Old Joe and Jonas the neighbour

By Steven Kas

Seven anecdotes about two Canadian neighbors in the world-famous city of Niagara Falls, one is a born Canadian the other is an immigrant. One is a conservative, and the other is liberal. One washes his beloved cars - his got two -the other plants petunias and geraniums. They hardly agree on anything but live together in peace as inseparable good friends.

Plus, a generous selection of short stories, some humorous, others thought-provoking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Kas
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223858522

Steven Kas

Born and educated in Hungary, Graduated from the College of the Theatrical and Film Arts in Budapest as dramaturgist. (Theatrical equivalent of the book editor) His involvement in the 57 revolutions made his stay in the country impossible. To avoid imminent retribution, he left for Austria at 56' on Christmas night carrying his eighteen—month—old daughter. He settled in Canada. Without any marketable skills and no talent for languages, he became a perfect example of a "Jack of all trades" and made a decent living. Soon he realized writing in English was not a choice, he kept writing and publishing fourteen books in his mother tongue and published in Hungary with modest success. As a last chance for fame, he wrote and directed a short dramatic film for the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and won the "Best in Category" award in 1964 at the San Francisco International Film Festival, then the Salt Mine. With the opportunity and the means offered by the internet, for eighteen years he edited and published a highly respected online magazine; the Kaláka Literary Magazine for the Hungarian progressive literary left. He is 94 years old, living now in the Upper Canada Lodge with his daughter Nora in peace, happy with his life, well over the "best before" expiration date. Still working. Two novels are in the last stage of being published, and he is now writing a new one, well into the third chapter.        

Book preview

Translated 

from the original

Hungarian

by

the author.

A picture containing text, outdoor, sky, silhouette Description automatically generated

For Carol, my certified best friend and royal neg, for her unshaken belief in my potential and for her relentless encouragement.

You to Doris.

First

Anecdote

The writer introduces his hero and distances himself from all his actions, words, and thoughts, even though his family and acquaintances swear by the suspicious resemblance between the two people.

Old Joe... Well, well, we can’t deny Joe is an old man. He turns eighty tomorrow. There is not much to complain about, apart from the usual old-age dings, he is in good condition. Just a few days ago, one of the cashier girls in the store said when talking about Joe, that Joe is no more than seventy or seventy-two years old.

May God bless her for the gracious lie.

He lives the monotonous life of the retirees, takes care of the small garden, plants seedlings, weeds, cuts the grass and feeds the army of birds that grow every year. Of course, it was not easy to get used to doing nothing. For a few years after his retirement, he took on all kinds of part-time jobs, not so much for the money, although it played a part, but mainly to prove to the world that he was still needed.

Then, it turned out that he was not!

He threw his watch into the drawer, saying that he wasn't expecting anywhere, wouldn't be late, and that the watch was just unnecessary junk. He doesn't wear laced shoes; he only wears pants with an elastic waist, no belts, no suspenders, not to mention ties. He shaves once a week, and only because Mali — she is the wife — threatened to change the locks on the house doors if he dared to grow a beard.

Total, maximum retirement comfort, heavenly calm, only the harp music is missing in the background to complete the illusion. The need for a social life is perfectly satisfied by Willy Jones — he is the neighbour — although sixty-seven years old, he is considered almost a child. He retired two years ago from the Toronto transportation company; he took care of the city schedule for twenty years. The poor guy still shaves every morning, ties a tie, puts on a jacket, and at exactly half past eight, with a mug of coffee in hand, gets into his car, and drives away to the corner store to buy the morning newspaper. In his troubled dreams, he is fired and denied unemployment benefits, his wife files for divorce because she cannot pay the hair stylist’s bills, and the global temperature reaches forty degrees. He eats all the time out of boredom, has outgrown all his pants and plays poker on the Internet through the night.

Joe swore that he would teach him how to be old. It's not easy; he's already been through it.

Willy Jones's biggest problem is that he still believes that what I was plays some role in his daily life. Unless it's raining, they sit in front of Willy’s garage every morning with that inseparable mug of coffee. After discussing the daily here it hurts and hurts there and the depressed economic news, Willy begins his monologue:

— I had a service garage in Sixty-three, on the corner of St. George and Bloor... Or: ...I grew up on a farm, there was no relaxation for the child, got to work, or that week Nelly was the third, when you are twenty years old... piles up his successes... And then, he complains that Viagra doesn't help anymore. Joe listens patiently, full of benevolent patience. He knows that every new old candidate must pass this phase and be cured of the once I was disease and live out his remaining years in public respect, or everyone will avoid him like a leper, bored to death by his endless memories.

Don't get me wrong, Joe holds his memories with tender affection, especially the good ones, but they're not meant for anyone else... they're not suitable for entertaining... Who would care, for example, how it felt to see the Pacific Ocean for the first time, or how it felt to return home from a long trip? After so many years, warmth fills your heart when you think about it. Such and similar experiences, if they are mentioned, are only the company of Mali. One-to-one.

Still in the middle of his life, Joe heeded the advice of a wise guru that the secret to a balanced, happy life; one should know and accept one's limitations. The philosophy of measure yourself against the stars sounds good, but it only leads to endless disappointments in real life. He didn't have any problems until one fine day — oddly enough, that fine day came after his demotion to retirement — the limitation started to kick in.

It started with the usual, well-seasoned favourites causing heartburn and sleepless tossing in the middle of the night. The Mexican enchilada and Szechuan Shahabad were added to the list of forbidden pleasures. Then came the I don't know anymore fundamental limitations, like how many kilos is heavy? And where the hell did I put my glasses?

Little by little, a hefty list came together, not written down, but always as a reminder that don't even try, old man, it won't work. Just a few of the more important ones like:

He can no longer pee over the fence.

He can no longer run to reach the bus.

He doesn't even try to squat anymore because he won't be able to stand up.

He can no longer throw a cartwheel.

You are already paying for the car wash instead of doing it yourself.

He can no longer climb trees.

He can’t take Malika to dance.

He can't ride a bike anymore.

He can only pull up his pants, sitting.

He can't have children anymore... well, not that he really wants to, but still.

...and so on, increasingly saddening realizations that aging is not a joy.

*

— Where are you going?

—There’s no milk or birdseed for the morning.

—  You lost your mind? It’s ten o'clock.

—They are open until midnight.

—Drive carefully, it's dark.

—I'm not blind.

—Just deaf.

—I’m... he bit off the word, he knows from experience that it's better not to continue, a wrong word or a care              m          less emphasis can have serious consequences. The supermarket was surprisingly busy, he lifted the two bags of birdseed into the buggy, each weighing eighteen kilos, he strained his waist a bit, not the first time, he had already thought several times that he should buy a smaller bag, ten kilos, but he dismissed the idea because of the price. He will get over the backache, and it costs too much to feed the birds of the sky, which would be God's job, but if he doesn't feed them, they won't come, and the garden without birds... it's not a garden. He also bought two kilos of grapes and a package of chocolate and caramel bars. He was already at the cash register when he remembered the milk. Then he forgot. It has happened more than once that he collected everything else, but what he came for was left out. Then came the education at home.

Why don't you write down what you need? There is a hole on your brain; you don't even know if you're coming or going. Good to see you back home.

Then, he makes a list... and forgets it at home. He smiles under his breath and waves; he can afford it. I’m old.

He stood at cash register number three, Lori, the retired bank clerk, was serving the customers there, a well-built, tall woman who appeared on the horizon four years ago and since then, they regularly exchange their observations with Joe, regarding of the weather, cheeky tourists, or lower back pain.

—Hi! Good looking! – She greeted the old man and was reaching for the phone when she saw the two bags of bird feed in the shopping cart.

—Helper for cashier three, Lori shouted into her microphone.

The help is coming in handy... in the morning, he gets it out of the trunk, and somehow, maybe even Willy will be on hand to help.

There was very little traffic on MacLeod Road, and the neighbourhood seemed utterly deserted. Hard-working people live around there; they go to bed early and then comes another day in the salt mine.

A calico cat trotted across the road at the small park near the playground. He didn't even try very hard. He was confident that the car would stop. Joe braked and stopped anyway. He watched as the cat disappeared into the small grove. He is out mouse hunting, or maybe he had a date.

The evening was tranquil; the sky was clear, deep blue and full of stars. The smell of freshly cut grass and petunias and roses... he stopped the car and got out.  Slowly walked towards the playground and, after a bit of hesitation, sat down on the edge of the sandbox.

Does anyone see him? Looking around, some inexplicable guilt gripped him. What kind of thing is it for such an old man to intrude into the children's world? Is it appropriate? He reached into the sand; it was surprisingly warm, storing all the day's sunshine. Seized by an irresistible desire, he kicked off his sandals and stepped into the sandpit. He walked around with his bare feet, enjoying the caress of the warm sand - He suddenly remembered the beach in Malibu, his first encounter with the Pacific Ocean. The excitement of starting over, then the unfulfilled hopes and disappointments. But mostly the good. The blue sea and friends. I see - he thought and smiled to himself - one finds a new experience, a new joy where one does not expect it. He made the rounds at a faster and faster pace. He wanted to dance, but the silence of the evening beckoned him to behave. From time to time, he looked around as if he were afraid that some incomprehensible authority would catch him in the act of a prank. So what? He reassured himself that it is not stipulated that the use of the playground is subject to an age limit. I'm a tax-paying citizen, I have the right to enjoy the benefits provided by the city - if you don't like it, well... If I felt like it, I'd even swing.

THE SWING.

A whole row of swings stood just a few steps from the sandbox. Three for the little ones, three for the big ones, and the climbing, sliding, branchy-buggy gadget, motionless, with defiant impudence.

Well, you old troll, can you still swing? Or is it already on the list? Don't you know anything anymore? - The swing whispered in the evening silence.

And he was drawn to her with an irresistible force, like a giant magnet. The old man didn't even object; he stepped out of the sandbox and walked slowly and carefully toward the swing. He didn't even think someone might catch him; he had an invincible desire to swing. He turned his back on the middle swing, reached over, grabbed the chain with both hands and slowly lowered himself onto the seat. He closed his eyes – he learned a long time ago how to start. Kicking himself off the ground with a movement hidden deep in the subconscious, then leaning forward with his legs outstretched. Just like that. Flying higher and higher... wobble-wobble... the iron structure creaked under its weight. Joe enjoyed the long-forgotten, childlike joy with his eyes closed and breath held back.

When was the last time you took a swing? In the city park or under the big walnut tree on the farm?

No.

An unexpected, clear image flashed deep in his memory. The city slowly recovered from the death of the war; it was the first summer without air raids; hungry but dreaming of better days, it was already allowed to laugh.

Sunday. Picnic in the City Park. It's a festive occasion and a girl with freckles and pigtails. He doesn't remember her name; he is rocking a boat in the amusement park.

The old, rusty structure creaked, and he, standing, gritted his teeth, struggled to swing higher and higher so that the girl sitting in front of him, clinging to the side of the battered boat, could admire him. And he was filled with unspeakable pride when the attendant called out to him:

—Hey, young man, slow down! And he pulled on the brakes.

Neck, neck, neck, sixty years...sixty years!

The wind ruffled his thin, grey hair, caressing warm summer wind like long ago, as it swung higher and higher...

—Hey, old man, take it easy...

Joe let it go.

After that, for a long, long time, with his eyes closed, he enjoyed the swing and the memory, as well as that barely perceptible, rickety, old organ music squealing in the far distance.

**

Diagram Description automatically generated

Second

Anecdote

Neighbor Jimmy Kowalski returns

from the afterlife.

The old man has been standing in front of the living room window for half an hour with an empty cup of coffee. From time to time, he peeks out through the openings of the closed shutters, looks at the wall clock and shakes his head disapprovingly. It's already six o'clock, and there's no sign that the neighbour is awake. He's calculating his stock market losses on his computer, or he's already hit gout. The possibility that he might be asleep wouldn't even occur to him. Jonas is also retired; he wakes up early in the morning. Just like himself, he quickly sleeps off the fatigue of doing nothing. There is a simple reason for his impatience, great news in the life of the otherwise dull neighbourhood. You must tell someone because they will get sick if the exciting news is stuck inside their gut.  Jonas is a good subject; he loves juicy gossip.

At ten minutes past six, the door of the neighbour’s garage finally slowly rises; Willy steps out into the morning sunlight, looks around the quiet street, as he does every morning, first to the right, then to the left, not to miss the order even by chance. Then, having found everything in order, he puts the two garden chairs on the shady side , takes the coffee mug from the wall shelf, sits on the chair on the left, and waits.

Old Joe fills his mug with fresh coffee and walks awkwardly across the road.

—  Morning

—  Good morning...

They greet each other so economically, why waste time and energy. Then, after getting over the formalities, they take a sip of the coffee in sync.

—We're going to have a nice day... said Willy Jonas

-—It is time to.

—It's our turn...

—  Yes!

—  Now it's raining somewhere else...

—  Somewhere it's always raining, somewhere it's always nice weather...

—  It's the order of the universe.

—  Here and there.

With such and similar wisdom they prove to each other their mental freshness.

—I've felt for days that the weather will change... my left shoulder won't let me sleep."

—The cat has been poking me since three, I’m on his side, he wants the whole bed.

—I rubbed it with Voltaire, but it didn't help... finally I got up after four.

—It's a waste of money... have you tried holy water? The old man meant it as a joke but was the only one who laughed at it.

Joe takes a swig from the coffee and puts the mug on the floor next to him because an effective presentation requires both free hands.

Drama break. Then:

—They brought home Jimmy Kowalski.

Jonas turns to the old man in disbelief.

—You're kidding.

—  Scouts honour.

—  He is supposed to kick the bucket any day, as you said.

—  Yes! He's been in a coma for two months.

—  Are you sure about this? Who told you?

—  Who? Kowalski himself. Last night, while we were having dinner, the phone rang. That was Jimmy. I almost fell off my chair. He sounded like someone calling from another world. He tells me that he’s starving and has nothing to eat at his house. Would I go shopping for him?

—So, what about the preacher?" Isn't he Jimmy’s best friend?

—  Oh, not for a long time. Last fall, when he brought him home from rehab, he swore he would never drink again. Jimmy was very scared; he vowed to heaven and earth, on the Bible, that he never wanted to see booze again. Then, before the holidays - preacher Paul caught him stoned half dead. He reminded him that he swore on the bible! Jimmy told him where to put his Bible, and Paul told him that he no longer wanted to save his body or soul and, against all sound Christian principles, sent Jimmy to hell. So, he chose me to keep him from starvation.

—Well, I don't envy you for the glory.

—It's no problem; I went to his house for the list. The man was sitting on the sofa in the living room where the paramedics had put him. I was shocked by how he looked. Forty kilos, bone, skin, the colour of wax. I knew the wild Jimmy fifteen years ago; he was very good-looking and