11 Minutes

Dear Eugene,

I found out last week what I knew already, only I was expecting worse.

My neighbor around the corner is a retired auto mechanic.  He walks his pit bull everyday, and for more than a few years since I moved here I would wave him a Hi from across the street while Sumi gives her usual panic bark that necessitates my tug on her leash as a token apology to shroud my habitual embarrassment.  His pit bull is too old to even sport a scorn.

Cars would go in and out of his driveway pretty much all year round.  Two summers ago I walked up his driveway with Sumi and asked if I could have him for more than a neighbor; he said he would be honored to keep my car healthy.  Ms. Pit Bull, unleashed as always, lay low next to her boss, who emerged from the shadow of a car's belly, relishing the smell of napalm in the morning.  By then Sumi, loony as she is, have at last realized she is no more than a piece of dead meat to Big Missy and would reciprocate the honor.

"Your garage is neater than my kitchen," I observed.  My kitchen is very neat.

"Thanks," he replied.  "I like it this way, that I know where everything is, don't have to fumble for the parts."  Right then and there I knew he's a good mechanic.  Good old-fashion discipline and work ethic.  He wrote down my contact with a pencil on his note pad, lifted from beside a flip phone on his tool chest.

Since then we would talk for more than a few minutes more than once a week, when I and Sumi walked by his house and he happened to foreground the machines.  Before long I would learn about his two front teeth's absence (weekly hockey), his daughter's then imminent wedding ("What's that beautiful red thing on your door post?"), and his son's collapsed lungs shortly after ("I saw the ambulance the other day; is everything ok?").  If I tip my toes I could see his garage from my kitchen window; that's how I would find out if my car is ready.

Then one day, a few months ago, the garage door was shut dead and would remain ever since.  Winter vacation, I thought.  Then it grew to be a longer vacation than I know my neighbor for taking.  Death was the first thing that came to my mind.

We had talked about vacation and death, of course we had, human as we are.

He has a big old van and a few older friends, and last summer they drove to Banff but finally decided to skip Lake Louise and stayed at its periphery to instead curse over beer at the many Chinese tourists ("No offence to you, my friend.").  He the miracle-worker is not afraid of the old van dying; he would skip the prayer and go right for the nuts and bolts.  But with Ms. Pit Bull, his faithful companion up the mountains and down the streams, he understands her aging is an euphemism for dying, and every morning is another miracle unearned and unfathomed.

So for months I would say a prayer every time I walked past his house, the newly painted, olive-checker garage door now muted by silent spring rain.  Sumi would stop to sniff at the same spot on his lawn, seeking to reestablish a missing link.  Possible shadow of ghost I tried to capture behind the shades of his bedroom window.

Last week my wife found out he had had a stroke.  I was relieved.  It was only a shadow after all.

"A blood vessel in my brain burst," he muttered.  "The doctor said I was dead for 11 minutes."  Tonight at long last I saw him on the street, on my way walking back from grocery.  Missy beside him, subdued as ever, for the first time appeared to have more vigor than her friend.  ("Was it tears welling up in his eyes, or is this just how he looks after the stroke?")

He didn't expect it.  I said I didn't expect that to happen to him either.  Hockey, hiking, humor; a man full of life, will, and nerve.

"But things break down, sometimes suddenly.  Like a car."  Now he moves with caution.  Almost robotic, I thought.  Never saw him bundled up in this bubble jacket.  It was always a thin vest even in winter, walking way ahead of Missy, not beside.

"I prayed for you every time I walked past your front door," I extended my right hand to hold his left forearm, the first time I touched him.  "And will always."

He was shaking.

"Thank you Alex," a car drove by and he slowly pulled out a leash to buckle Missy.  "I will tune your car again once I am ready.  Very soon."  I said Yes, of course.

He thanked God for staying alive, the first time he used the G word in our conversation and not for swearing.  I thanked God too.

As I walked home I wondered about those 11 minutes, what he saw, how I was living, and if the world stood still.

Yours, Alex