The old man and the clouds
On the contemplation of nature, and the surprising nature of contemplation. Also, a frolicking dog and some inner dialogue rich in profanities.
The old man studies the clouds, sitting cross-legged on the grass. Completely motionless, only the mouth with the pipe emits smoke at regular intervals. It is three in the afternoon, the sky is blue, and a light breeze rustles the old man's scarf. Cotton-candy clouds pass by slowly.
On the lawn walks a child with a mobile phone in his hand. He looks at the screen and the path, his eyes well trained to this rapid shift. The old man is out of his field of vision, and the child walks past him, ignoring him, almost bumping into him. The old man ignores him too.
A dog trots by after a stick that was thrown a few metres away from the old man. The dog is big and deviates from its path to greet the old man, tail waving like a flag in the open sea. A girl runs up to them and stops the dog, the old man smiles slightly under his pipe but continues to watch the clouds. The girl walks away with the dog, her eyebrows raised in a perplexed expression.
On the path along the meadow passes a couple pushing a blue pram; they are young, and an atmosphere of happiness wafts around them like a fancy perfume. The couple strolls calmly, but then she stops, the pram stops. She watches the old man for almost a minute, then starts walking again. Now a cloud of words envelops them. Do you think he's all right? Yes, of course, he's just contemplating; maybe we should all do it more. You're right; we live too fast. Always stuck to these mobile phones. Enough; from today, we're setting a limit. We need to rediscover simple pleasures, like watching the clouds.
On the other side of the path, another old man sits on the bench, putting down two shopping bags. He is out of breath. He mutters to himself. Next time I'll have Mario accompany me; I can't do it by myself anymore, who cares if he’s going to bitch that coffee is not good at my age, and I should have no wine or bacon. He should shut the fuck up; I'm eighty-four years old and I should have a right to eat whatever the hell I want. It's all the fault of that bitch my son married, doctor my ass; he wasn't like that before her. What's this guy doing now? Looking at the clouds? He's probably crazy, poor guy, maybe he has no one, and he ended up here. I should go home to Lina, or I’ll never hear the end of it. The joys of marriage. I better go.
It's now six o'clock, and the light is starting to fade. The clouds are gone, and now the sky is clear. The old man stirs from his immobility and gets up with a sigh of relief. He extinguishes his pipe and carefully places it in a pouch in his pocket. He stretches his legs and arms. Then, he starts walking towards the path, towards the park's exit. When he reaches the gate, the old man pulls out the latest-generation smartphone from another pocket and earbuds. He searches his contacts, taps on a name and waits.
“Gianfranco here.”
“Yes, hello big jerk, it's me, from the park. I said I'd call you at six, didn't I?”
The old man listens and frowns.
“You're so full of shit, Giovanni. What do you think I'm doing here? Calm down.”
Then: “If you don’t shut up, I’ll take my forecast somewhere else. Luca made me an offer just this morning.”
A few seconds, and a big grin appears on his face.
“That's right, be a good boy and write it all down. So, from today's reading, cirrus clouds signal an erratic trend for currencies, so watch out. However, the high cumulus is confirming yesterday's investment, so that's good news. Now listen up, here comes the good stuff...”
His voice slowly fades in the evening breeze, as the old man continues to talk and walk away. Right behind him, on the pavement, a boy wearing earphones looks up and stops scrolling the screen with his thumb. Over his head, the sky is showing off a sunset in shades of orange and pink worthy of an impressionist masterpiece. The boy pauses for a few seconds to watch with a vague smile. The old man turns the corner and disappears.