The Listener

Tom (Cat) Catilan sat in front of his computer. He had retired last year. Now he was a couch potato. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Yesterday he had suffered from shortness of breath. It was probably his heart. He should make a doctor’s appointment, but first things first. He had so much to say. The problem was that he had been holding it in for so long that he could not remember what it was. That was understandable. “If you don’t open your mouth, you can’t put your foot in it.” That is what he had been taught, and it had served him well. Like his father, he was a pipe smoker. The pipe was a wonderful prop. If the conversation became too deep, he lit it, puffed on it, and looked thoughtful. If he was required to say something, he usually asked a question. He tried to make it a question that would help refine the thoughts of the person conversing with him. He thought doing that was better than actually stating his own opinion.

His friends and colleagues jokingly called this placid man tomcat. One look at his wife seemed to confirm the sexual connotation. She was a beauty queen with all the grace and style that comes from having a finishing school education. Her looks and style made people think she was way out of his league, but she adored him because he actually listened to her. She was not the only one who felt that way about him. People instinctively turned to him when they were upset. Even the movers and shakers of the corporation he worked for connected with him on an emotional level. He was also very competent at what he did, and he rapidly rose to become the head of one of the corporation’s divisions. He resisted any further attempts to promote him. He was where he wanted to be.

He lit his pipe and blew smoke at the empty screen of the monitor. What he was thinking of writing was a memoir of sorts, but this posed a problem. He had heard far too many comments about how wise he was. If he wrote anything, people who thought he was wise would expect it to be profound. They would expect him to reveal one of life’s great mysteries or tell them how to achieve tranquility. He did not want to disappoint them. So what had his experiences taught him? His most intense experience was when he had fought in Korea. If you talk to combat veterans about the battles they fought, they will invariably mention the stench of death. It is an indelible sensory impression of the horror. He did not know anything about it. He had fought in the winter when it was too damn cold for the bodies to decompose. He suffered the wound that resulted in him receiving a purple heart and a bronze star well before the weather changed enough to thaw things out. It did not matter. Describing how terrible war is would only remind people of what most them already knew. So what else did he learn from his experiences?

“We all do what we must do, and we struggle to do what we know is right. Most people are selfish, but they are also basically good. They will frequently set aside their own interests to help the people they love, and they will even sacrifice some of their time to help complete strangers.”

He smiled. “Those thoughts are not what you would call an epiphany. So what can I say, other than the fact that I have lived? In Korea, I had to piss on my rifle to thaw it out enough to fight off the people trying to kill me. The experience was unique to soldiers who have fought in such bitter cold, but the one thing I have learned from listening to so many people is that my struggle to survive was not unique. Nor are my thoughts. I suppose the best thing I can say about my life is that I am here. No, that’s not right. What would I like to have people say about me? The best thing you can say about people is that they were there when you needed them. That’s it! That’s how I should like to be remembered.”

He placed his fingers on the keyboard and typed the following: “In the event of my death, please have my tombstone inscribed with the simple statement, ‘He was there -’.”

It struck like a sledge hammer. It was a massive heart attack, and it killed him. Since he was a decorated combat veteran he was entitled to a military burial. The good men at the VFW helped his widow make the arrangements for the funeral and burial.

George Samish was a good friend of the tomcat, and his likely successor. He was driving to the funeral. Sitting next to him was his wife Jill. In the back seat was a young assistant, Rod. Sitting next to Rod was Cat’s secretary, Helen. Helen was a beautiful young blond who loved the man who had been her boss. She was already weeping, and her ample breasts rose and fell with her sobs. Rod could not help thinking she had a magnificent set. When they arrived at the church, Helen tried to pull herself together. She dabbed her big blue eyes with a facial tissue, and she forced herself to stop crying.

“Are you going to be okay,” Rod asked.

“I think so.”

“You can use my shoulder if you want.”

She rewarded him with a smile. She wept through most of the eulogy, but managed to stop as the preacher finished. That is when the clergyman asked if anyone had something to say. She stood up.

“As you all know Cats was a very compassionate man. When I caught my fiance cheating on me I went into Cat’s office to cry on his shoulder. Between the sobs, asked him what I should do. He said: ‘That’s not something anyone can tell you. You have to do what is emotionally right for you, but I’ll be interested in hearing what you decide and how it works out for you.’ He gave me the rest of the day off to think about it. I can’t tell you how much it meant to talk to someone who was so non-judgmental and so wise.”

“Damn it,” Rod thought. “I wish she had told us whether she’s still involved with that lout or anyone else.” It was not something he could ask while she was grieving.

Several other people told similar stories. They were all very impressed with how much he seemed to care and the wonderful advice he gave them. Rod could not help noticing that the advice usually amounted to nothing more than a few questions, and the people seeking this advice wound up doing what they were inclined to do in the first place.

George was the last person to speak. “I am probably one of the few people who ever received a fairly lengthy statement from Cats. I was young and very ambitious at the time. Cats thought I had talent, and I was soon impressed by what I thought I was accomplishing. This made me propose something that was rather self-serving and not very sound from a business standpoint. I asked him what he thought would happen if I submitted this proposal. He puffed on his pipe for a moment then asked me if I had heard of Billy Conn. I had to admit I hadn’t, so Cats told me about him.

Billy Conn was as dominant as the light heavyweight champion as Joe Lewis was as the heavyweight champion. Since neither fighter had any serious competition in their respective weight classes they decided to fight each other. Conn used his quickness to counter Lewis’ strength and was getting much the better of Lewis. He even staggered Lewis. This success would prove to be Conn’s downfall because he then planted his feet to deliver the coup de grace. Unfortunately for him, Lewis landed his punch first and knocked Conn unconscious. After the fight a reporter asked Conn what happened. ‘I must have lost my mind,’ Conn replied, ‘and when you lose you mind your ass goes with it!’ Cats was a man who never lost his mind. He carefully measured both his words and his actions.”

The funeral ended on that note and the mandatory prayer. Everyone then drove to the military cemetery. The tombstone bore Cat’s name, the date of his birth and the date of his demise. Beneath the dates was “Korea” to indicate the war he had served in, and beneath that was the epitaph, “He was there.”

Cats was now in his final resting place, and everyone got in the car to return to the office.

“It’s odd that they would add ‘He was there’ to the tombstone, Rod said. One look at Korea on the other tombstone will tell you that is where Cats fought.”

Helen stopped crying. I don’t think that’s what it meant. I think it was suppose to be an epitaph. It should have said, “He was always there for us.”

Jill turned her head to look at Helen. “I agree. It’s the one thing everyone said about him. Do we know who wrote it?”

It was George who answered. “I think Cats did. I heard his wife say that’s what he wanted people to remember about him.”

Ron shook his head.  “Probably, but I think most people will interpret it the way I did.”

“It doesn’t matter. The only people who will ever know how wonderful he was are the people who knew him,” Helen said.

George could not help laughing. “I agree, but you have to admit it’s classic Cats. He was always short on words. He said just enough to let you conclude what you wanted to conclude.”

Jill was the only one not laughing. “He was a very wise man indeed.”

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms on Mar. 11, 2010