I’m taking a lonely walk at Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. It’s a warm, sunny winter day in San Francisco. I sit on a bench facing the Chinese pagoda next to the waterfall across the lake. An older man in a trench coat is sitting at the other end of the bench. We both stare at the water. He’s resting both palms on a wooden cane positioned between his legs.
He gestures toward me with his palm as if he’s introducing me, and says, “ah… and you?”
“Excuse me?” I say.
He stutters, “a…a… and you?”
“Oh… I’m taking a day off from work. Computers. Um… and you?”
He points to himself with a floppy hand, “haa… hack.”
“Hack?” I think of computer hackers, but he’s too old for that.
“Caa… cabbie… New York,” he smiles. “Called hacks.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Stroke.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Happy.” He points to the lake. Some mallards float by. He points to the bench. “Fff… fifteen… years.”
I point to my chest. “Ten years.”
“Family?”
“Ohio. New York too. You?”
“Wife. Dead.”
“Oh.”
He waves his hand as if he’s erasing the air, shakes his head. “Happy.”
“Kids?”
He nods. “Away. Far.” He puts his palm up in a stop gesture.
“I know,” I say. “You’re happy.”
“a… a… and you?”
After a moment, I decide… “happy.”
