beefy guy with a black leather jacket and too many earrings, on a bike that was too loud and an even worse attitude. Every time I rode past, I looked over to see him scratching at the dust, and he would look up, smile, and wave, friendly and sweet.
Late in the summer, I found out a little more about Vic. My dad had gotten me a job in the hospital cleaning floors, and the pharmacist asked me if I could drop off a bottle of pills in my neighborhood. It was a strange request since I didn’t think he could just pass the pills along, especially to a guy who looked like me. For all he knew, I would turn around and sell them on the street to some strung-out junkie who didn’t know any better. He said Vic had called, saying he was too sick to make it to the hospital to get his prescription filled. Somehow, Vic knew I worked at the hospital, even though I was pretty sure I had never told him. I was surprised that Vic was sick. I had seen him the day before, hoeing away at his path of dirt. I asked the pharmacist what was wrong with Vic. Maybe he shouldn’t have told me, but he did. Vic had cancer. I asked him what kind, and he just shook his head.
I dropped off the pills, feeling pretty weird. Vic thanked me and invited me in. He asked so sweetly, and, while I was trying to think of a way to say no, he turned and walked into his house. I stood watching the screen door slapping shut, knowing I couldn’t refuse. His home was spotlessly clean but smelled like medicine and old people. The furniture was old but not old enough to be trendy or antique. We sat at his green linoleum kitchen table, sipping cheap beer from cans and talking. We talked for half an hour, him asking about motorcycles, me answering even though I knew he didn’t care about motorcycles but just wanted to hear what I had to say. He spoke a little about himself, mentioning bits and pieces about a deceased wife and kids who had moved on. The strange thing is, I don’t think he said one word about what he did when he was young. He spoke slowly, in a voice that was a little more than a whisper. And he had this way of pausing between sentences, thinking of what to say next, that made it feel okay to jump in and interrupt. I usually don’t talk, but he had an easy way about him that let you know he had nothing else to do, so it was okay if you spoke or didn’t. He just sat there, wearing a smile that said he had all day to hear what I had to say. He didn’t ask many questions, but you knew he was listening. He didn’t get pushy, so I got the feeling that I could stop whenever I wanted to, and it wouldn’t bother him. So I kept talking. I didn’t have any friends so the talking felt good.
After a while, when the beer was almost gone, and the dregs were too warm and skunky to drink, I started feeling pretty spooked, talking to this guy knowing that the clock was running and he had a disease running around inside him, killing him every second he was sitting there. It surprised me when I realized that it bothered me, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all.
A few days later, I stopped my bike to watch him pull weeds, just about the only thing I saw growing in his garden patch. He stood up, taking a break to be neighborly and rehydrate with some more of his cheap beer. He invited me back into his house and handed me a beer. Watching him shuffle around his kitchen made an angry voice in the back of my mind ask if I was ready for another long conversation with this sick old man. Another voice, one that sounded like a younger version of me, said I really wanted it and that pretty soon it might not be an option.
Vic looked up after my first sip of beer, and I was about to say something polite, like ‘Thanks for the suds’, when it just fell out of my mouth. I asked him, “What’s it like, knowing that you’re going to die?”
He could have given me a pseudo-philosophical “We’re all going to die eventually” line, or maybe even gotten uptight about me asking. Most people probably would’ve, but somehow I knew he wouldn’t. Vic didn’t even flinch. He answered as if I had asked him what fertilizer he used on his tomatoes.
He sipped his beer, pursed his lips, and read the label on the beer can for a moment. He answered in his thin, old-man voice. “The way I figure it, when you die, you go live in a town, pretty much like the town you lived in your whole life. It seems to be the nature of people to live this way, you know, together. So I figure it must go pretty deep, deeper than just this world. In the center of town is a park full of trees. In one corner, there’s a playground, and in the center is a fountain for the kids in the summer, and in the corner are a bunch of tables for backgammon and chess. I’ve always been partial to backgammon.”
“Everyone has an appointment with God once a week. Some people just sit with him and feed the pigeons. Some play backgammon or chess. The really pure souls splash around in the fountain or play tag. There are even some souls who are so holy that their special job is to push God on the swings when he’s feeling down.”
“I play backgammon with God every Tuesday afternoon. I figure it that way because every Tuesday afternoon I feel kind of lost, like I should be doing something important, but I can’t remember what it is. We each bring a brown bag lunch. I bring the popcorn, and God brings the iced tea. Sometimes, I bring brownies, and sometimes he brings root beer. We sit and play backgammon, listening to the children laugh and talking about whatever comes to mind. Once in a while, I would say something interesting, and God would say, ‘Hey, Vic, I’ve never heard that before. How would you like to check it out and get back to me?’
“So my soul would go looking for a body, and a new Vic would be born in the world to try out my idea. Then I would die, and the next Tuesday, I would sit down to play backgammon with God. We would play for a bit, munching popcorn and sipping iced tea, and after a few games, God would ask, ‘Oh, by the way, how did that idea of yours turn out?’ So I tell him.”
“Some people forget what idea that they came down to check out. Some people even forget they have an appointment to play backgammon. Some people go so far as to go around harumphing and denying that they ever played backgammon at all, or they say there is no park. Can you imagine that? They start to hold on tight to whatever it is they’re doing here, saying that is the only thing. Can you imagine that? All they want is this world.”
Vic shook his head in disbelief. “Kids are beautiful. They just came from the park, so they still live by its rules. They talk to everyone as if they’re talking to God, angels, souls, or anyone they used to meet in the park. Some old people are happy. They are looking forward to Tuesday. They have some really nice things to tell God, some pleasant conversation. They’ve never forgotten which things God likes to talk about. Some old folks look back and worry they won’t have enough to talk about. Others walk around convinced they already have all the answers. They have collected so much stuff and nonsense in this world, and they think that all this is their power and strength, that it will make God care more about them, give them a better spot in the park. Can you imagine? Sitting down in front of God and trying to impress him with your stock portfolio!”
Vic snorted a laugh. He reached back and pulled out his wallet, the cracked black leather bulging, looking enormous in his shriveled hands. He pried it open with his bent, arthritic fingers, leaning forward to show me. It was full of old, faded pictures. Some were even ripped, pasted back together ages ago with a strip of yellowed tape. Nick had all of his treasures in that wallet. It was his kids growing up, his wife’s smile, even a surprising picture of his garden in its heyday. There were a few new pictures of grandchildren, bright and glossy.
The beer was warm, and I had to get to work, so after a few minutes of polite comments about how cute the kids were, I excused myself. I rode with the visor up on my helmet, letting the wind blow through until my eyes started to sting. Vic had just changed my world. In a quiet voice, with a few cheesy pictures and stale beer, he had blown away everything I believed in. He didn’t realize what he had just said. I had always thought that a person should fight death with both hands and that meant fighting for life and everything in it. He got me thinking that maybe I was wrong. Maybe the idea is to hold onto life with both hands, but when the door opens, let go and walk through. And the only way to do that is to live life the way you should, never forgetting where you’re going and where you came from. And to let that guide your actions.
I left home that winter. Vic usually left for the winter too, heading south to his kids and warmer climes. I got a letter from my folks the following summer. They said that when the summer people came back, Vic wasn’t with them. I guess that when the door opened up, Vic got up from his garden, brushed off the dirt, and walked through the door. I’d like to think he didn’t look back.
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