‘Solitude is the school of genius.’ –R. W. Emerson
In a Tampa Bay area hospice, the mystery of a man with no identity.
Here lies a man who does not exist. He is very old, and maybe a little deaf. His hair has gone white and his teeth have gone missing. He will tell you he is 95. But later he might say 94, or 93. He says he has traveled the world as a hobo. Slept under trucks, on park benches, in barns. Played football with Burt Reynolds and baseball with Fidel Castro.
But his stories shift and change, and he admits he hasn’t always been truthful. But no one knows why. He carries no identification. He swears he’s never smiled for a passport photo. He has no birth certificate, no Social Security card. No family. Just a couple of old friends. And before he dies, even they want to know: Who is Roger George?(…)
People die with secrets all the time. Secret affairs, secret pasts, secret urges. Roger George’s secrets appear to be much more fundamental. Maybe he’s entitled to those secrets, whatever they are. Or maybe he’s just a sweet old man with a foggy memory and a colorful life.
