Same Old

    "Did I ever tell you about the time I kissed Marilyn Monroe?"

    How do you answer a question like that, a repeated question like that? It is obvious that it never happened, that he was never in the same town or state as MM, that he was in junior high when she died, that it's another story, fable, construction, myth, part of the long, twisting fable of his life, the life, times, and, most certainly, the Adventures of T. K. Smith, the alias he adopted at the age of 12, on the cusp of teen agedness, the precipice of puberty, the entry into unfamiliar urges, desires, inclinations passions (still his favorite word).

    "Why T. K.?" I had asked innocently, before I knew what the power of a simple question ignited in him. "Why T. K. . . . and why 'Smith?' That's not your name."

    "Exactly!" he'd shouted. (Yes, shouted!) "The anonymity of Smith, and introduced by T. K. . . . thank! Think! Subtle, I know, but . . ."

    "So, you," I had said so long ago, as I tried to shift my snort to a tinkle of appreciation, "So you created yourself, your image, " I said, making it sound like a compliment, which he accepted with his characteristic grace, manifest as a quick bow, and that look in his eye of happiness, delight, pleasure, of simple joy which is there again to remind me again why I am still here with this eccentric old guy, who never kissed Marilyn Monroe or any other famous beauty.

    And, to his credit, today was the first time he'd mentioned Marilyn in years. Forgotten all about her, I'd assumed, but just as I shake my head at her resurrection, he takes my hand, "You're still better than Marilyn. Want more coffee?"

    I nod. What else to do? I nod, he gets the coffee, and we continue our long march to happily ever after.

Enough Said

     The old man sat still--two things he was good at, sitting and being still. Gifts of old age? Perhaps.

    But, if you asked him how he did it, how he maintained his serenity and calm, he would laugh, or, depending on the day, just nod, and say, "Practice. Practice."

    If you pressed the point, he'd explain that anything of value comes both as a gift and an intent, with a splash (one of his favorite words, splash) . . . with a splash of patience."

    So she tried it. 12 years old and curious, she was always asking questions, questions that annoyed some with her string of where's and when's followed with how's and whys, but she had her eyes open, that one, and took to sitting with the old man whenever she saw him on his porch.

    Which is where she was, where they both were, when the dog appeared, moving slowly, sniffing at grass, at the roots of the last elm on the boulevard, moving slowly, not in a hurry, just smelling his way down the block.

    "Smart dog," the old man said.

    "But slow," the girl said.

    "Well, they go together," the old man said.

    "Go together?" The girl liked questions and didn't mind raising her voice to show her skepticism (a word she had just learned) to the old man.

    "Slow tells you where you are, what you've seen or done--or, if you're a dog who sees the world with his nose, smelled. Look at him--he's exploring, not in a hurry."

    Which was true. The dog sniffed the length of the roots of the elm, the spotty grass and patches of dirt around the trunk, sniffed slowly and deliberately, then, lifted his leg, peed at the base of the tree, and hurried back the way it had come--job done.

    "Made his mark and moved on," the old man said. "Smart dog--left his mark and moved on."

    "Like a lesson?" the girl said.

    The old man nodded. "Guess so," he said.

    The girl stood up, grazed his hand with her fingers, left her mark, and the old man happy for the rest of the day.