Vic was already old when I first met him. He had started out small and old age had made him even smaller. His skin was pearl-white and you could practically see right through it. His eyes were a washed-out blue kind of color that I couldn't imagine seeing in a young man's eyes. I met Vic just about every day. Whenever I came home from work, he would be out in his garden, which itself was small, hemmed in by the increase of concrete in the neighborhood. Every year, the sidewalk would get bigger, or someone would build a bigger fence, or one of his kids would need the driveway bigger for his new car. His garden would get smaller every year, but Vic would be out there; big garden, small garden, it didn't matter…Vic would spend the same amount of time working on it. I even thought it was pretty sparse and scraggly-looking, but I didn't say anything to him. You see, I was a hardcore biker back in those days, and the neighbors either avoided me or were cordial, which was even worse. Vic didn't do either; he was pleasant, not seeming to notice that I was a beefy guy with a black leather jacket and too many earrings on a bike that was too loud and an attitude that was even worse. He just smiled and waved, nice and sweet, pleased to meetchya.
After a couple of months, I found out a little more about Vic. I was working in the hospital cleaning floors, and the pharmacist asked me if I could drop off a bottle of pills in my neighborhood. I didn't know Vic, though I'd seen him in the neighborhood. I asked him what was wrong with Vic. Maybe he shouldn't have told me, but he did -- Vic had cancer. I asked him what kind and he just shook his head.
I dropped off the pills, feeling pretty weird. Vic thanked me and invited me in. I couldn't refuse. His house smelled like old people. We sat at his green linoleum kitchen table, sipping cheap beer from a can and talking. We talked for half an hour. The strange thing is, I don't think he said one word about what he did when he was young. I don't remember talking a lot, but I must have done almost all the talking. He just sat there with this smile that said that he had all day to hear what I had to say. And he was a good listener. He didn't ask a lot of questions, but you knew he was listening. He didn't get pushy, so you got to feeling that you could stop whenever you wanted to and it wouldn't bother him. So you generally kept talking.
I was pretty spooked at first, talking to this guy knowing that the clock was running and he had a disease running around inside him, killing him every second he was sitting there talking with me. After a while, I realized that it bothered me, but it didn't bother him at all. One day, I was talking to him about pulling weeds or something, and it just fell out of my mouth -- I asked him, "What's it like, knowing that you're going to die?" He could have given me a pseudo-philosophical "We're all going to die eventually" line, or maybe even get uptight about me asking. He didn't. Vic didn't even flinch. He answered as if I had asked him what fertilizer he used on his tomatoes.
He said that he figured there was a park in the center of town, full of trees. In one corner was a playground, and in the center was a fountain for the kids in the summer, and in the corner were a bunch of tables for backgammon and chess. Vic was partial to backgammon. He had an appointment to play backgammon with God every Tuesday afternoon. They would each bring a brown bag lunch. Vic brought the popcorn and God brought the iced tea. They would sit and play backgammon, listening to the children laugh, talking about whatever came into their heads. Once in a while, Vic would say something intriguing and God would say, "Hey Vic, that's kind of interesting. How would you like to check it out." So Vic's neshama would go looking for a body and a new Vic would be born in order to try out his idea. Then he would die, and the next Tuesday, he would sit down to play backgammon with God. They would play for a bit, munching popcorn and sipping iced tea, and after a few games, God would ask, "Oh, by the way, how did that idea of yours turn out?" So Vic would tell him.
Some people forget the idea that they came down to check out, some people even forget they have an appointment to play backgammon, some people go so far as to go around harumphing and denying that they ever played backgammon at all. They start to hold on tight to the temporary illusion that they came here to check out, saying that is the only thing. Kids are beautiful. They just came from the park so they still live by the rules of the park. They relate to everyone like they would relate to God, angels, souls, anyone they were used to meeting in the park. Some old people are happy. They are waiting for Tuesday. They have some really nice things to tell God, some pleasant conversation. They have remembered which things God likes to talk about. Some old folks look back and are worried that they won't have enough to talk about. There are others that walk around thinking that they have all the answers already. They have collected so much and that is their power and strength. Can you imagine?
After he told me all this, I just sat there, looking at Vic, not being able to say a word. He hadn't changed his expression, but he had just changed my world. He didn't realize what he had just said. I had always thought that a person should fight death with both hands and that meant fighting for life. He got me thinking that maybe I was wrong. Maybe the idea is to hold onto life with both hands, but when the door opens, let go and walk through.
I left home that winter. Vic usually left for the winter too. I got a letter from my folks the next summer. They said that when the summer people came back, Vic wasn't with them. I guess the that when the door opened up, Vic got up from his garden, brushed off the dirt, and walked through the door. I'd like to think he didn't look back.