The arresting melancholy of art

It’s impossible to re-experience one single memory: That mean-spirited, grizzled Folonari with his crappy old car and seedy apartment, the bastard who stole my father’s Army picture as a ‘joke.’ I thought I saw him walk by the laundromat with that 6 scotch gait of his. I caught up with him after the intersection. If he hadn't been talking to himself I might have punched him in the back. I called his name, he half turned and recognized somebody, though probably not me. I tried to get a recollection out of him. He remembered my father.

"He still drive that white car?"  I told him no... Then he came to a complete stop and faced me:

“Hey, is Bob Hope still dead? -- I mean, like you never know...”

I told him I didn't know, I had seen Hope on TV the other night. Folonari, shook his head. "They won't be bringing me back." His face contorted with restrained sadness. One eye was teary. "Hey, do I owe you any money?" I shook my head and he nodded and kept walking. Even Folonari was pitiable.