The Bigger They Get

Knee Guy died last week.  He was 74.  His obituary, including a photo, appeared in our weekly paper this Wednesday.  It’s good they printed a photo or we wouldn’t have known Knee Guy had died or that his real name was George.

Knee Guy had lived in a tidy bungalow around the corner and a few houses down since before we moved to this neighborhood seventeen years ago.  He had a knee replacement several years ago and soon after, he began taking frequent doctor-ordered walks around the block.

We became acquainted with Knee Guy not long after his surgery.  At first when he’d pass our house during his walks, we’d wave to each other and call out how are you today? as he limped by.  He began stopping to chat whenever we were outside and before long we knew a lot about him.  He lived with his wife, a woman we’ve never met but whom he spoke of with pride and obvious affection.  The couple’s daughters and grandchildren were the bright, shiny apples of his eye. He was a truck driver before his first retirement and he worked as both a crossing guard and a church custodian before he retired a second time.  He loved the Jersey shore.  He worked hard to keep his house and yard up.  He enjoyed sitting on his front porch, and keeping up with local politics.

His chats grew longer and longer and it soon became apparent that more than anything, he loved to talk.  And talk.  And talk some more.  And keep talking.  But he was always pleasant and friendly.

And we are unfailingly polite, so we listened.  And listened.  And listened some more.  And kept listening.

Because our initial “wave and howdy” contacts had been casual and brief and because later conversations were long and hard-to-get-a-word-in-edgewise ones, we never learned Knee Guy’s name.  How, without looking like an idiot, do you ask someone who has shared so much of his life story with you what his name is?  It’s awkward.  And vaguely ridiculous.  So, when speaking of him among ourselves, we referred to him simply as Knee Guy.

As in, Here comes Knee Guy.  I’ll go inside and if he’s still talking in ten minutes, I’ll yell out that you’ve got a phone call.

Or,

Quick, get inside. No, leave the groceries in the car, Knee Guy is coming.

It’s sad and embarrassing to admit that eventually and more often than not, we began ducking Knee Guy.  We had discovered that it was much easier to make sure a conversation with him never began than it was to try to end one.  We speculated that he was still taking walks long after his limp disappeared because his wife demanded he keep taking walks to give her an hour of much needed peace.

And now Knee Guy’s gone and I realize I’m going to miss him.

So, Knee Guy?  George?

Rest in peace.

The neighborhood is going to be awfully quiet without you.

This entry was posted on Friday, November 14th, 2008 at 3:07 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.