The Elder

I first saw him in the bakeshop of our ancient Scottish village in 2005. I have seen him many times since. I am not sure; perhaps he was in his late 60’s? Decked out in huge rings, some of value, others not, he flared his fingers like a fan while pointing his pastry choice to the baker. His nails were filed sharp slightly beyond his fingertips and through time, I came to realize that he commonly wore black polish on the nail of his left ring finger. His strong yet melodious voice was commanding but he responded kindly in conversation. There was a habitual nod with his affirmative. He had a squarish face with sharp jaw and cheekbones and his neck was thin with a prominent Adams apple. He was blond with indescribable blue eyes.

He was short and slight. His build was accentuated by perpetual black pants and a black turtleneck, which clung to his concave chest where his gold chains congregated. I once envisioned the many gold chains fighting for survival out of the deep pit of his chest. ‘See me, see me.’ They called out for recognition. One would never see him sans his exquisitely carved walking stick. It was old ivory: the head of an elephant with its trunk raised to the sky. He held it with his pinky finger circling the trunk and the remaining fingers covering the head. He was alone: Always! He wore two-inch high thick heels and, from the glimpses I got, black nylons. The town knew him well and greeted him with warmth and respect: it’s only gay elder. He had lived in the same flat for over 30 years. The consensus was that he had been solitary.

In 2011, I came upon him in the town’s general store. He was a ghost on wheels: the walking stick leaned precariously in the back saddle of his motorized chair. Death? Imminent, perhaps the next morning? And although not exceptionally warm, the day does not warrant his knit hat or wool jacket at least not for the rest of us. Townspeople hide their dismay at his deterioration with brief nods, knowing smiles and the common ‘hi ya’. Teenagers who knew him from babyhood hide their discomfort with his decline by mocking his attire with rolling eyes and disingenuous greetings.

He wheels to the counter and I see that he is wearing his thick high heels without nylons. There is white hair showing at the nape of his neck and unshaven translucent whiskers on his face. I am saddened when he says ‘Milk’ in a wispy voice. It is two liters. I am amazed that his naked hand is able to lift it to show the cashier. ‘Ah, that’s aright sweetie, I got it.’ says the cashier as she leans over the counter aiming the wand at the bar code on the plastic container. His dull blue eyes widen in pleasure with this simple exchange. As he rolls past me, his chin almost on his sternum, he whispers a rhetorical, ‘And how are you today.’

At midnight, I walk to the seawall to feel the wind on my face and look across the sea at my home. I am safe as one encounters only ghosts at this time of night. I hear something and retreat. He is at the north end of the seawall. He has slid out of his chair onto the wide balustrade that runs the length of the wall. He sat on the very end where the wall meets the sea. His arms are raised, a specter of loneliness against the stars. Though the wind swishes and clatters, I am able to hear a random echo of his deep lamentation: The sound of a lone wolf without his pack.

I was told that he used to play fiddle in a road show. There was also talk that he was a retired bank clerk, a runaway sailor, a priest and a …….