He fell, as if in slow motion, like watching a movie. If I had moved quickly I could have stopped his fall. But I didn’t move. I didn’t move at all. I stood and watched. He was quickly on his hands and knees. A well-dressed, middle-aged man waded through the few spectators to offer his assistance. He held the old man by the arm, speaking quietly to him as he helped him to his feet. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but I noticed that the old guy kind of shrugged him off.

I shook my head back and forth, as people sometimes do when confronted with something objectionable or unfortunate. There’s a safe distance to a slight movement of the head. It’s a public concern, non-involved, for the benefit of others. I remember feeling embarrassed while standing there, shaking my head slowly back and forth, allowing someone else to help while being the closest.

After he was on his feet, the few of us that stopped to watch and started to walk away, going our separate, unattached ways after seeing that there was nothing else to see. I was just a short distance away when I heard the voice.

“Hey, slow down. Can’t you hear me? What’s wrong with you? I can’t walk that fast.”

I didn’t stop, just slowed my gait a little.

“C’mon, I can’t keep this pace up.”

I stopped abruptly and turned around. It was him. He was leaning over, his hands on his knees, panting, angrily looking at me. “Why didn’t you help me back there? You were right next to me. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any compassion? That other guy that helped me was a minister. They’re supposed to help. Why didn’t you? All you had to do was reach.”

I turned around. I wanted to put distance between him and me, in a hurry. But the voice followed me and brought the old man with it. I quickened my pace. I was surprised he could keep up. After a good long block I stopped and again turned to confront him.

“Damn,” he said, “it’s about time. How long you think I could keep that pace up? I’m an old man. And now, hello, my name is Hubert, and I’ve always hated that name.”

“I don’t care what your name is,” I said, “What do you want?”

“Wait, while I catch my breath,” he said, leaning over, his hands on his knees again. Then, after a few seconds, “Whew! I’m an old man. Give me a break. Twenty years ago I could have kept up with you, but not now. How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t care how old you are,” I responded. “What do you want? Why are you following me?”

“Calm down kid,” he said. Don’t get angry with me. I’m angry with you. Remember that. You should have helped me and you didn’t.”

I turned around.

“Don’t take off on me again,” he said loudly. “You want me to have a heart attack? You want my death on your conscience?”

“What the hell do you want with me?” I yelled back at him, turning again, to face him. I stared at him as he straightened from his crouch, still gasping for air, not seriously though I thought. He looked stronger now. He was taller, years ago. He had taken on an old man’s stoop. My father used to say that he was six feet tall until he was sixty. Gravity brought him down, he said, along with degenerative disk disease and other old man maladies.

The old guy looked into my eyes. It was unnerving. His eyes were dark green, like they were colored with a crayon. They weren’t bright, just green, thick. His dirty hair hung near his eyes. His face belied the anger he, I thought now, was trying to convince me of. Maybe he wanted sympathy.

“I don’t want sympathy. I need a little rest,” he said, while taking in a deep breath, standing as tall as he could, his face now mildly contorted, showing some discomfort. “I need a place to stay for a couple of days,” he said.

What response was there? He was inviting himself over.

He laughed out loud, his mouth wide open, his very white teeth shining brightly in contrast to his tanned face. “Who would have thought I would have ended up like this? Who would have thought I would have to ask someone like you for help.” He stopped abruptly, like he was thinking, and then said, “And I’m gonna help you too.”

Help me? Was that what he just said? He was going to help me? I stood there, dumbfounded.

“You should see yourself,” he said. “You look dumbfounded.”

I started to gain some composure. “What do you expect me to do right now?” I asked. “Do you really expect me to take you home with me?”

“Of course I do,” he responded quickly. “You’re alone. There’s no one to say no anymore, no one to answer to. No wife anymore, is there? I’ll only stay a couple of days.”

I didn’t answer him but he was right. Maybe I looked divorced, I thought.

“You look divorced,” he said.

“What did you just say?” I asked, not believing I heard right.

“I said you look divorced. Everybody your age is divorced nowadays, aren’t they? How many of your friends are still married? Don’t they just have partners now?”

He waited for a response but I but I didn’t know what to say, and then he said, “You mean I’m right? You really are divorced. That’s pretty damn good, don’t you think? Just met you and I got you pegged already. Damn, but I’m good. Bet you got a Bachelors Degree in Business too.”

I did have a Bachelor’s in Business, but I didn’t tell him that. I had to admit it now: he had certainly piqued my interest. He was personable, charismatic, irascible, and interesting.

“Well, c’mon,” he said, “let’s get going.”

I was going to do it.

I parked my car in front of an old, now vacant theater. It used to be a majestic place. That was what my father said. He took me there a couple of times when I was much younger. I remember the sculpted ceilings, the ornate architecture, of a near forgotten era.

“You ever been to that theater when it was a theater?” he asked as we approached my car. “Your father ever take you there? They don’t make ‘em like that anymore. And I bet this is your car, isn’t it?” He said as we approached my car. “Nice ride. A minivan. Not only divorced, but you got kids too.” He was smiling now, proud of himself.

I have two sons but I didn’t tell him.

“You really think you know all about me, don’t you?” I asked, starting to play along, warming to him. That was when I saw them.

They were walking quickly across the street, in and out, dodging the cars, coming towards us.

One of them, wearing a full-length leather coat, too warm for the weather, came around from the back of the car. The other one, in a short-sleeved shirt with some type of sports logo on the chest, approached from the front of the car. This was on a main street, cars going by. There would be witnesses. But it was still happening. I looked around to see if a police car was nearby. I thought to say something, to yell, when the one in the short-sleeved shirt stopped in front of the old man, “Gimme your wallet,” he yelled out. The old man hit him in the neck. The would-be mugger put both hands on his neck and took a step back, his eyes bulging, then the old guy kicked him in the knee and he went down. I then heard a voice behind me, “Aw, shit, this ain’t right.” I turned and watched him running down the street, his leather coat flowing behind him.

The old man leaned to one side—I was in his view. He watched him running away. He was smiling. “You gonna take me home now, or what?” he asked.

We drove away, leaving the other one, now on his knees, gasping for air, both hands still on his neck.

He sat, looking out the window. I didn’t know what I should do. I was taking him home with me. Was I really going to take care of this guy? Not that he needed taking care of, I increasingly began to realize. He was intelligent, sarcastic, even a bit sardonic. He could also be violent. He wasn’t afraid. He knew what to do and he knew how to do it too. That being a product of his past, I guessed.

“I’m a product of my past,” he said quietly. “I used to get into a lot of fights when I was younger. Hell, I was still kickin it in my fifties. Then things changed and I decided to stop that shit. Just wasn’t that tough anymore. I was getting old. Too late though. I grew up too late. Cost me my wife, my home, my kids, my job, I mean jobs. I was always pissed off. All those years mad at everyone and everything—nothing ever my fault. And who can I blame? Maybe if I went to analysis I could blame my father, but that’s bull. Nah, it was me. I had a choice. We all do. It’s all done with now. Sometimes though, the past comes back to help you, not haunt you. Like back there with those idiots.” He laughed out loud at that last remark. Then he turned to face me. “You know your problem?” he asked. “You’re afraid. You play safe, and you’re just afraid. You froze with those two. You didn’t know what to do, did you? You gotta be assertive. Maybe you’d still be married. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. And I bet you never heard that before, have you? But it’s true nonetheless. Am I being philosophical? Maybe I got into the wrong profession.”

I wondered what that was, his profession, or if he was, even, really homeless. Maybe he was a salesman. He did finagle me into taking him home.

“Nah,” he said, “there’s no money in philosophy.”

Then he settled himself in his seat, placed his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. He fell into a deep sleep. I knew that because his breathing was slow, methodical and loud. My father used to say that a person that slept soundly, and he never did, had a clear conscience. I had to let him stay. I felt now like he needed me. That felt good.

He stayed at my apartment for two and a half days. He didn’t talk that much. Not like I had anticipated. We played cards. He was a good poker player and I told him a lot more about me than he told me about him. He was guarded. Whenever I asked him something personal he’d just say that that was all over. He referred to it as “his different life.” He never told me his name and he never asked mine. He said he didn’t want to get close. He said our relationship wasn’t personal, just necessary. He talked about politics and religion—of all types. He was well read. He perused my book shelf when he first came into the apartment and told me I read too much fiction. He was a fight fan too. Not the mixed martial arts, but boxing, what he called, laughingly, ‘the art of pugilism.” He did a lot of that, he said, but not in the ring. In retrospect I’m surprised I went along with any of this, what was happening? I was surprised as it happened.

It was Friday when all this started and by Sunday I was wondering what I was going to do when Monday came around; the workweek begins. I was planning on telling him to leave Monday morning—or maybe taking half the day off and taking him out for a nice big breakfast and then dropping him off wherever he wanted to go. I wasn’t sure. I was procrastinating. But the question was answered when I woke up Monday morning.

He didn’t leave a mess. He kept his arms inside the bathtub, his porcelain coffin. After some difficulty with the county—he didn’t have any ID, no information, nothing—I had him cremated. I still have his ashes. They’re on my bookshelf. I’m have no idea what I’m going to do with them.

I used to think about him, quite a bit, for a while, but not much anymore. He never told me why he chose me. That was what he said. He chose me. Maybe he just wanted a place to call home, someplace he was comfortable in before he summoned the courage to end his life, although I don’t think he lacked courage. I’d like to think that his staying with me was somehow cathartic, but I’m the same. I’m still divorced and I still have kids I see every other week. I live in the same little apartment. I am taking boxing lessons. Maybe if someone tries to rob me again I’ll be able to fend him off like he did.

It’s over. I’m glad that he chose me, my place, to end his life. That’s an odd thing to say, to admit, but it’s true. He spent his last days in a place he chose. I feel good about that. I liked him. He was, at the least, the most interesting person I have ever met.

I got rid of the Minivan shortly after he was cremated. I bought a Camaro.