Seeing Myself Through Another Man’s Windows © 2010 by Michael Raysses
For ancient Greeks, the eyes were the windows to one’s soul. One day, many years ago, I noticed my windows were clouded and lifeless. It was early on a hot summer morning, and as I stared into the mirror in my bathroom, I was seized with the notion that my life had become nothing I recognized or wanted. I had moved west to become an actor, and though I’d had modest success, none of it connected me to anything meaningful. All it led me to was this moment—holding a nine-to-five job, about to angle my way through rush hour traffic, yearning for a cup of coffee.
I was wrestling with that realization on my way to work when I looked up and suddenly saw an old man crossing the street in front of me. I hit my brakes, the tires screeching their protest. As startled as I was, the old man barely seemed to notice how close he’d come to becoming roadkill.
He was dressed in a dark suit and black fedora, more fitting for a Chicago winter than a midsummer morning in Los Angeles. I shook my head at his carelessness as I parked the car and ran into Starbucks.
As I got in line, there he was—the man I almost hit—right in front of me. I wanted to say something to him about being so negligent, but he turned to me first.
“Hello,” he said with warmth and familiarity, almost as if we were old friends. I felt disarmed, instantly regretting having had any ill thoughts about him. When he got to the head of the line, the old man ordered a cup of coffee.
“Tall, grande, or venti?” the clerk asked. The man looked perplexed.
“Just a cup of coffee, please,” he answered. And in one of those moments that make you wish for a simpler time, the clerk recited the same inane litany of choices. Watching this was torture, so I stepped up and ordered a large cup of coffee for the old man. When he finally got what he came for, he exited the line, toasting me with a look of gratitude and a tip of his hat.
As I stirred my coffee, I noticed the old man had taken a seat on the patio, and that I would have to pass him on my way out. I looked up at the clock—I was running late—but as I exited the café, I inexplicably stopped and asked if I might join him. He effortlessly gestured to a chair like he was expecting me the entire time.
Sitting down, I finally got a good look at him. His suit was shiny from too much wear; his shoes clung to his bare feet with what little life they had left in them. The light blue shirt he wore beneath his coat was missing a button right over his heart. His expressionless face was rimmed by a thick gray beard, which gave way to his eyes: two deep pools of blue, an oasis in the desert of his countenance. I didn’t really see his face until I saw his eyes.
His name was Sam. He was 72 years old and had suffered a stroke sometime in the last two years. He was Jewish, from Germany. He’d been married twice, with children from his first union. They were all adults now.
As we talked, his words seeped through like water from a dam straining not to burst. Yet the more he leaked, the greater the cascade. Listening to him, I was struck by the jagged paradox he posed. He was dressed shabbily, but he carried himself regally. Even when he became animated, I could detect him trying to maintain an air of decorum.
Then, in one of life’s head-on coincidences, Sam began to talk about the very things that had weighed so heavily on me that very morning. He spoke about his past and how it didn’t match up with his present. He didn’t even bother to mention his future. In fact, the more he spoke, the more passive his voice and manner grew, until by the end of our conversation, he was talking as if his life was over, and he was merely marking the days. During the time it took me to finish my coffee, the craggy contradiction had become worn smooth with sadness and resignation.
Getting up to leave, I asked if he needed a lift. Sam graciously accepted a ride to a cross-town bus stop. As I pulled over to the curb, he sighed.
“Can I tell you something personal?” he asked. I agreed, thinking he was going to tell me that he knew it was me who had almost hit him earlier that morning. But instead he took my hand between his, tattooing me with his stare.
“Michael, I am old, and you may think I don’t see much anymore, but when I look into your eyes, I see the eyes of one who can do anything. But, Michael, I also see one who is blind to all he has already done…” I withdrew my hand, brushing away his kind words. But he grabbed it again, continuing, “Michael, I see the eyes of one who can do anything he wants!” He then kissed my hand three times and was gone.
I would like to say that in the intervening years since I saw Sam that hot summer morning, my life has been transformed. That his vision propelled me to fulfill the promise he saw in my eyes. But that would be a lie neither of us could tolerate. What I can say with complete assurance and eternal gratitude, however, is that ever since that day, when I stare into the morning mirror, every once in awhile I see a glimpse of what I imagine Sam saw that day. And for the briefest instant, I believe it, too.
Michael Raysses is a writer/NPR commentator/actor living in Los Angeles. Email him at MichaelRaysses@hotmail.com.