He abjures water–‘fish
pee in it’—drinks beer at lunch, cheap sherry in the afternoon, proletarian
red wine at dinner time. He stands tall and straight as always.
Robert has a range of comely charms—a world-class
overbite, a proboscis to cause Caesar envy, a Boston accent that would do the
Kennedys proud—but of all the attributes that mark El Nagel this is Numero Uno:
he manages to make just about everyone
love him and want to do for him. Motivated by affection alone one friend
repairs the busted water works of his old house, another mows his acre and a
half of lawn, another installs a new water heater, yet another builds him a
porch.
Who else is so cherished that even the local Member of
Parliament makes time every July to cut Bob’s hayfield, bale the hay, then haul
it away. Such universal affection cannot be explained, it just is.
I am just one among Nagel’s many victims. It isn’t that our
tastes match or that we see eye to eye on every important political or social
issue. Bob likes lamb and pork, I prefer haddock and cod. I am a pinko, Bob is most
assuredly not. I revere the memory of Tommy Douglas, whereas Bob cherishes that
of Barry Goldwater. It defies logic but none of that seems to matter a whit.
Summer is here so Nagel and MacLeod tend to share bits of
every day in each other’s company. We laugh, we holler; I swill Alexander
Keith’s, Bob savours Andres Rich Canadian Apera. Day follows day, the sun
shines, laughter and frivolity fill his porch and mine. The world spins as it
should . . .
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