How Many More Years (Rough)

How Many More Years

Several years ago I held a part-time job at a retirement community. This was not a home for dementia or for anyone especially ill. It was just a place for elderly people that were too weak to look after themselves.

The first day I met Robert was the first day I started my new part-time job. He was eighty-nine and always exuded vibrancy in all manners, like the way he colorfully dressed seems to stick in my mind now more than anything. A part of my job was laundry. During the scheduled lunch hour, I made my rounds to each room. First stop happened to be Robert’s. The room was tiny with a twin bed near a small window. However, what caught my eye were the stacks of vinyl records that overtook almost the entire living space. The stacks covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. I quickly forgot why I was there and started to shuffle through these vinyl artifacts. They were not in any order that was familiar to me, but I soon understood what method there was in the arrangement of these records. The records had post-it notes on them, being labeled first kiss, first girl I danced with, Phillip born 1959, etc.

            While I was lost in the array of the racks of vinyl records, I failed to notice a man that was in the doorway of the room. “Ahem!” I turned around in a jolt and saw a short and stubby man no taller than what must have been 5’2”.  “My boy! What do ya think you’re doin’ boy? What’s your name?” I quietly responded, “Arthur, sir.” He approached me and snatched a record I subconsciously forgot I had picked up. He looked at the record, which was labeled Phillip born 1959.  Robert slipped the record out of the sleeve casing, blew the dust off of it, and placed it on his record player. With his wrinkled hand, he smoothly lifted the needle and placed it gently on a precise groove of the vinyl surface. “Ah, Howlin’ Wolf. You know boy, that this year was very important. This was the record I was playin’ when the Lord decided it was time for my first-born to come into this world.” He closed his eyes and started humming to the song, “How Many More Years”.

As I stood there in the midst of his recollection I felt an immediate connection. He continued picking out a few more records and gave me a vivid and detailed picture of his memories. Some were happy, some were sad, and some were downright hilarious. Robert was always full of life in retelling his past, even when he was going over the more somber parts of his life.

This continued throughout the week. By the end of the week, at the scheduled lunch hour, I hastily made my way toward Robert’s room. I creaked the door open and saw him sitting at the edge of his bed with a bewildered expression upon his face. He noticed me standing in the doorway and gestured me to come in. “There’s not enough time. Not enough time.” I saw an open notebook on the bed beside him and noticed what looked like estimates in very careful handwriting. “Ah boy, I did the math. I figure I don’t have much time left so I started to go on figurin’ how long it would take to listen to my records again. I just don’t have time boy. Even if I listened to all my records back to back staying up all night and day, I just won’t have time to listen to all my memories.” I studied his calculations and inwardly agreed as I placed my hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. I stood there thinking of all the songs he had yet to listen to; each song with its packet of memory allowing him to relive with pure emotion, his loved ones and happier moments of his life. He was right. He did not have the time.

We stood there in silence for several minutes until Robert snapped us out of our contemplative state. “Ah the hell with it boy! I better get started! Pick one we haven’t listened to yet!” He began to tell a story, but with a disheartened tone.

He never brought it up again. Things continued on like that for about four months until Robert passed away peacefully in his sleep. The day we found him Robert had the Howlin’ Wolf record placed on his record player with the needle skipping from needing to be flipped to side two. My shaky hand lifted the needle and placed it unsteadily on a groove. (CLICK FOR CONTEXT) As “I’m Leavin’ You” started playing I picked up the casing of the album and noticed an extra added post-it labeled, first time I met my friend, Arthur.