He sat disconsolate on the concrete ledge of a street level window. Both of his hands were clasped over the handle of his cane as he leaned forward to balance himself. He was taxed by his black suit and tie. Clearly it was not appropriate to a hot Los Angeles afternoon. I asked him if he needed some help.
He declined assistance. "I'm ninety-two," he said. It sounded as if he was protesting his age or my question. I was not sure so I decided to proceed on my own way. I stopped when he continued:
"It was two days before they found me on the floor, the medics I mean."
There was more.
"My girlfriend didn't lift a finger as I lay in bed. Didn't bring me a glass of water. Two days, she sat and watched television. Then she left."
"For good?" I asked.
"You might say that. On the other hand, I spent big bucks on that broad."
I had several questions about his transition from lying prone on the floor to lying in his bed. "No hospital?" I thought. I decided to forego and explanation in favor of more important matters.
"Did she get her hands on your checkbook?" I inquired.
"Nah," he said, "she has three times the money I have. What's more, last I heard, she was on a cruise ship with another rich guy."
Three things were apparent. He was rich, there was life in the old bones, and goin's on going on.
He continued.
"Don't look now. See that woman crossing the street? She sits at my table at the home. She thinks she's the Queen of Sheba. She says she was married, but I say she's an old maid."
The woman was tall and well proportioned. She approached us, her head turning neither right nor left.
"Where are you headed Hilda?" he asked.
She answered without the slightest interruption in her stride, "I have an appointment with some friends." There seemed to be an emphasis on the word, "friends".
"You know," he mused, "I came home a year ago. You know it was ten months before anyone said, "Good morning." He was silent for a moment, then he brightened.
"Here comes another witch."
Indeed the comment was unkind, but the description somewhat accurate. She was pushing her shopping cart before her as she stopped in front of us. She was small and wizened, but immediately articulate.
"Where was you born?" she asked, without referencing either of us.
"New York," I said, and he echoed, "Brooklyn."
"Ah," she said with disgust, "Americans."
"You don't like Americans?" I asked.
"I love Americans." She hastened to add. "It's just I vant to hear and speak mine own langvige." She mentioned a town in Czechoslovakia whose name was incomprehensible to me.
"You live in one of these rest homes?" I inquired.
"I live in mine own home. Three rooms, and I have a house in Long Island. I rent it, but only to Jewish people. You Jewish?"
"No, I have a Goyisher kopf," I answered.
"C'mon, you Jewish," she insisted as she left us.
"Another rich broad," said my elderly companion, who arose from his cramped sitting position. We walked to the corner and I made as to leave.
"One more thing," he said, smiling. "There's a guy at my table. He's blind, but he's funny. He asked me one day, "Why are we here?" I said, "I don't know."
"And he said, 'We're here because we're here.'"
Kind of a profundity.
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