No one sneaks up on the old revolutionary any more

Never surrender.

“What I'd like is to meet a man I could take off my hat to and say: "Thank you for having got born, and the longer you live the better.”

- Maxim Gorky

There’s a ‘Facebook friend’ request that I’ve been dodging for months. It’s from Ron, an elderly man whose faithful oxygen tank was always at his side. Emphysema, maybe?

It’s not like I didn’t want to be his friend. We had glorious conversations in the swimming pool last summer. He was passionate, political and saw the world differently than most.

The first thing he ever said to me was, “What do you think of Cuba?”

“Nice beaches!” I replied.

But Ron wanted my opinion of the socio-political situation, particularly in light of the cruel and longstanding American embargo.

“Umm… fuck those gringos?” I offered.

“Exactly,” Ron affirmed, flashing a diabolical grin. “How would you like to join our association?”

You see, Ron was the chair and founder of the Cuban-Canadian Friendship Committee.

I didn’t know exactly what that meant, or even if there were any other members on the board. But he was jus so excited about. So I did what I always did.

“Sure!” I blurted out. “That sounds amazing.”

Idiota.

Before I knew it, my phone was ringing.

“We’re having a meeting tonight,” Ron trilled into my voice mail. Always voice mail.

I didn’t have time for the Cuban-Canadian Friendship Committee. You know, being a recovering crack smoker who only had to go to the gym and watch reality TV, and all.

I did see him at the pool though. Once, I managed to sneak up on him, while he was performing some inscrutable aerobic routine.

He jumped a little, and then burst out laughing. It was like no one ever snuck up on him. We laughed together. Even harder when I pretended to kick his oxygen tank into the pool.

So I invited him over for tea.

It would just be my mom, Ron and a family friend, who stopped by regularly for a nice cup of something herbal. I picked up Ron at the nursing home downtown. We listened to music on the drive. But I had to keep turning it down whenever Ron said something.

Save it for tea, I thought, annoyed. Driving is music time.

Ron was a sterling guest. And, unlike many older people who sprout hair from their ears, he was a surprisingly good listener. He was still a regular contributor to the local newspaper, writing letters that railed against capitalism.

He had conversation to burn. And boy did he ever light up when he talked about the future he was building. Lanterns danced behind his pale blue eyes.

When it was time to go, Ron turned to me and asked if I’d like to take a little detour.

I was surprised to learn he used to live down the street. He still owned his house.

“How about a tour?”

And what a grand old house it was! Jaunty, drafty and dusty, with a sprawling wraparound porch. Inside were posters and flags, mostly Communist propaganda. Ron was an ardent admirer of the Soviet Union. His bookshelves sagged from the weight of all that political dogma and philosophy.

A flag with a hammer and sickle hung over the fireplace.

“Want to move in?” he asked.

“I wish,” I replied, meaning no disrespect whatsoever to my long-suffering mother.

“Honestly,” I said. “It looks like you just moved out.”

It’s true. Despite having left his house months ago, the place was a snapshot of the very day he departed for the nursing home. Scribbled notes were scattered on his desk, beside an unmade bed.

“Are you going to sell it?” I asked.

“I probably should,” he replied. “But I’m hoping to move back in some day.”

I’ve known many people on many different journeys in life, but I never met a single one who made that trip from a retirement home back to their old house.

“That’s Benjamin Button stuff,” I told him.

“Who?”

Nevermind.

In the days ahead, I’d dodge a lot of phone calls.

He emailed too, asking for my thoughts on a new political party he was working round the clock to establish. Every detail of his ultra-socialist dream had been worked out.

No more one-percenters. Care and security for every living person.

He wanted to make this world a more just and equal place.

He was talking about a revolution.

How much more was this guy going to squeeze out of life? I mean, he had to be approaching 90. His back was bent, his body shaped like a boomerang. And that oxygen tank rattling behind him. How does he sleep with all those tubes hanging out of his face? What a bother, it must be for him to be alive.

But I was mistaken. It was no bother at all. Ron only wanted more of it.

Which was probably why I was so evasive. He kept asking me about my life. How could I tell him I had blown decades of it to addiction? Or that I had treated this life like a shitty suit thrifted from Goodwill. Cheap and easy to throw away.

Meanwhile, Ron’s eyes were fixed on the future. He was building Utopia. One manifesto at a time.

The last time Ron was in my car, he was giving me grief about missing committee meetings and how impossible it was to get ahold of me.

“Why don’t you pick up your phone?” he hollered.

Desperate to change the subject, I tapped on his oxygen tank.

“What do you think would happen if I smoked a cigarette right now? Would we blow up?”

“What a way to go,” he said.

But not for Ron. A couple of days ago, while leaving the hotel pool, he toppled over in the parking lot.

“We don’t know how long he’d been dead,” a friend who worked there told me.

Someone gave him chest compressions. Too late. His oxygen tank sighed, ‘nevermore.’

The other day, someone was crooning on the radio:

“If life’s so short, then why are the nights so long?”

Wonder what Ron would say about that. I guess he’d turn down the radio first so he could speak. Annoying.

Then maybe he’d say something like, the revolution never sleeps.

But you can sleep through it. So pick up the damned phone.