Regarding the title of this post, just let me add, No one cares, any how. Let's just say it has been a long and strange autumn. And now to what I was talking about when last we met. Or close to it, any way.
About Jack. I went back to my hometown for my 50th high school reunion, which was, all in all, a good experience. I also arranged to meet and old and dear friend who was not in my h.s. class, for lunch, along with another friend of ours from the "old days." This friend, whom I am calling Jack, was a larger than life character, a prodigy, wealthy and good looking, who had just sort of dropped off the radar. It was a long and complicated process to get in touch with hime and to set up a meeting. I could give the CIA and Homeland Security a few tips for reaching those who don't want to be found, but I did reach him, which is all that counts.
I had heard that he had disappeared after his wife died a couple of years ago, that he had sold his palatial home, that he was in a wheelchair, a drunk, a drug addict. And I'll admit that in those few times I actually reached him by phone, the conversations were bizarre. He had a host of charming memories of things we had done and the people we had done them with that never happened. Ideas forgotten in mid sentence, repeated questions, confusion about dates and place. But then, we all do some of that, don't we? Don't we?
So, as he requested, I called him when I got into town to remind him of the lunch we had planned for the next day. No answer. No answer late into the night. Early next morning, the third member of our party called to say he had reached Jack and he was expecting us. Lunch. 11:30.
Jack had moved into a one story home once owned by his family. When I approached the front door, I could see through the extensive front windows, the dining room with glittering chandelier, crystal, plates and cutlery, set for at least a dozen people. Another person, a youngish man ( to me that means 40ish) answered the door. Butler? House manager? Probably not in a golf shirt and Bermuda shorts (it was warm that weekend.)
And there was Jack. Leaning heavily on a walker, blonde hair now white, body thin, features old looking. Long hair works with a tan and blond hair. With white hair, it is just sort of creepy.
We sat in the den , an impeccably decorated, cozy room he said he seldom left. He keeps it at the temperature he likes, has a fire in the fireplace whenever he wants it, and seldom goes outdoors. Read: Never. The beautiful slate terrace visible just outside overlooks a valley of hardwoods. Inviting all weather furniture is scattered about, stone sculpture punctuates expert plantings.
The unknown man who answered the door turned out to be a friend and houseguest, a world traveler, from his tales, who has been in Antarctica six times. Funny, charming. Not exotic by the standard of Jack's friends. We talked at length and Jack broke down and cried once, when his late wife was mentioned. His memory and wit seemed sharp, no signs of drink or drugs. And no signs of food, either.
After a couple of hours, someone dropped a heavy hint about lunch, which passed unnoticed.
Into the afternoon, after a house tour, a discussion of the provenance of a number of pieces of art (We found these Carnival costume designs when we were in Venice...)I excused myself, citing a later appointment with a friend (whom I prayed would feed me.)With my pending departure, Jack cast about for food, which seemed to be an very short supply. That which he had was frozen and not promising. No wonder he's thin. And repeatedly, he urged for me to stay with him, in one of the guest rooms with a bed so high and enormous it would take me a ladder to get into it. No, thank you. Can you say "all the tea in China?"
It was a little bizarre, although not the strangest get together I have ever had. I don't know whether that says more about him or me. I want to go back, maybe in the spring when I plan to pass through town, collecting an old friend for a trip to New York. And next time I'll visit armed with a fully stocked picnic basket.
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