“Now, the secret was in hangin’ it, right?”

Sean was leaning on his cane with his right hand, the left a swollen hunk of nothin', left useless after his stroke, and he was recounting his past as the premier butcher in Westport. We’d been chatting for about ten minutes and I was beginning to feel a mild panic from running late for a dinner engagement.

“Sean, I have to go”, I said.

“Well, thanks, for the chat, it’s always good to have the chat, maybe we’ll see ye around and we’ll have a jar.”

“Nice to see you too Sean”

“Yes, always nice to have the chat, and I appreciate it that you remembered me.”

“How can I forget you? Always at the job, workin’ away with the door wide open even in the middle of winter. Your hands red as beets from the cold, chattin’ up the ladies as they stood three deep in your shop waiting to get the best meat in Westport.”

“Thanks be to God I lasted 40 years at it, and very good of you to stop me for some chat.”

“OK, Sean, gotta go, I've people coming’ to dinner”.” 

"Right now, Middie, we’ll see ye, and thanks for the chat, I’m always happy when I can have the chat, ya know".

“Alright Sean, we’ll see ya”.

And with that I turned to face the road, put on the left blinker and suddenly saw an elderly man standing by the front left fender of the car, looking out into the street. He was weaving slightly, and totally oblivious to me.

I rolled the window down and said…

“Excuse me sir, I’m trying to get out”.

No reaction.

Louder this time, “EXCUSE ME SIR, I’M TRYING TO GET OUT!”

He just stood there peering off to his right, the slight weave to his stance now more visible.

“Sir, Could you please move, I’m trying to get out!”

Nothing.

Now screaming at the top of my lungs, “Sir, Sir, can you hear me?” 

He made a slight movement of recognition to his left as though he thought he heard something but probably thought it was traffic noise.

Pressing on I shouted as loud as I could, “Sir, can you hear me?”

Recognition! He turned to his left and peered into my open window and said, “Huh? Are ye wantin’ something’?” 

The smell of Porter drifted into the car and I could see why he couldn't hear a bloody thing...his 80 year old ears had become so hair-infested that not even air, much less sound, could ever penetrate this woven man hole cover to his brain. 

“Huh?”

“Sir, could you please move as I’m trying to drive away.”

“Right! Drive away, drive away, drive away! No, wait! I’ll sort ye out.”

His hand was locked onto my door pillar preventing me from driving away until he felt it was safe. 

“Hang on now, there’s traffic comin’.”

“Sir, I can see quite well enough.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, you just tell me when I can go.”

“Right!”

“Hold on now, you’ll be out in a minute.”

He was now leaning at a 45 degree angle out into the street, right arm still firmly attached to my car making sure I wouldn't be killed in this exceptionally dangerous procedure that involved the pulling out of a parking spot into a country village street.

“Right, get ready, here comes yer spot. Right, now go!”

And with that he let go of my car, lurched out into the street, winding up directly in my path preventing me from moving an inch without killing him. In an instant he was back.

“Ya missed it! 

The hand now back on the car. 

Now, get ready and when I tell ye ta go, for Christ’s sake don’t be sleepin, go!”

Timothy Leary had nothing on this place, I'll tell ya.