Reality check bounces

Bob Morrissey

Every so often, my condo neighbour checks in on me — especially if she hasn’t seen me for a bit.

I enjoy these unexpected visits because, for one thing, opening my front door helps air out the place; helps lessen that musty old-man smell. I never invite her in; instead we make small talk on my welcome mat. The conversation usually goes something like this: she’ll ask “how’ve you been?” and I’ll say “just fine … and you?” She’ll say “I’m good,” followed by an awkward pause, and then, “well, take care of yourself … must be off; have a doctor’s appointment in an hour.”

And that’s it. Not even a trite “can I borrow some sugar?” or “have you anything for a yeast infection?” We’re like two old tugboats passing in the night; me going on 83, she a wrinkle or two younger. Both needing an overhaul. With only one thing in common: urinary tract infections.

Here’s the thing: I’m wise to these little visits. She’s just curious to see if I’m still alive. She’s concerned because she hasn’t seen me for a while. My car hasn’t moved in a week. Curtains always drawn. No curry smells in the hall. No accordion sounds.

I guess I should be grateful for her concern. Fact is, I’d gladly welcome such an intrusion at my cabin in the woodsy Laurentians. I’ve often wondered what would happen if I died there — other than a nice upward bump in the property values. It’s so off the beaten track it could be months before someone found me. Last  time I had visitors was two years ago, when two Jehovah’s Witnesses came knocking. But they won’t be back because they left thinking they had converted me. I even let them baptize me! That just leaves the guy who scoops out my septic system, and he only comes once every three years.

Anyhow, my neighbour’s visit got me thinking about someone I hadn’t heard from in a while. Jerry and I became friends about 10 years ago while members of the same golf club. He left the club five years ago, but we kept in touch with long yearly phone calls before each golf and curling season. Jerry is in his mid-70s and shares a house with his longtime girlfriend, also up in years.  They’ve lived in Île Perrot for decades, 15 minutes  from my condo.

When I hadn’t heard from Jerry before this curling season, I wondered what was up. I phoned but he wouldn’t pick up. He didn’t even answer my emails.

But I pestered him so much he finally opened up. And it wasn’t pretty.

“I’ve been trying to reach you — is everything OK?” I asked, via the phone.

Silence.

“Jerry?”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” he moaned. “I’m so ashamed. I’m so depressed I haven’t been out of the house in months.”

“What happened?”

“It’s personal; it’s so bad I can’t even talk about it.”

“But maybe I can help,” I said.

More silence.

Then: “Nobody can help me.”

“Jerry, you’ve got to let it go,” I said. “Hey, it’s me — your friend, Bob.”

And, finally, after more prodding he finally opened up.

“I met this girl on the internet,” he started. “She was 35 and beautiful.”

Right there the man in me wanted to interrupt and ask: “How was she in bed?” But this was hardly the time.

“We went out for three months,” Jerry continued, “and after going through all my money she dropped me. Now I’m broke. I wonder if you …”

Sensing Jerry might be on the verge of asking me for a loan, I interrupted with, “I know just how you feel, pal. If it weren’t for dog food, I’d starve.”

Nicely diverted, Jerry continued. “It’s all one big racket. They take all your money and then move on to the next sucker. She’s not in this alone. There’s guys involved.”

When I asked how his longtime girlfriend was taking it, he said: “Not well — she’s been at her mother’s the last six weeks.”

I said, “Look, keep talking to her. We all make mistakes. Maybe she’ll forgive you. She might even give you a weekly allowance.”

Then I asked Jerry if he went to the police.

“There’s nothing they can do about it,” he said. “No one forced me to hand over the money. When I confronted the woman, she just laughed at me.”

Another hesitation.

“To be honest, I’m a little afraid of these people. God knows what they’ll do if I cause trouble. I’ve been getting some weird phone calls lately. And I think I’m being watched.”

I hung up on Jerry and the next week I drove past his house on three afternoons just to see whether his car was in the driveway. Was he feeling well enough to leave the house? He wasn’t. Maybe I’d catch him shovelling snow. I didn’t.

A week later, I phoned Jerry for an update.

“Feeling better, I hope?”

“Feeling worse,” he replied. “Now they’re watching me. Last week I saw this same guy driving his old car past my house. it happened three times.”

All I could think of to say was: “Keep me posted.”