EASTERN (EUROPEAN) PHILOSOPHER

There was a new guy staying next door in the transient room.  “I hear him out there,” my girlfriend Susan said.  “Open the door and see what he looks like. Maybe we can interview him for the blog.”  It was late at night and she had just settled into bed.  I didn’t feel like talking to anybody, since I was tired and ready for bed too, so I waited until I didn’t hear anything outside before I went to take a piss.

            The guy was still out there, hanging out in the hallway.  Short, thin, with gray, close-cropped hair, he eyed me up and down as I stepped out of my door.  “Are you something?” he inquired.

            “Uh, well, I’m a writer,” I said.

            “I’m a writer myself, of a sort.  I do ontology.  I’m from Tennessee.”
            He was an older man, and half-way distinguished looking, so I thought he meant he was a professor there.  “You must be in the Philosophy Department,” I said.

            He clearly didn’t know what I was talking about, but decided he didn’t mind being taken for an academic.  “Uh, yeah.  I just got back from Hungary.  I decided I needed to familiarize myself with western philosophy before I immersed myself in the eastern variety.  But you know what, once I started studying, I found out that they were the same thing.
            It seemed like an oversimplification to me, but I didn’t feel like getting into it at the moment.

            “You live here, don’t you?” the philosopher inquired.

            “Yeah, 11 years.”  Since he was curious, I opened the door and showed him my room.  Susan hid her head under the covers. 

            “Not bad,” he said.

            “Thank you,” I said, closing the door.  I still had to use the restroom, as I headed in that direction.

            “Can I live here?” the man asked hopefully.   

            In the old days, no problem, I thought; he would have fit right in.  “Well, I don’t know,” I said.  “You’ll have to talk to Stanley Bard.  It’s pretty expensive these days.”

            “I saw a bag lady in the hall.  She can’t be paying much, if anything.”

            “Well, you’re probably right about that.  But she’s been here 30 years.”

            “I’m going down to the Spanish bar next door for a drink,” he said.  He seemed to be inviting me to come along.

            “The El Quijote,” I said.  “Say hello to Santi for me.”

            The philosopher left a Hungarian bill on the bathroom sink when he checked out.  A tip for the maids?  I left the bill tacked to his door in case he came back looking for it. (Ed Hamilton)