In society we tend to associate with folks like us—'birds of a feather flock together'—but ironically, difference—the abnormal—is what we remember: the funny face, the quirky personality, and the strange way of dressing. Take Mickey Kruench.
Two rides—and several waiters—are seated in the customer lounge when I check. "All set?" I ask a young man with a shaved head and multiple earrings.
The young man puts down his newspaper and stands.
My eyes shift to an elderly man in a plaid shirt. I watch his green eyes, behind thick glass lenses shift to the young man; suspect he's hard of hearing; probably didn't hear the question. With my hand, I motion him to follow. Then I walk briskly out to the van; watch as the elderly man, using the hand holder above the door, awkwardly climbs into the front seat.
I settle into the driver's seat, adjust the mirrors, put on my seat belt, and turn to face the elderly man. "Where are you going?" I ask.
Visibly tired from the ordeal of getting into his seat, he relaxes for a few seconds before turning his head. Despite the ordeal his face has a peaceful look. But it's evident by his calm look: He didn't hear the question.
I make eye contact, point to the log sheet, pick up a pen. I can sense—by his body language and a certain concentration in his eyes—he understands there's something he isn't hearing.
"My hearing's not very good. Damage from the war," he explains, his way of asking me to speak up. Then he turns and lowers his head to the left to catch the question with his right ear.
"Where are you going?" I repeat.
This time he understands, replies "Erskine Road, by Lafayette. And my name is Duchette, a good Irish name," he adds with a chuckle. "Yep, an eighty-five-year-old Vet."
I exit the lot, head west on King, then north on Division, bound for St. Simone. I'm well down Notre Dame Road before I realize I haven't recorded the young man's exact address and last name.
"Forgot one," I mutter, almost to myself, pick up the log clipboard; balance it on my right knee and retrieve a pen from the empty coffee cup I use as a holder.
"I thought you did," says the young man from directly behind me. "Kruench, on Shingle Lane... by the way, do you remember me? I was in your class. I remember us watching Pole to Pole."
"Michael Palin...The Monty Python guy," I reply, nostalgically recall my classroom attempts to give uninspired students a world view through humor. "Grade ten?"
"Grade ten."
After a long pause—and silence in the van—I blurt out, "Mickey Kruench!" as my subconscious feeds me the name. (Whenever I worry about the Alzheimer's gene—and I do—I remind myself of my uncanny ability to recall names. It sometimes takes a while but, if I focus, I can draw them out).
"That's right," replies Mickey with surprise and appreciation; like most people, it pleases him to be remembered.
"So, what are you doing with yourself?" I ask.
"Uhm... odd jobs," he replies reluctantly.
"Got to pay the bills, right?"
"Right... Well, I took communications."
"Where...? At the U of W...?"
"Yes."
"With the intention of doing what...?"
"Ohh... getting into film, and writing... I wouldn't mind traveling and doing what Michael Palin did."
"Base to shuttle," barks the dispatcher over the mic. "Could I have an ETA?"
YOU ARE READING
CONFESSIONS
ContoInside the courtesy shuttle, people confessed very personal and intimate, sometimes awkward things. I didn't have my white shirt on backward or wear a cloak. But the 'parishioners' revealed things they'd never tell their friends or family. It often...
