Watson

About thirty years ago I worked with an old guy named Watson, and yes, that was his first name. His mother was ahead of the curve of white people who name their children after other people’s last names.

Watson was, as I said, old. He was way past the age when most people pack it in and retire. Work was his life. He is probably still working if he is still alive.

Watson didn’t walk, he shuffled. There was always a cigar stuffed in the corner of his mouth. Yes, for those of you too young to remember one could actually smoke a cigar indoors back then. Shoot, there were even ash trays in hospitals and medical waiting rooms.

I was concerned for Watson once when we exited the building together. I stopped at the curb to wait for a break in traffic before crossing the street, but Watson just shuffled into the street. Traffic stopped to let him cross, I followed. When we arrived safely I scolded Watson, saying, “Damn it Watson, you could have been killed!”

Watson rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other and looked at me squarely and said, “I live my life.”