Conch (Sept26)

The old man with the transistor this morning at his usual place beneath Block 7. Evenings it was mostly Block 9; occasionally lunchtimes he might be found around the side at the back of 6. Not often was he caught asleep mid-morning. Nights the man could be seen slumped over on his bench, the radio blaring and the sheets of the newspaper slipped higgledy-piggledy over the tiling. Naturally, for anyone else, the crooked raised arm like that denoted the phone; a precious conversation engaged. Close family member, daughter or son checking-in; a devoted grandchild. Not so much for a man of his generation. And like the Punjabi cycling loner at the Haig, this old man had never been seen in conversation with a single soul. Slowing the pace, bending the ear, harkening, — nothing whatever could be caught; not the smallest quaver, no vibration of any kind. Perhaps close and tight like that against an ear there was might be some whisper still audible, like from a conch shell. A delicate, tender voice, heard only by the person clasping close, holding on for dear life. From somewhere two or three streets away it must have been, a Buddhist chant was fluting over that night that might have caught the old man’s attention otherwise.