On the beaten path

I saw John about a month ago. He was living in a small apartment on Catherine Street in Malone.

His heart condition and other health problems prevented him from driving, and he couldn’t go out without taking a small oxygen tank with him. He was prone to shortness of breath.

John and I both shared a love of science-fiction films and old movies, and I used to give him videos after I was done with them. We also liked movie serials from the 1930s and ‘40s, stuff like “The Adventures of Captain Marvel” and “Daredevils of the Red Circle.”

The serials are a cinematic form that no longer exists, and John was one of my few friends who even knew what I was talking about when I mentioned them. He spent hours watching the two “Superman” serials from the late ‘40s that were just released on DVD. Even a 12-chapter serial is about four hours long.

John’s apartment was piled with rows of tapes and DVDs, and he was always telling me about some new find he was watching, like the first season of “Wanted: Dead or Alive,” a 1950s Western series, or the 1950s “Superman” TV series that had finally come out on DVD.

John had a sort of cynical and satiric way of looking at life. He never failed to start me laughing about something.

I met John when the Press-Republican had a bureau office on Montcalm Street in Ticonderoga, and he was working for the Times of Ti just down the street. Newberry’s was still open, and we used to stop in before work many mornings for breakfast at the lunch counter.

John also ordered the works — eggs, homefries, toast, sausage and coffee. He was a hearty eater, but he said his doctor often warned him he had to lose weight.

He died on his way home, where he had the movies he loved to watch and his little cat, Patches.

He got Patches when he was in Ticonderoga. John and I were walking down the street one day when we saw a little kitten lying in the street.

Something had happened to his mother or he’d wandered away and for some reason he thought the side of Montcalm Street was a good place to take a nap.

John and I rescued him before he could get run over, and John named him Patches, because his fur was so many different colors. Patches traveled everywhere John went in the 12 years or so since then.

When I visited John a month ago, Patches leaped up on the arm of the chair I was sitting in, purring. I petted him.

“Patches remembers me,” I told John.

“I’ve had Patches a long time,” John said. “He sleeps in the room with me at night. He’s a great
cat.”

Soon after that, I shook hands with John and left. I had no idea I was seeing him for the last time.