His Mentor

SHF_RE_HisMentor // 01_initialFromSampler

He’s a bachelor with a good job and he’s happy enough, but he wants to try an experiment. For one month he’ll spend his weekends disguised as an old man. “Get used to it now, so it doesn’t take me by surprise,”he instructs himself. “Like training for a marathon. Actually, everyone should do this.”

He buys a fake beard and stage makeup, even a yellow stain for his teeth. He makes the rounds of the vintage clothing stores. He spends a month preparing and practicing. And the result is remarkable. He’s actually handsome in his derby hat, his brown suit, his silver beard. Truth be told, he’s handsomer. Or so one could assume, if the smiles from young, pretty women mean something.

His acting isn’t great at first, but he improves. He starts to walk old. He starts to think old. He starts to talk old and laugh old. And the old-man benefits start rolling in. People offer him seats on the subway, hold doors for him, wish him good mornings and afternoons and nights. Strangers indulge him, listen pleasantly to his stories and wisdom. And smile at him.

He realizes he needs better stories, more wisdom. He needs to up his game in those departments. And week by week he does. He digs through books and movies for anecdotes, pithy sayings, practical wisdom. He makes notes, memorizes, practices. Each weekend he goes out into the city, armed with new material and refined technique. He strikes up conversations at street corners, in bars, in taxis, while standing in line, while walking.

When the fourth weekend has passed, he sits himself down for a talk. “I did what I set out to do. I think I’m ready for old age. But am I ready enough? Am I the kind of guy who dabbles at something, or the kind of guy who follows through. By jiminy, I’m the second kind.” And then he laughs at himself. “By jiminy, indeed.”

He sticks with it. He gives it another month. Then four more, to make it an even half year.” Then he sits himself down again.

“Well, now, listen here,” he tells himself. “You might think a half year of this training’s enough. And maybe for some people it would be. But is it enough for you? Do you want to quit quite yet? Or is that just what others would do? There, that’s what I thought. You stick with this, young man. I believe you’ll be glad you did.” And then he laughs at himself again, a bit nervously this time. “Young man, indeed,” he says.

And he makes a promise with himself. “I’ll keep at this for another six months. That’ll make one full year. If I haven’t learned all I need to by then, well, then I’ll just take my chances. I’m not the kind of person who goes off the deep end with things. One year, ready or not, I put the costume away and go back to my normal age.”

And he sticks with it. And becomes even more wise, even more charming, even more welcomed back to this or that place, even more good-morninged and welcome-backed. Perhaps even more handsome. He becomes mature and confident beyond his years. He becomes, by any sensible measure, a better man.

When the last weekend has passed, he keeps his promise. He puts the derby and brown suit into a box, adds mothballs, tapes the box shut, and puts the box on a high shelf in his closet. He packs away the makeup and silver beard. He says goodbye, with some relief, to his bent-over walk. 

And the relief isn’t just momentary, like standing up and stretching after sitting for hours. He feels the relief afresh every day. Walking fast and straight up makes him feel like an athlete. Speaking in his own voice is like finally reaching the end of allergy season. Wearing his normal clothing again—t-shirts and jeans and stylish shoes—it’s like being let out of prison, perhaps. “I can’t believe I wore that sweaty old suit and hat for a year,” he laughs.

But the zing of course wears off. And normal becomes again what normal always was: unexciting, difficult, lonely. He is back to being self-conscious, un-handsome, undistinguished, and unnoticed.

No more interested listeners. No more sweet smiles. No more, “After you, sir.” And no more self-confidence. He’s the same wallflower always was. But it feel worse, now. He knows now what he’s missing.

It becomes too much to bear. He breaks his own rule and takes the disguise out of storage. “I have to,” he tells himself. “I’m just not cutting it with this full head of hair, this smooth young face, these non-yellow teeth.” He dons the disguise again and heads out. He goes to a bench in Forest Park far from any foot traffic. He puts on an anti-virus mask. “Testing, one two three.” He is able to talk freely without it being obvious to passersby that the old man back there on that bench is talking to himself.

“Perfect,” he says. And then begins. In his own, young man voice he asks his question. “What is it about me that makes people not enjoy my conversation? Is it something about my looks? Do I come on too strong? Am I too sentimental? Do I ask too many questions? Do I —”

And then, in his old man voice, in the kindest, most calming way you can imagine, he interrupts. “Young man, when I was your age, I was sometimes self-conscious, too. And, like you, I had no reason to be. Do you know what I did about it?”

“No, I don’t know. What did you do? Did it help?”

“Oh, yes, it very certainly did help. The first thing to know, my friend, is that everyone feels that way. Everyone wonders how they come across. The second thing to know…”

And the better, wiser man he became for a year begins flowing back into his younger self.