someone i thought was dead

last night, my mobile lighted up and vibrated with an unfamiliar number blinking on the screen.

"hi. feeeon"
"hi, hello"
"i am the very old man whom you spoke to yesterday"
"oh..."

++++++

2 days ago, i met someone whom i thought was dead. how weird it is to be thinking of that about a person? and how "encouraging" to him if he ever see this note? but i doubt he'll ever do.

there's this very old and scrawny man living in my area, a very prim and proper person with a good command of english. he was always spotted with a big leather bag, a thick Pitman dictionary and a New Jerusalem Bible. i saw him a couple of times on feeder buses when i just moved to this vicinity, always sharing his stories to fellow commuters that he didn't know. i hadn't met him for more than a year, thus the thought of his death.

on tuesday, i saw him again. at the bus-stop. from a distance, i saw that he was speaking to a disinterested young boy, waving his hands while talking, and i presume he's telling his stories again.

the bus came.

i chose a seat near him and watched him speak to more people around him. then secretly fished out my camera and started to video his talk and snap a couple of photos. my heart had the desire to speak to him, but i didn't dare to. 'cos i know, i wanted more than just a simple conversation on a short bus ride.

the bus reached the interchange.

very carefully, he took all his belongings and stepped out of the bus slowly. and i followed, my heart thumping like it did whenever i drink some coffee. i took in a deep breath, and stretched out my hand to tap on his shoulder.

"yes?"
"hi uncle, i've seen you around for a few times. you had spoken to my dad before on a bus"
"oh did i?"
"yes. erm..... i. i was wondering. wondering if i can write a story about you."
"no no no! i don't want publicity. i don't want to be in the media. straits times came before but i don't want"
"ok.... but i'm not from the media. i write at my own leisure. and you're a very interesting person to write about. do you have a number that i can call?"
"yes. but it's not my number. i have no home. and i'm being taken care of by someone"

fumbling through my big and disorganized bag, i drew out my name card and gave it to him.

"my name is michael. M-I-C-H-A-E-L."
"hello uncle michael, i'm fion"
"ok, i will call you."

++++++

191108 - 12:52pm

met him again. at a stone table near home. my back was dampen with nervous beads of perspiration. i switch on my ipod and started to record as he spoke. his voice trembled with age, and started his story from the beginning - when he was borned in 2nd april 1894. i was awed by his memory and the detailed descriptions he gave, scribbled away busily.

at a point, he had a long pause and i gave him a prompting look. he said he wanted to wait for the plane to fly pass just in case part of his story wasn't properly recorded. and we laughed.

we stopped at 1899. 'cos he was hungry. before we parted, he said: i hope to tell you all of my stories in many sessions like this. you must based your novel on my facts very closely. but i don't want my photo to be publicized. i hope i can tell you all my stories till the last chapter provided the Lord Jesus allow, that i'm still alive.

my heart twisted and i smiled at him and thought: i don't want you to die. i walked him 1/2 way back to his block after him insisting that he knew his way very well around here. and we bid goodbyes.

he turned around and smile: i will call you again.

i don't know when. and it felt like tuesdays with morrie.