You ever been scared of a benign old man? I have.
We’re sitting in the corner of a little piazza outside a bar in Fiorenzuola d’Arda, having a caffè while waiting for a train to arrive. There is a table crammed with anziani on the other side. They’ve finished their coffee. They arise, all except for the man with two canes.
The largest man gets behind cane man, looping his meaty arms under cane man’s armpits. He grunts to lift him. No dice. A woman comes over to help. Each take a side and pull up. Finally, after several unsuccessful tries, cane man gets lifted high enough to lock his knees and stand with the help of the tripod formed by his two unmatched canes and teetering body.
Cane man creeps forward, canes clattering on the pavement like castanets. He bumps a chair, which is removed from in front of him by a cohort, who turns him ever so slightly by the shoulders toward a new course. Their eyes do not meet.
Cane man goes as far as he can in a straight line. When his knees hit a big block of stone that keeps cars from parking amongst the bar’s tables, he turns 90 degrees and skirts the block. Feeling the block end with his calf, he turns toward the street where there is a car parked parallel to the block.
And then, ladies and gentlemen, he gets in the car along with his cohorts and drives away in it.
Lordy.