Old Man

I am the old man who sits on the porch and watches people go by. I am the old man who tosses bits of sausage to the neighborhood dogs. I never thought I would be the old man who sits on the porch and watches people go by. But here I am. And it’s not so bad. I watch the neighbor girl run by with her friend, both in bare feet. They are not girls, really. They are young women in the prime of their youth. They are taut and lithe and bright and shapely like fresh yellow roses newly bloomed. They nod and smile as they pass. In Bali, you are required to nod and smile, to acknowledge older people, and the bule, the European or American, is often afforded an extra bit of honor, for we are tamu, guests, and it is culturally important to be accommodating to guests. In the meantime, the big fat brown dog lumbers into the driveway, looking fatter than ever, and panting because the midafternoon is hot.  I fetch her a sausage from the kitchen, and fill her bowl with cold water. Now the girls come back with a small band of boys tagging along. These boys, though the same age, school friends, no doubt, are clearly lagging behind the girls in the maturing process. They are ragged and scruffed and ruffled while the girls are neat and pressed and tidy. The boys are rowdy, exuberant, excessive. The girls giggle and fold their arms. “Hello, Mister,” one of the boys says. The others nod in concert before returning to their performance for the girls. In America, people don’t say hi to old men on porches. They wonder why they are there. They seem vaguely suspicious. The big fat brown dog, vaguely suspicious herself, gives the young folks a wide birth as she waddles back toward her home. The late sun has descended now to the treetops and rolls down lazily from one limb to the next. It will be evening soon, and time for a coffee, and time for a slow and thoughtful cigarette. The truth is, I like being the old man who watches people go by. The truth is, I can be nothing else.