Holding on

"So what do you think of my monkey?" the stranger standing behind me asks after he closes the door.

"Your what?" I twirl around alarmed.

"My mon-keeeys," he wags his swollen hand toward some plastic figurines on the mantelpiece. "They are for my surrogate grandson. I've never seen my real grandchildren. I've waited for 24 years for my boys to come see me. They never do. That's when their mother kicked me out of the house. 24 years ago. And what good did that do? Now I'm 71 and alone and she's 67 and alone. Just a few streets away from here!"

He's wagging his swollen hand again. Bert: "Divorce is the perfect diet. I lost 30 kilo's in 3 months. Hey! Are you even listening to me?"

Me: "I'm listening."

Bert: "Then why don't you say anything?"

Me: "Because. I'm listening."

Wheezing, he grabs his chest. That's how I got here in the first place. Worried that a seemingly friendly old man pushing a walker at top speed in the heat won't make it home alive, I accompany him on his walk. So here I am in his living room, trying to decide when it's ok to leave and if I should continue to interview him.

As he pants, the moisture in his throat settles and he continues: "May an old man give you some advise? Don't give your children an inch. Not an inch! Before you know it, your boys are perming their hair and wearing earrings. Like queers! My Eric, we were like two peas in a pod. Loved that boy. Loved all of my children. That woman…!"

Me: "Outside we were talking about the street. Why are you proud of your street?"

"Who said anything about being proud? This street is full of foreigners and drug addicts. Should I be proud of this street?"

"Well, that's the title of the column I write: 'Proud of my street'. But ok. You're not proud. So why don't you move, Bert?"

"Move? Move? You can't replant an old tree. Besides, look at how beautiful this house is. And the gardens. Have you even looked around you? I work out there twice a week for 30 minutes. It's good for the arthritis… No. I'm president of the billiard club. I know every one here and they all know me. Why would I move?"

Me: "Shall we go outside and take a picture?"

"You're not going to put any of this in the news paper, are you? I forbid you to put any of this in the news paper."

Going out I notice portraits of his children hanging above the front door. Bert: "That's how I remember them. Before they left me. And that clock, that was my brother's and when he died it went to my sister and when she died, I got it. I'm the youngest of 18 children."

He magically seems to shed all of his anger and frustration at the doorstep. Once outside he turns back into the charming, crippled Magoo I thought I was interviewing. He shuffles as fast as he can to the street corner. Before we make it to the curb, five people have greeted him. "See everyone knows me. You're not listening again. Don't you ever smile? You've got to laugh once in a while. Look at me, everyone loves me because I always laugh. I'm 71 going on 17."

I peer at the old marine through the lens. He poses like he's been photographed a million times. "You sure are a beautiful, child. Not all made up and powdery. I'm looking for someone to take down my curtains and wash them. I can't do it myself. I've had two heart attacks already. If someone picks them up at say 7 am, they would be done again at 9 am. Then the nurse could hang them back up after she wipes down the windows."

No way. "I bet your new neighbor could do that for you."

"Ha!" There's 24 years worth of accusation in that 'Ha!'. He shakes his head. "Thanks for a lovely morning. Now, I'm going to eat lunch. And then I'll go sit on a bench in front of the YMCA and hope that my children walk by, like I've done since I retired. I worked for the same company for 40 years. Bet you won't be able to say that when you get my age."

As I bike back home, I think of a hundred things I should have said to him. But I'm not a shrink. I'm a journalist.

I come around a corner and I hear a pedestrian say: "Have you ever seen anything so precious?"

Ahead of me is an ancient couple sharing a double-seated scooter for invalids, sitting side by side. I pass them to take a frontal picture. The lady laughs when she sees me.

"We get so much attention with this thing, we're used to it," she explains.

"How long have you been together?"

"65 years."

"That's amazing. Congratulations."

"Well it's not all sunshine, but we wouldn't last a day without each other."