one for me and one for bob
one for me and one for bob / words and pictures #7
“Oh, didn’t you know? Bob was killed.”
There’s a farm supplies place on the outskirts of the town I live near, where I buy garden supplies.
It’s a big corrugated iron factory shell filled with all the things that farmers need. It smells great. Like hay and dust and childhood.
The last two times I’ve visited a snowy haired fella has greeted me with a joy that only the odd few seem to possess.
He is like pure sunlight, with a bit of cheeky on the side. He’s one of those people who radiates so much happiness that they blast their surroundings with it.
I don’t know him from a bar of soap, or a bale of hay. He’s a complete stranger to me. Well except that now I’ve met him twice. And all this is pretty much inconsequential except for two things:
First, this rare quality in a person should always be valued and appreciated.
Second, he’s such a contrast to who this story is really about.
“Did you take over the business?”
“No darlin’, after Bob was killed, old Nance didn’t know what to do with the business, so they pulled me out of retirement!”
“Oh, that’s terrible! What happened?”
“He was up on the roof and fell, and that was that.”
As Snowy (whose real name I don’t know) continued to chatter with unwavering exuberance, I learnt that he was Bob’s brother-in-law, and Nance was Bob’s mum.
“Every night when I get home from work I get out two beers. One for me and one for Bob. I drink mine and then I let Bob know I’ll drink his for him too.”
Bob was the complete opposite to Snowy. Quiet, economical with his words and only taking up as much space in the word that the volume of his slight frame required. I think the only exchanges I ever had with him were, “Hello, thank you, goodbye,” plus asking for whatever it was that I needed.
I don’t even know why this wanted to be written into a story. Except that when someone’s life ends I think it’s definitely worth the respect of being written.
Even though Bob meant nothing to me (sorry Bob), hearing that someone has died is always a bit of a shock. Is it for you?
Maybe something to do with that funny little thing us humans do – pretend that we are immortal.
It made me think about all the things I didn’t know about Bob. That I didn’t ever ask his name or even how his day was going. About all the people who pass through my days with their own lifetimes of complex, unique, one of a kind stories, and I don’t know theirs and they don’t know mine.
I don’t even know what the point of this is. I’m tempted to bring this to some sort of neat conclusion and maybe even a lesson learned?
I’m tempted to say something like, next time you’re in a shop or a café, take the time to really connect with the person serving you etc. But why? Do they really care? Does it really matter if we know more about everyone that crosses our paths than our own projections of them?
Maybe you can tell me what you think about that?
I was listening to a video about short story writing and the two writers were talking about how you don’t always have to bring a story to a point of resolution. That it’s okay to leave questions unanswered. They even used the words, "You don’t have to tie a bow around it." Which is funny because those are the exact words I think about when I get to the end of one of my stories. You've probably noticed that I like to tie a bow around it.
But Bob, I’m not tying a bow around you.
I’m just going to say, thanks for being you. For being quiet and calm and humble and helpful.
Leonie x
