The Ballad of David… and George

This is the tale of a man who I see nearly every day yet know almost nothing about.

Everyday around the same time he shuffles into my place of work.  A small older man whose skin has the look of an apple dried in the sun.  Slight, stooped, and possessing glasses with lenses that would not look out of place on the bottom of coke bottles; he enters, stopping in his journey to survey the station.  Dressed in his constant outfit of work boots, khakis, baseball cap and old faded work shirt, with the only change being if it is warm outside (light vest) or cold (bright multicolor ski jacket) he ambles up to the counter and begins talking with us.  His name is David Chase, and he is a foamer.

What is a foamer, you ask?  It’s not Chikenese, but rather a term used in my field of work.  It is used to describe an EXTREME train fanatic. These are people who build their schedules around trains.  And that is David.  Be it his daily riding of our local light rail system back and forth, his constant interest in our train line from Chicago, or many other things, he is the very model of a foamer.  In David’s life (that I know of) there is only one thing that rivals his love of trains:

His love of what he calls ‘kitties.’

He is crazy about cats.  For some time he carried a book of cat breeds with him so he could look at the pictures and show them to people.  I say look at the pictures rather than read it because it is the common thought at my work that he is illiterate.  In its own way, it’s kind of amazing that a 67 year old man can survive in this day and age with that disadvantage- but I digress.

Any day David gets to see a kitty is a good day.  Any day he gets to pet a kitty is an ecstatic day.  And the day he met George?  Well, that is a red letter day.

George was a tuxedo (black and white) cat who lived on Capitol Hill.  Big, fat, and loving attention in that unique way only cats can pull off, George was a minor celebrity around town.  And when these two met, it was love at first sight.

I remember when David first met George.  He had a bit more hustle in his shuffle and would come up and talk about how George would not only let you pet him, but would crawl onto your shoulder and perch like a parrot.  Every day he would talk of George and what they did- some days totally forgetting about trains.  He would talk of buying tuna and treats, petting him, and even getting their picture taken together.  David would laugh his distinct rapid machine gun laugh, and show off a picture he was given by George’s owners.  During this time, to try and add to his happiness, I would show him pictures of my parent’s cats- all tuxedos as well.  He really liked the picture of Pumpkin resting on my chest- it made him laugh.

One day David came in and right away you could tell something was wrong.  It wasn’t anything specific, more like the air around him was broadcasting.  He came up to us and relayed the news:  a dog had gotten free and attacked George.  When he was asked about it, David said that George was at the vets getting fixed up, and should be OK, but there were worries since he was an older kitty.  He then said that after George is released, his owners would most likely keep him inside from now on, and with that revelation, you could see how crestfallen David was.  A part of his happiness, his life was gone.  It didn’t stop David from going to check up on his progress every day and reporting it to us.

Every day we would hear that George was still at the vets, then that he was released and sent home, that he can see George looking out the window all lonely, it would go on.  Things seem to go better and David got happier.  But then he came in and reported George getting sick- pneumonia, I think. He was sent back to the vets, but this time the prognosis was not good.  George was old and weakened from the attack and was just too weak to survive.  The owners took him home to spend the time left in familiar surroundings in comfort.  They also let David play with the kitty one last time.

When George died, David just stuck with his routine.  It was all he had.  He would come in daily and talk about George’s passing, mourning him in his own way.  It just seemed he was going through the motions more than anything else.  We were his support group.

After a couple weeks of this, David came in surprisingly excited.  Without surveying the surroundings, he quickly came up to us and pulled out a small black book.  It turned out that since so many people loved George, his owners made a small picture book with pictures of George throughout his life, both by himself and with those who adored him.  There were also written memories about him throughout the book.  David opened it to show off all the pictures- two in particular.  They were of the two of them, with David smiling the biggest toothless grin I have ever seen on him.  David had his kitty back, at least in a way.  This was about 8 months ago.

David still comes in nearly every day.  It is his life, and it makes him happy… at least I guess so.  He talks about the trip he is going to be taking shortly (by train, of course) to visit his sister.  He talks about how he will never drink whiskey again.  Then he will then pull out a now slightly dog-eared black book and proceeds to show pictures of his beloved kitty.  We warn him to take care that book, and in his defense he guards it very well.  He eventually takes off, to who knows where, with his kitty in his pocket.  While it is obvious that he is still mourning George, he at least has something to give him comfort.

And for him, it seems enough.