The Old Man
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One mild one only.
Description: A son reflects on his uncomminicative father.
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The Old Man doesn’t say much, not to me anyway. He communicates with a series of grunts, nods and hand gestures. He’ll say a few words from time to time, if I make the effort and probe him with an open question that can’t be answered with ancient body language that only he and his contemporaries can really understand. Inevitably these verbal communications will be short and pragmatic and then we resume back to standard non-communication.
This isn’t to say that The Old Man doesn’t communicate. He does. With others he talks more openly and more readily. People on his own level or who he feels he can relate to often get advice from The Old Man. He is, however, very much a doer and not a talker.
My lifestyle, career and financial choices have been a burden on him since I was very young. A burden, I suspect, that has caused the vacuous space between us. I can understand this of course. I’m different to him and I suspect somewhat of a disappointment.
So when The Old Man decided to fly six thousand miles to see me I was surprised to say the least. I was expecting to be embraced by The Old Man during this time, maybe he would impart some old world advice upon my new world ears, maybe he would congratulate me, maybe he would embrace me in a hug or even just a handshake.
I was excited to see how he would be so far from where we usually encounter each other. Would the Orient soften him, would memories of his forays into this world in the past bring nostalgia to his heart that would motivate him to tell stories of his past exploits? Would he get drunk on expensive Guinness and reveal himself to me for the first time?
The answer was as obvious to me now as it should have been then. He was the same, The Old Man.
As the days went by I watched him as he handled the Orient like I knew he would; he took it straight on, punch for punch and kick for kick, despite his age and that place’s craziness. There were a few moans and groans but not more than any person who finds themselves in such frantic worlds.
For a person from the relative calm of Northern Britain, Asia can seem like another planet. The World seems to travel around the sun faster here, the people are more numerous yet less obvious and their personalities are reflective of the pace at which their world moves.
By the end of the week I was ready to leave and return to my less crazy Asian island. My experience with The Old Man had been normal, I was glad for that, but he hadn’t surprised me with affection or advice, which is what I had hoped for. On the last day he had asked if I could take him shopping for souvenirs for the family back home. We walked from our hotel to the day market five minutes away. We walked slowly to save his legs and successfully dodged the tsunami of people heading in the opposite direction.
When we arrived at the market he picked out souvenirs and made me haggle with stall owners over prices. As we made our way through the cramped market street, so overly populated that two people could not walk side by side, I noticed a homeless guy crawling across the floor on a wooden board; his legs were useless and his body was emaciated. He was as filthy as a man could be and his clothes were nothing more than hanging rags. He was begging with a steel pot and picking up cigarette butts from the floor. I approached and gave him a small note, he thanked me and I walked on.
I thought at that moment I saw a look of scorn on The Old Man’s face. I ignored it and continued to search the stalls for small gifts. A few minutes later I realised I had lost The Old Man in the crowd, I hastened back in the direction in which I’d come and saw The Old man emptying half of his cigarette packet into his hands. What’s he doing, I thought? He emptied about twelve cigarettes into the palm of his hand, placed his cigarette box back in his pocket and fished out a note whilst doing so. He walked back over to the homeless guy who had now passed him in the crowd. He placed the cigarettes in his hand and the note in his pot, turned around and walked away before the homeless guy had a chance to thank him.
As he approached me he said, “Poor bastard is picking up butts off the street.” We walked on.
In that moment I realised that it wasn’t what The Old Man said that made him great. It was what he did. What he does is the reason why I so often wish I could have been like him.
Swearwords: One mild one only.
Description: A son reflects on his uncomminicative father.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Old Man doesn’t say much, not to me anyway. He communicates with a series of grunts, nods and hand gestures. He’ll say a few words from time to time, if I make the effort and probe him with an open question that can’t be answered with ancient body language that only he and his contemporaries can really understand. Inevitably these verbal communications will be short and pragmatic and then we resume back to standard non-communication.
This isn’t to say that The Old Man doesn’t communicate. He does. With others he talks more openly and more readily. People on his own level or who he feels he can relate to often get advice from The Old Man. He is, however, very much a doer and not a talker.
My lifestyle, career and financial choices have been a burden on him since I was very young. A burden, I suspect, that has caused the vacuous space between us. I can understand this of course. I’m different to him and I suspect somewhat of a disappointment.
So when The Old Man decided to fly six thousand miles to see me I was surprised to say the least. I was expecting to be embraced by The Old Man during this time, maybe he would impart some old world advice upon my new world ears, maybe he would congratulate me, maybe he would embrace me in a hug or even just a handshake.
I was excited to see how he would be so far from where we usually encounter each other. Would the Orient soften him, would memories of his forays into this world in the past bring nostalgia to his heart that would motivate him to tell stories of his past exploits? Would he get drunk on expensive Guinness and reveal himself to me for the first time?
The answer was as obvious to me now as it should have been then. He was the same, The Old Man.
As the days went by I watched him as he handled the Orient like I knew he would; he took it straight on, punch for punch and kick for kick, despite his age and that place’s craziness. There were a few moans and groans but not more than any person who finds themselves in such frantic worlds.
For a person from the relative calm of Northern Britain, Asia can seem like another planet. The World seems to travel around the sun faster here, the people are more numerous yet less obvious and their personalities are reflective of the pace at which their world moves.
By the end of the week I was ready to leave and return to my less crazy Asian island. My experience with The Old Man had been normal, I was glad for that, but he hadn’t surprised me with affection or advice, which is what I had hoped for. On the last day he had asked if I could take him shopping for souvenirs for the family back home. We walked from our hotel to the day market five minutes away. We walked slowly to save his legs and successfully dodged the tsunami of people heading in the opposite direction.
When we arrived at the market he picked out souvenirs and made me haggle with stall owners over prices. As we made our way through the cramped market street, so overly populated that two people could not walk side by side, I noticed a homeless guy crawling across the floor on a wooden board; his legs were useless and his body was emaciated. He was as filthy as a man could be and his clothes were nothing more than hanging rags. He was begging with a steel pot and picking up cigarette butts from the floor. I approached and gave him a small note, he thanked me and I walked on.
I thought at that moment I saw a look of scorn on The Old Man’s face. I ignored it and continued to search the stalls for small gifts. A few minutes later I realised I had lost The Old Man in the crowd, I hastened back in the direction in which I’d come and saw The Old man emptying half of his cigarette packet into his hands. What’s he doing, I thought? He emptied about twelve cigarettes into the palm of his hand, placed his cigarette box back in his pocket and fished out a note whilst doing so. He walked back over to the homeless guy who had now passed him in the crowd. He placed the cigarettes in his hand and the note in his pot, turned around and walked away before the homeless guy had a chance to thank him.
As he approached me he said, “Poor bastard is picking up butts off the street.” We walked on.
In that moment I realised that it wasn’t what The Old Man said that made him great. It was what he did. What he does is the reason why I so often wish I could have been like him.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from South Shields, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.