Malcolm

There’s a maintenance guy in my complex, Malcolm, that I’ve gotten to be good friends with. When I first moved in he helped me with things above and beyond his job description, unloading some heavy items from the truck, hanging a big ass TV on the wall. Stuff like that. When I’m driving through the parking lot he always gives me a wave, and sometimes I’ll stop and roll the window down, spend a minute catching up.

We talk about all sorts of things – life, sports, basketball, baseball, depending on what’s in season. He’s also a pretty good carpenter, and shows me pictures of his kitchen remodeling. The progress he’s making. Really nice work.  

Lately, as old guys do, we’ve been talking a lot about our health. I had a heart attack a couple of years ago, and Malcolm has high blood pressure. We both have various aches and pains, just from age. Comes with the territory I guess, and I don’t let it bother me too much, but Malcolm is taking it very seriously, and it is worrying him. 

“James,” he tells me. “ You know I played ball all through high school and college, and now I’m hurting in places I never even knew I had before. My back is out, wake up with my neck stiff as a board. Had to go to the doctor last week for my ankle. Just stepped wrong and pain shot all the way up my leg. Couldn’t even walk on it.”

“And on top of that, I’m worrying all the time.”

“What are you worried about?” I ask.

“Everything.” He says. “I worry about everything.”

“Anxiety is what I have. Just constant anxiety,” He adds.

“I’m really struggling, James, just to be happy. And I used to be happy all the time.”

I don’t take this lightly, the struggle to be happy. It seems to be a plague of our time, the search for happiness, the need for more. We put a lot of pressure on ourselves. And for a man to admit and talk about it so openly is a miracle in itself. I want to help my friend. Just not sure how to do it. And on some level, he’s not looking for me to help anyway. Just to listen.

I ask what his doctor says about all this, the anxiety. He tells me she’s given him something to take but can’t remember what it is. 

“I’ll text it to you,” He offers.

We hang around in my kitchen for a few minutes, discussing basketball, and who’s looking good this year half way into the season. He shows me some more pictures of the bar he’s building in his basement. It’s really coming along and he’s getting ready to stain it. I’ve tried to pay Malcolm for the extra work he’s done for me on numerous occasions but he won’t hear of it. 

“You can just help me stock my bar.” He laughs.

As he’s leaving I give him a bottle of good Spanish red wine, a Tempranillo I think. And some ibuprofen, for his muscle aches. 

Driving by a few days later, Malcolm waves me over and I roll down the window. NFL football playoffs have started, and we talk about that. 

“And I just wanted to tell you too James, how much you helped me the other day when I was kind of down.” He says. “ I really appreciate it. And that red wine was incredible. I’ve never had a wine that good.”

Other than just listening, I think the main thing I told him was just to be good to himself. He deserved the kindness. That from where I stood, he had a lot to be proud of and grateful for. People who looked up to him, and cared about him.

“That medicine the doctor gave me is helping my anxiety,” He adds. “I’ve been sleeping a whole lot better.” 

“And I bought some ibuprofen. It’s really good with these aches and pains that been bothering me.” 

We say our goodbyes and I drive on, taking a moment behind the wheel to just be grateful myself, for more reasons than I can even count. Starting with Malcolm’s friendship.