My friend’s wife, Rachel, told me about Albert, the boy who walks backwards, one time I was in London. It was around the same time when I was permanently anxious, due in no small part to a recurring dream I was having where I fall down some stairs. We were waiting on a delivery of Chinese food and I was wondering which credit card was least likely to ricochet when it came the time to pay for the glutinous proportions we had ordered when Rachel suddenly felt the need to mention Albert.
“What?” I said, when nothing else was forthcoming. She might as well have said when the bell rings. That would have generated an equal amount of anticipation for what should come next: when the bell rings, what?
“He’s Albert,” she reiterated, “the boy who walks backwards. That’s it.”
After probing a little bit more, I didn't get any worthwhile information. Rachel and her husband to’d and fro’d to the kitchen table, crossing each other’s paths in opposite directions as they stocked the table with tools to help us overcome the expected food. That repeated title was about all anybody knew. Albert walked backwards, and did not say very much except to proclaim:
“I’m Albert; I’m the boy who walks backwards.”
Obviously I was intrigued. I had forgotten about the Chinese food, and the need to gather about as many people as would occupy a reasonably sized old-peoples home to help us eat the food. I wanted to meet Albert, talk to him, and gather information that might unearth the reason behind his modus operandi. I had questions.
But there were no tales of bad accidents, or trips to the hospital, or the people he had knocked over, just renown; he was almost eulogized for how talented he was in reverse. He ran even. I had visions of a boy running backwards, but my visions were fraught with worry and the horror of a boy and a bad fall: a boy getting hurt. I kept thinking that if I were his father, I would be wondering about the level of attention I was giving Albert that would cause him to seek it elsewhere in such a dramatic fashion.
But there were no tales of parental neglect or abuse either, no cause, no reason to favor his actions as a vice rather than a virtue. And indeed, his idiosyncrasies, eccentricities should be accepted.
Rachel’s Husband, my longtime friend, had been visiting Ireland a lot during that particular period. His father, Noel, was in the late stages of cancer, and he finally passed a few weeks later, 'of a' Friday as they say in those parts; the day after the anniversary of my own father’s death. Strange mirrors; there is something about January.
His father was one of our hometown’s eccentrics, living a rich and fulfilling life, giving logic to inanity, and way too clever to be fully understood. I have always been drawn by those with such animation and vigor. My friend told me that his vivacity had been all but extinguished in his last few weeks. He also told me that his father, one week before he passed away, remembered an incident involving me and a movie.
Noel recalled my arrival to his door, many years back –probably in a sleeveless frayed denim jacket, and bleached, and probably with hair treated with chemicals too– and I carried a VHS pirate-copy (in the days before downloads) of the movie The Blues Brothers insisting that he should watch it.
“Thanks Paul,” he enthused, “but I haven’t got a VCR.”
I went and got a VCR and traipsed back to his door, leads and cables and all. For some reason I had a strong determination that he should see the things that I see, and as I see them.
It is funny what one recalls when evaluating life, looking back on a story told. This moment was one he kept. I vaguely remember the incident, and obviously not as much as he did. I am not even sure it is that good of a movie either, but I am glad now that I insisted he watched it. His memory made this moment one I shall revisit often.
“What?” I said, when nothing else was forthcoming. She might as well have said when the bell rings. That would have generated an equal amount of anticipation for what should come next: when the bell rings, what?
“He’s Albert,” she reiterated, “the boy who walks backwards. That’s it.”
After probing a little bit more, I didn't get any worthwhile information. Rachel and her husband to’d and fro’d to the kitchen table, crossing each other’s paths in opposite directions as they stocked the table with tools to help us overcome the expected food. That repeated title was about all anybody knew. Albert walked backwards, and did not say very much except to proclaim:
“I’m Albert; I’m the boy who walks backwards.”
Obviously I was intrigued. I had forgotten about the Chinese food, and the need to gather about as many people as would occupy a reasonably sized old-peoples home to help us eat the food. I wanted to meet Albert, talk to him, and gather information that might unearth the reason behind his modus operandi. I had questions.
But there were no tales of bad accidents, or trips to the hospital, or the people he had knocked over, just renown; he was almost eulogized for how talented he was in reverse. He ran even. I had visions of a boy running backwards, but my visions were fraught with worry and the horror of a boy and a bad fall: a boy getting hurt. I kept thinking that if I were his father, I would be wondering about the level of attention I was giving Albert that would cause him to seek it elsewhere in such a dramatic fashion.
But there were no tales of parental neglect or abuse either, no cause, no reason to favor his actions as a vice rather than a virtue. And indeed, his idiosyncrasies, eccentricities should be accepted.
Rachel’s Husband, my longtime friend, had been visiting Ireland a lot during that particular period. His father, Noel, was in the late stages of cancer, and he finally passed a few weeks later, 'of a' Friday as they say in those parts; the day after the anniversary of my own father’s death. Strange mirrors; there is something about January.
His father was one of our hometown’s eccentrics, living a rich and fulfilling life, giving logic to inanity, and way too clever to be fully understood. I have always been drawn by those with such animation and vigor. My friend told me that his vivacity had been all but extinguished in his last few weeks. He also told me that his father, one week before he passed away, remembered an incident involving me and a movie.
Noel recalled my arrival to his door, many years back –probably in a sleeveless frayed denim jacket, and bleached, and probably with hair treated with chemicals too– and I carried a VHS pirate-copy (in the days before downloads) of the movie The Blues Brothers insisting that he should watch it.
“Thanks Paul,” he enthused, “but I haven’t got a VCR.”
I went and got a VCR and traipsed back to his door, leads and cables and all. For some reason I had a strong determination that he should see the things that I see, and as I see them.
It is funny what one recalls when evaluating life, looking back on a story told. This moment was one he kept. I vaguely remember the incident, and obviously not as much as he did. I am not even sure it is that good of a movie either, but I am glad now that I insisted he watched it. His memory made this moment one I shall revisit often.
Maybe Albert sees something that I don’t; he’s is right to take things a little differently, reverse in advance, challenge the norm, and dance to a different drum.
“I’m Albert, the boy who walks backwards.”
I walk forward, with eyes open, one foot in front of the other, good training as a youngster in action. All the same, with my angle on what’s ahead, it doesn’t prevent me from meeting those moments that cause me to stop, slap my hands at my side in exasperation, and then hold them out, palms front in defense, and say:
“Oh no, no, hold on a second. I was not expecting that.”
“And life laughs and says: Ahh, ahh...
And the moon laughs and says: Umm, mm...”
And the moon laughs and says: Umm, mm...”
-Murmullo: Buena Vista Social Club