I used to see the older man whenever I went swimming at my neighbourhood Y. Often, he was in the pool before I arrived, in the slow lane near the women’s locker room, on his back, kicking, arms at his side. I’d smile and say hello as I walked from the locker room to the other side of the pool. The etched-in frown on his face was always there, no matter what. Sometimes, he’d nod. Never smiled or offered any verbal acknowledgement.
On the day I first met him, a middle-aged man and I were the only ones swimming in the medium lane, so we were able to split it. I swam on the left side and he on the right until the old man arrived. Wearing black trunks and a black swim cap, the old man jumped in and announced, “We’ll have to circle.”
We weren’t happy to have a third person in the lane because this now meant that we had to swim one behind the other and not at our usual pace.
After a short time, the other guy was displeased with how slowly the older man was swimming and told him he should move to the slow lane because he wasn’t swimming fast enough.
I felt bad for the older man, but I didn’t say anything to him, and when he moved to the adjacent lane, I was happy that I was able to resume swimming at my usual speed.
***
When I saw the older man the next day, he had just gotten into the slow lane. I was next to him doing laps in the medium lane, and when I reached the wall at the shallow end, I stopped swimming so I could talk to him. When he saw me stop, he managed to frown even more.
“I want to apologize for our discourteous behaviour, yesterday,” I said.
He looked at me, coldly, the deep lines on his forehead and around his mouth so visible, perhaps from years of possible unhappiness.
“I come here to work on my arthritic shoulder,” he said with a trace of a Southern drawl. “My doctor said swimming would be good for it and for my overall health. I’m going to be eighty-three in a couple of weeks. Don’t know a lot of men still alive in their eighties. Women, yes, but not men,” he said, as if he thought men were unrightfully deprived of longer lives.
I told the older man I had torn my rotator cuff a year ago, and swimming helped heal it. “Little by little, you’ll begin to feel better,” I said, trying to be friendly and encouraging. “You’ll see.”
He was scowling when he said, “You seem like a nice woman, but I didn’t come here to socialize.”
“Understood. From now on, no talking.”
“I must get started,” he said and swam off.
That day, while I swam, from time to time, I looked over at the slow lane. Other swimmers acknowledged the older man when they joined the lane, but he just glared at them.
***
Every day thereafter, whenever I saw the older man, I’d smile, and his unhappy face always looked annoyed. Sometimes, he didn’t acknowledge me at all. This surprised me. He knows who I am. We’ve talked. Why is he behaving this way?
I know some people come to the pool to do their own thing—to swim or do water exercises—and aren’t interested in socializing, but even those folks acknowledge familiar faces.
As the weeks passed and the older man frequented the pool regularly, more people began to take notice of him and commented to each other on his hostile appearance. When the new Japanese restaurant opened next door to the Y, my friend, Leslie, told me she had asked the older man if he had tried it. He had stared at her, she said but didn’t answer. And when another friend, Walter, told me he had asked the older man if he knew whether the Y was planning to resume its towel services, the older man gave him his usual look of fury. Once, I heard a woman ask another woman in the slow lane if she had recently seen the angry older man. No one knew his name, so we all started to refer to the older man as the Angry Older Man. Another time, as I was walking out of the locker room, I saw a woman jump into the slow lane and smile at the Angry Older Man, the only other person in the lane. He grimaced, and then she mimicked him by scowling at him.
The Angry Older Man didn’t respond and continued swimming.
***
I’d never seen anyone whose face never changed expression, and it seemed to me that the decision was a personal choice. I’ve known people who have lost their jobs and others who haven’t gotten the raises they expected. They are furious at their bosses or at themselves for a while, but then they get over it and move on. Other people have lost a child or a spouse, or maybe even an entire family. They’re understandably very angry, but eventually their rage wanes, and they choose not to be angry anymore. So why does the Angry Older Man have a look of eternal wrath on his face and never offer anyone a smile or a wave?
***
There was nothing distinguishing about the Angry Older Man. No tattoos or scars. He was tall and slim, walked upright, not hunched over as other elderly folks sometimes are. No indication of any physical abnormality. Even his shoulder didn’t show evidence of being arthritic. I noticed he wore a wedding ring, and I wondered about his wife. Is she still alive? Is she a nice woman? Are they happily married? How could they be? Who would want to be married to such an ungracious person?
***
As the weeks passed, I found myself becoming more curious about the Angry Older Man and looked for something to explain his demeanor. Was he furious that he was ageing and thought he had little time left? Did he have regrets about his life? Is he suffering from a serious illness? Is he a World War II veteran who witnessed the death of several comrades and never healed? I pictured him as a retired security guard who had worked the night shift, so he didn’t have to interact with many people or a cab driver who enjoyed the solitude of driving and didn’t encourage conversations with his passengers.
***
It had been over a month since I’d seen the Angry Older Man. It was funny to me how a guy who was clearly holding back rage, who didn’t talk to anyone, and whose name no one knew, had become such a topic of conversation. Recently, I asked a few lifeguards if they had seen him.
“Haven’t seen that crabby guy in several weeks,” one guard said.
“The older guy who is always in a bad mood? Nope, haven’t seen him,” said another.
***
One day, while I was walking along sixth avenue, I saw the Angry Older man walking up the avenue. “Haven’t seen you in a long time,” I said.
He didn’t smile. “Don’t go to the Y anymore. The people there weren’t very nice.”
The first amusing thing he’d ever said to me, but I know he wasn’t joking at all.
