The Old Man and the Falling Wall

I once met a stranger and decided to be with him for at least a day, just to be in someone’s shoes. Until now, I still can’t decide whether it was his fault or the wall’s fault.

The weather that day was incomprehensible. At six o’clock in the morning the clouds turned black and started pouring thick rain, the wind sipped fresh leaves into the air, and my stomach growled in hunger. Then after thirty minutes the clouds disappeared, giving way to a blue sky, and the wind, though still cool, was now still, and my stomach tamed even though I didn’t eat breakfast. 

It was Friday. I heard my sister screaming to my mother that school’s cancelled. I didn’t believe her. It’s still six-thirty and school’s supposed to start at seven. How could a school cancel a class before the class even started?

So, as a certified determined student, I walked to school. My sister’s right. School’s cancelled. The school gate was closed. The school guard was nowhere. 

I was about to go back home when I spotted an old man sitting in front of what the students’ called The Falling Wall. It was just a lonely wall, not connected to any other wall. It was slightly bent forward, about to crack, and about to crash. Sometimes I would take the challenge of my classmates. The challenge was to sit in front of the wall for a minute without moving. I never won a single challenge because after ten seconds of sitting, I would imagine the wall falling on me, and my classmates would scream and call the school guard, and the school guard would call the ambulance, and I would be announced Dead On Arrival. Skull crushed by the cement, blood dried on the pavement. 

I didn’t approached the old man immediately. I observed him. Five minutes passed and he’s still there, motionless, staring at the dangerous wall. If I had his courage, I could have had my classmates’ respect. 

“Boy, you wanna sit here?” The old man said, still motionless. His voice sounded like a shy boy inviting a popular kid to attend his birthday.

No other’s around, so by default, it was me he was talking to. I didn’t respond. I looked around to make sure sitting with him would be a reasonable act. If one my classmates saw me with him, they’ll tell everyone in school that I was crazy too.  

The wall stood five meters in front of the school gate. Behind the wall was the highway. Across the highway was the best place for students who loved cutting classes. There were cheap clothing store for girls who acted like adults and internet cafes for boys who acted like children. There were also a seafood restaurant, school supplies store, shoe-fixing shop, building construction store and garden shop. All of them were close.

“Boy, come on now,” the old man raised his shaky voice a little, thinking I didn’t hear his first invitation. “It’s beautiful here.”

The old man sat with legs stretched and hands on the pavement, as though sitting on the beach. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and ripped jean pants. The morning sunlight hit his back revealing a veiny skin with red dots. The yellow sunlight spread everywhere. The highway became crispy, whispering krrrssshh slowly, thin white smokes coming out of the pavement, evaporating into the sun. 

“Okay.” I said finally, walking out of the shade and toward the old man. I stopped two feet away from him.  The heat entered through my white polo and black slacks. The warmth of the sun triggered my hunger. My stomach growled again. I continued walking and stopped by his side. The heat on my back was unbearable, like a big hot tongue was licking it, leaving sweats all over my body.  

“It’s super hot in here,” I said, looking down on his white hair. “And I’m very hungry.”

“I’m hungry too, for the last two days,” the old man said. “Do you have any food?”

“Sorry, I don’t have any, and I don’t bring money in school.”

“Done breakfast?”

“No. I hate when the eggs are not fried.”

For the first time, the old man looked up to me, his face expressionless. He examined my black shoes, then my hands, and then my face. Then he stared at the wall. 

“By the way, my name is -” I stopped. The old man raised his head and looked at me. He examined my whole body again. 

“Greg Torres. That’s your name, right?” the old man smiled slightly, showing an impressive set of white teeth. Then he stared at the wall again. “You’re quite popular. Won a dozen Math contests. It makes me smile to meet someone like you. 

You remind me of myself when I was eighteen. I won all Math contests I joined. Of course, my Math was different from your Math. Your Math is competing against other schools. My Math was competing against my friends. Fastest person who could add big numbers won. It would take us ten minutes or more to add two numbers between one-hundred and one-thousand. 

Back then, only rich people knew Math, poor people like me had to sneak at private lectures. One time, the teacher saw me listening. He took me out of the cabinet, drag me in front of his five students and forced me to drink his urine mixed with each student’s spit. But that did not stop me. 

I invited my two friends and we entered the cabinet before the class started. We listened and we learned how to add and subtract big numbers, and we knew it was an enough knowledge to survive in a smart world. That time, the professor opened the cabinet and saw us there, crowded in a small space. You know what the teacher did? He locked us in the cabinet and with the help of his rich students, he threw us into the river near that one-room school. We almost died, but we still survived. It sometimes make me feel bad to think that that teacher was the only teacher I ever had, and I never paid him or thanked him.”