Julius Schwartz was old and thin. He wore a pair of square glasses that seemed too big for his face. He usually wore some sort of cap. His posture was bowed. He walked very slowly and gingerly, as if his body would snap under the force of speed or friction. He would park his cane inside the basket of a shopping cart - his long skeletal fingers wrapped around the handle. He used the cart as a walker.
It took him a while, but he managed to shop for a few groceries, pay for his goods - always with a check and carry everything in a paper sack to the bus stop. I don't know how old he was. He looked 100.
Julius Schwartz had the best damn voice in the world. He had a thick Jersey accent that was tempered by a soft raspy quality which probably came from too many years of smoking or too many smokey bars. He spoke in a near whisper so I had to lean in to listen. But once I managed to tune in to the frequency of his speech, I was rewarded with the lyricism of his accent, his humor, his intelligence, his experience.
I had a feeling that Julius Schwartz was a musician. He had the music vibe about him. One day I asked him whether he played an instrument. He seemed surprised by my mysterious powers of perception. Indeed, he had been a musician. He had played alto sax with the Benny Goodman orchestra for many years.
I loved Julius Schwartz. He always made me laugh. And I always made him laugh. I wanted to hear his stories. And if I could have stopped working and lent him my ears for an hour or two at Planet Care, he probably would have told me a few. But I was a slave to the cash register. And the check-out line is not a place to ask a hundred year-old man to tell you a story.
Each time he came in, I wanted to ask him for his phone number. Every time I saw him, I wrestled to find the right words to use. But I could never get out of my own way and ask.
I didn't see Julius Schwartz for a while. When he reappeared, he looked thinner and moved more slowly. He had a hired helper with him. She seemed impatient and unkind. But she was taking care of him. So I had to trust that she would do what she'd been hired to do even though I wanted to take care of him.
I realized that time was running out, that Julius Schwartz would not be on this planet forever. So one day, I mustered up the courage to walk over to him in the cafe where he was sipping on some soup. I stumbled and staggered but somehow managed to tell him that I wanted to hear his stories, that I'd like to write an article about him. I gave him my phone number, which seemed less intrusive than asking for his. He said he would give me a call. But he never did.
Julius Scwartz came in less frequently. His helper would come in and get a Go-Go Green for him. I'd ask her how he was doing. She always replied, "He's old."
"Yes, but how is he?"
She just shook her head.
I told her that I was very glad she was taking care of him. She said that was her job. I tried to impress upon her exactly how awesome this man that she was hired to take care of really was. I think she never fully grasped it.
I saw Julius Schwartz once more after I'd given him my phone number. I asked how he'd been feeling. He remarked that he was never better. I asked whether he still had my phone number. He said he did. I asked him to please call me and let's get together for story time. He said he would call.
I never saw Julius Schwartz again. I saw his helper. When I asked how he was doing, she shook her head. A tiny tear glistened in the corner of her eye. I asked her to give him my love. She nodded.
~~~
There's this old guy who comes in to Planet Care fairly regularly. He has the air of a film maker from the 1920's - though he's not that old. He carries himself with an air of bravado, his head up, his posture erect. He gestures broadly when he speaks. He has wavy white hair and a goatee. His eyebrows are drawn in brown. When I ask him what fun things he has planned for himself he says things like, "I'm gonna call in my dancing girls. We'll have a party." He asks me if I've been behaving and I'll say not if I can help it. It turns out this guy used to be a concert pianist. He played all over the world. This was how he made his living. He stopped playing because he stopped feeling the music. His technical skills were still strong. But the music itself lost all meaning. He said that someday he hopes to go to a cabin in the mountains and be alone with a piano and start listening to it.
So today, he told me that he and his girlfriend spent all of 1967 living with Jefferson Airplane directly across the street from Haight-Ashbury "at the height of it all. It was a trip," he said. "In more ways than one, I'm sure," I said. He laughed. "I have no comment."
It would seem I need to ask this guy for his phone number.
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