The General

The part of Manchester that I live in is cold, gray and drab. Happily, this is just the surroundings and not the people. People from this part of England are a wonder to behold, and I could be quite content to watch their procession down the high street as a form of entertainment that often outshines theater.

I have been lucky to know a great many of these colorful people to nod a good morning to. Sadly, some of them have been lost to me as their lives and circumstances have changed. The Army Man is one of them. A man whose presence was always familiar, and taken for granted, until his unexplained disappearance a few years ago. I had always imagined that one day we would have some interesting conversation that would seal our friendship for years of nodding hellos to come, but that looks less and less likely now.

This story is for all those people that I have wanted to connect with and somehow never had the chance. It is based on The Army Man of my town and is a tribute to his regular timekeeping habits.

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Every morning, at 7.57am, I would arrive at the bus stop having just missed the 7.55am bus. I would wait in a state of agitated frustration for the 8.05am bus, knowing that I would be late into the office again. It didn't matter what I did; change my alarm clock, skip breakfast or leave five minutes early, I would always miss that early bus.

It was during one of these wrist-watch glancing waits that I first noticed 'The General'. I called him 'The General' as a mental nickname. He stood at about 5'7", although his demeanor made him look nearly six inches taller. I guess I thought him a retired military man due to this ability to hold good posture and his general air of quiet authority. He always carried a neat and freshly folded edition of the morning paper under his arm and would take the brim of his flat cap between his thumb and forefinger in a deferential nod if a woman passed him by. Often they would be young and giggle at such an old-fashioned display of chivalry, but he would simply smile and give the courteous salute again before continuing his journey.

I would see him stroll by on the opposite pavement every morning at 7.59am. This meant that he was sat on the bench looking up at the War Memorial at exactly 8am each day. Five minutes later my transportation would arrive and The General would become another footnote in my daily events--a part of the scenery in my life that would be sure to reappear, like a five o'clock shadow of stubble, the following morning.

Some things in life are just always there come rain or shine, snow and ice; the General was as much a part of my routine as missing the 7.55am bus had become. It's true that you never know the precise minute that a headache leaves you or that how the jeans you wore last summer suddenly don't fit anymore. But it is also true that when you do realize these things they are obvious, and when I look back on the day The General was 'wrong', I wonder if I could have done anything differently.

This particular morning there was something 'off' about his appearance, and I found myself staring at him instead of alternating between my wrist and the timetable.

He shuffled across the street at 7.59am as usual, and he was dressed as he normally was: a crumpled great-coat, in all weathers, perma-pleat pants with a high-waisted, well-oiled leather belt, crisp, cotton shirt, that had once been white, buttoned to the neck, and the cap perched deliberately on top of his pepper-gray hair that sent the faint trail of Bay Rum Hair Tonic vapors along the breeze.

He sank, in a somewhat unusual manner, down into his place on the War Memorial bench, and I was so captivated by what ever it was that was different in his countenance that I nearly missed the 8.05am bus.

All through work I got a momentary memory flashes of his pale and papery-skinned face. I found myself replaying the way he had walked and then sat down, as if I watched a bizarre piece of cine-film across my mind.

My thoughts were still clouded as I took the bus home. Typically, I would alight at the stop before the War Memorial, to save doubling back at the pedestrian crossing, but I could see the outline of a man sat on the bench and my concern made me stay on until the terminus.

What was I going to do? Go up and say that I was a nosy stranger that had been watching him for weeks and wondered if he was alright? My lips had been turning into a half-smile of embarrassment, which left me as I approached him. I had the mobile phone to my ear before I reached his side, and the ambulance was on its way.

He was alive, but strangely lop-sided. Half his face was too relaxed to even fight gravity at the mouth. He had soiled himself and looked thoroughly frightened in the one expressive gray eye that teared as I soothed him as best I could. He had no voice to speak of. The stroke had left him with crude gurglings as his only form of communication but his one good hand grasped my coat gratefully. Finally, after ten hours, someone had come to help him.

I never did see The General again. I called the hospital a few days later, but there was very little information they could give to non-family members. I never did miss the 7.55am bus after that. My manager joked how my time-keeping had turned around. I find myself wondering, though. What drove him to sit at the War Memorial at 8am, precisely, every day? I guess I'll never know.

(1025 wds)