Breathing Space

The next day Ben was working on another paper when Dan came in and shrugged off his bag.

“Ready to listen?” he asked.

“Only if you’re not busy,” said Ben, looking up from his work.

“A moment,” Dan said, setting the bag down and going to the bar.  He came back with three beers.  Setting one down in front of his friend and pulling the other two to his side, he sat.

“An old man is in the hospital,” he began.  “His heart’s giving out.  He’s never really traveled, never really opened up to anyone.  He didn’t keep close with his family when he had one, he has no close friends.  No one has come to see him, it’s doubtful whether anyone knows he’s there.”  

He paused and took a sip of beer.

“Uplifting,” remarked Ben dryly.

“He doesn’t know how much time he has left,” said Dan.  “But he likes looking out the window.  It’s spring, maybe summer, and he likes the way the sun looks on the green leaves on sunny days, and he likes the way the cool white light looks on the rainy days.  Mostly he looks at the ceiling, he can’t stand the T.V.  He sleeps a lot, except sometimes he can’t seem to settle his mind down at night.  He likes looking out the window.

“One day,” Dan went on, “he gets a roommate.”

“I thought it was a visitor,” said Ben.

Dan set his beer down.  “Did I say visitor?” he said.  “I meant roommate.  It’s another old man, also apparently dying, also has no visitors.  Our old man doesn’t know his name, he doesn’t pay him any more attention than he has to.  He’s just glad he got to keep the side of the room near the window.

“The new guy talks,” Dan said, “a lot.  He seems to be talking to himself, except he keeps saying Roger.  Our old man isn’t sure if the new guy is calling him Roger, or if he’s talking like he’s on the radio, you know, ‘roger, Roger,” Dan made a hand gesture near his ear in explanation.

“I follow,” said Ben.

“Actually I’ve read they don’t really talk like that in real life,” Dan said.  “You know, ‘roger wilco, over and out.’”

“I think they do say roger,” said Ben.  “If I remember right, the only one they don’t say is over and out, and that was because one means ‘you talk now,’ but the other means, ‘don’t talk anymore.’  So saying both would be contradictory.”

“I’m not sure that’s right,” said Dan, “but I refuse to look it up right now.  Anyway, this old guy.”

“His neighbor talks a lot,” said Ben.

“Right,” said Dan.  “And after a while, our old guy gets to be pretty sure that his neighbor really is talking to him, except he can’t make out what he’s saying very clearly.  He has to hold his breath and listen, and then he can just make out the words, sort of a steady rambling mumble.  And over and over again Roger.”

“Is our old man’s name Roger though?” asked Ben.

“No,” said Dan.  “It’s not important to the story, but it’s Adam.”

“Just making sure,” said Ben.  He seemed to think.  “Adam seems like a young man’s name.”

“I know,” said Dan.  “But there must be old Adams out there, I figured why should they go unrepresented in fiction.”

“You’re going to call him Adam?” asked Ben.  “Or just the Old Man?”

Dan shrugged.  “I haven’t been worried about that,” he said.

“Does he have a last name?” asked Ben.

Dan thought for a moment.  While he was thinking he drank beer.

“Carter,” he said, setting down his glass.  “As of now, he’s Adam Aaron Carter.”

“Aaron,” said Ben.  “Somehow that’s a young man’s name, too.”

“Anyway,” said Dan.  “Our old man, he’s troubled.  He doesn’t have to go to the bathroom often, but when he does it’s a pain and a nuisance, because it’s hard to get up.  And they’ve got one of those plastic bins in the toilet, they’re keeping track of him, so he has to sit no matter what he has to do, so that’s another get-down-get-up ordeal just to get it over with.”

“Shared bathroom?” said Ben.

“Just the one,” said Dan.

“Wouldn’t the other man screw up their keeping track?” asked Ben.

“Excellent question,” said Dan.  “But what really bothers our old man,” he said, pressing on, “is he’s sure, as sure that he’s still alive, that his neighbor is staring at him when he gets up, when he shambles over and closes the door, and when he comes out and shambles back to his bed.  He never catches him looking, but he can feel those two eyes of his neighbor’s, like round black beetles piercing into him.  They bother him even when the door is closed.”

“Hmm,” said Ben, and took a drink.  His beer had maybe a swallow left; Dan was more than half through his first.  Ben, still listening to Dan, started gathering his papers together and putting them in his bag.

“One day, he’s not sure when,” Dan went on, “he speaks up for the first time.  He says to his neighbor -- what do you think he says?”

“‘Who’s Roger?’” suggested Ben after a moment.

“He says,” said Dan, altering his voice to be deeper and drier, and  “‘could you keep it down, Jack? We’re resting.’  Just like that.”

“Starting to snap,” Ben said, as if to himself.

“That’s what I thought,” said Dan.  “But the neighbor quiets down at once, he doesn’t hear from him again that day.  He looks out the window, it’s a rainy day, he looks at the leaves and it’s quiet.”

Dan finished his first beer.  “The next day,” he said, “his neighbor starts to talk to him more clearly.”

Ben shrugged on his bag and made preparations to rise.

“What does he say?” he said.

“Hey hey hey,” Dan said agitatedly.  “What is this?”

“Gotta run,” said Ben, “meeting someone at the library in half an hour.”

“What about old Carter?” asked Dan.

“I suspect he’ll keep,” Ben said.  “What does his neighbor say?”

“I’m not telling,” said Dan.  “You’ll have to come back.”

“Good answer,” Ben said.  He picked up his glass and swallowed the last of his beer.  “See you tomorrow.”

He left.  Dan sulked for a moment, took a drink from his second glass of beer, then took out a notebook and continued to write.