BUMPING
by W. Jack Savage
therefore,
I’d fill it up nearly every day. Once it was seventy-one
cents. I pay by credit card, so I didn’t need to explain.
Still, I suppose that I’m explaining it to you now.
I was
on medical leave from work. They knew that but kept calling
anyway. It’s not as though they were concerned. It was
more like they were trying to catch me at pretending there
was something wrong with me.
“We’re just concerned, that’s all,” she’d say.
“I
don’t think you are,” I told her once. “I think you’re
trying to catch me pretending to be sick. That’s what I
think.”
When
there was only silence on the other end, I hung up. Minutes
afterward, I thought of so many good things to say and
called back. But I couldn’t remember her name, and after a
while on hold, I couldn’t remember why I was calling. I did
later.
I
took my medication though. I’ve never been much for that
sort of thing—a pill regimen. But I did. Then I’d wait.
After awhile I’d forget what I was waiting for, but so far
I’d always remember before I needed to take them the next
time. They gave me a chart. That helped. It seemed silly
at first. I don’t think I could do without it now.
The
worst part, apart from what was happening to me, was the
loneliness. Deprived of my other interests—and I’m sure I
must have had some—what began as boredom turned to a certain
melancholy, and finally, I’d get lonely. What few friends I
had were really little more than acquaintances. I mean you
can’t really count the guy at the video store. He’d always
been friendly but that’s not really the same thing. It
could be, I suppose. But, while I was always grateful for
the friendly exchanges, the fact that they were
compartmentalized into brief commerce transactions would
have required me to make some effort to break out of that.
And what motive might I have had? I wasn’t lonely then.
So, for the most part, I was left with my housekeeper. Her
name was Tina or Maria, but in fairness, I kept getting that
mixed up before this happened. Anyway, I think I did. I
can’t exactly remember how she gets paid, but she keeps
coming so I suppose she does. If I had to write a check or
something, I’d probably remember. So there was my
housekeeper and Loren, too.
Loren’s attentions were never welcome for what they were.
But he was good-natured about it, and while it was always
there—what he wanted that is—once I said no we went on to
other things. He liked music, and he liked to drink. I
can’t drink anymore. I really don’t dare with the
medication. I need to stay sharp for as long as I can. I
haven’t seen him lately. I think something happened. I
woke up the other night wondering if it was because, not
thinking, I’d run out of scotch; I mean, not thinking that
he still drank, he’d have thought me rude. But I had
scotch. Maybe something else happened. I can’t remember,
but I can remember I haven’t seen him lately.
Then
there was a call; I think, recently. I remember the voice
sounded familiar.
“Mr.
Bernard?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Mr.
Bernard,” he began again, “you probably won’t remember me.
My name is Eddie, Edward Rosenthal. I had you for American
History at Johnson High School some, ah, twelve years ago.
I’m sure you don’t remember me but, well, I was just calling
to thank you. I’m a teacher myself now. I might have been
something else, but your class had an effect on me.”
I
didn’t know what to say but made an attempt.
“Well, hello Edward. I’m sorry. Your name rings a bell
though. Tell me, what are you teaching?”
“American History,” his voice sounded as if he might be
smiling. “I teach American History in Barstow now. I know
this must seem strange, my calling like this. But, well, as
I said, your class had an effect on me. I understand you
don’t teach anymore. That’s what they told me when I called
the school. What are you doing now, Mr. Bernard?”
“I
work for a company. It’s not very interesting. I’m not
working now. I’ve been ill but will be going back soon.”
His
response was sincere. “I’m sorry to hear that you’ve been
ill. Anyway, I didn’t want to bother you. I just wanted to
tell you that, well, your teaching made a difference in my
life. It took awhile. But, well, what I’m trying to say is
that I became a teacher because of you. I want to thank you
for that.”
“You’re very welcome, Ronnie. I’m glad things are working
out for you.”
“Eddie, sir,” he said.
“Eddie, yes,” I repeated. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s
all right Mr. Bernard. I just wanted to thank you. Have a
good night.”
I’m
not sure, but I think he had the wrong number. I wasn’t
sure, you see. I was sorry later. I am Bernard. But he
must have meant another Bernard. That’s probably what
happened. That’s the thing about this condition. It can
fool you into thinking you’re forgetting something. That
is, if you can’t remember, maybe it didn’t happen. That’s a
viable explanation certainly. I do know my history though.
I suppose I could have taught history. That certainly would
account for my knowing so much about it. But I can’t
believe that I could forget something like teaching.
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