Jack is 70 but he looks more like he’s in his 40’s. I’m not sure the medical term for his condition but he has what would likely be called a limited mental capacity of some sort.
No one really cares about all that, though; not his neighbors anyway, who just know he’s one of the nicest people you could ever live around.
It would be folly to try to interview Jack about himself. He’s a man of very few words, which may be why he looks much younger than his years! It’s doubtful he possesses the ability to ponder his life, much less worry and fret about it. He’s not “smart†enough, or so doctors might tell us, anyway.
We should all be so lucky.
That’s not to suggest Jack’s life has been easy. No doubt, he has his problems like everyone else. It’s just that with Jack around, problems are not what come to mind.
You’d never think to pity him for his situation. In fact, you rarely think of Jack as having a disability;Â more like a light-hearted attitude and childlike simplicity.
It’s a pleasure running into him around the building. He’s not someone you’d ever want to avoid for fear of some taxing conversation or awkward interaction.
Jack’s famous for his standard greeting: “How are you today?” and then he adds, sincerely and sweetly, “I like you (insert name here). ” He recalls everyone’s name and always uses it when addressing others.
He almost always completes his comments with, “You’re my friend,” before, he quietly continues on his way.
One of his favorite things to do is draw, either with crayons or colored pencils. Many an apartment door sports an easily recognizable “Jack original†on it. He even had a display in the community room to celebrate his birthday this year. The walls were adorned with colorful images of ships on the ocean, trees and flowers, skies filled with clouds and birds.
You often see Jack at nearby businesses, who happily welcome his visits. One grocery store in the area sets aside a place for him to draw and even displays his work behind their counter.
He’s what you’d call “a regular†in the neighborhood, where he loves to take a leisurely walk, puffing on his pipe or a fragrant cigar. If you pass him outside, he’ll ask how you feel about the weather. I can’t recall him ever complaining about it.
One of my best memories of Jack happened on the day my brother died. He’d lived in our building as well for several years, and had been in hospice for many months with cancer. He was only 49 and it was a terrible time for all of us.
I wasn’t sure if Jack comprehended death, but I walked over to him, where he was standing outside the front entry when I came home that evening.
“Did you know we lost Cliff today?†I asked him.
Jack was very quiet and looked down at the ground for a few moments.
“I love you, Candy,†he said softly.
Nothing could have meant more at that moment. It was the perfect thing to hear, after so many well-intentioned but not so helpful philosophies had been shared with me that day.
It made me wish I had the courage to be that simple.
“I love you too, Jack,” I replied.
In the end, what more is there to say?
