Shufflin’ Ray died a few months ago, October I think, and almost no one noticed.

Maybe you saw Ray around downtown. You couldn’t miss him. He walked slowly, but in a herky-jerky fashion – each step about the length of his foot. He didn’t swing his arms when he walked, so it was very zombie-like. It took him a long time to get anywhere, but he walked a lot or sat out in front of the Brownwood Manor smoking a cigarette.

At first, before I met him, I’d see him shuffling and I’d called him “tiny steps.” His name was Ray Ellis.

He didn’t have anyone, for the most part.

I met him not long after we moved into this apartment. He’d be sitting out on a bench smoking a cigarette and he’d see me in front of the apartment… and here he’d come. Shuffling over. I’d see him comin’ from a long way and it took him a long time to get over to me. The part of us that doesn’t like to be bothered, that selfish and anti-social part, would say “Oh no. Here comes Ray. I’m going to be stuck here for half an hour.”

Not long ago, another Manor resident told me that Ray died. The ambulance came and took his body away and no one really noticed. Then about a week ago a man named John came by and sat with me out front and we talked for a good long time. He was Ray’s neighbor and friend.

“I sure miss Ray,” John told me. I was glad that someone missed him.

Anyway, shortly after I met Ray – this was a few years ago – I wrote about him – and since Ray died and no one noticed, I thought I’d share it with you. Maybe you should read it, if only because if certain circumstances happened and I was all alone in the world and I died… maybe it would be nice if someone noticed or remembered.

—

April 22, 2022

The friendship with Ray has developed but has its strains. We have done well with Ray keeping to the rules. No coming over whenever he wants and knocking on the door. He knows he’s not supposed to come over unless I wave him over. I have learned some things about Ray, but I don’t know what things are true.

His name is Arthur Ray Ellis, Jr. He had a wife named Catherine who died of cancer. He is 61 years old, born in June of 1961. He lived in Amarillo. He says he has three children who live in Amarillo, but I’m not sure if “Amarillo” is a real place for Ray or not. Amarillo may just be a place where people are when they aren’t with you.

If you ask Ray about anyone alive or dead, he says they are “in Amarillo.”

I looked Ray up online, and there isn’t a whole lot, but I found out he had a sister who lived in Amarillo who died in ’99. One day I asked him if he had a sister. He said he had two. I asked him about the one I’d read about online who had died. “Is she still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?”

“Amarillo.”

In Amarillo, he tells me, he rode in a truck and they went to the zoo and rode rides. He had fun. “Amarillo is fun.” He went fishing in Amarillo and he caught a fish. I learn these things because I constantly ask him questions, trying to get him out of his usual thought loops. In school, he ran track at some point “and won,” and he wrestled in the 6th grade. Some days Ray is lucid and talks and answers questions. Some days he’s in a loop and just says the same things over and over again. He doesn’t remember what he told me before. He never remembers Danielle’s name but just calls her “your wife” and he tells me she walks the dog and takes things to the dumpster. I ask him questions.

John is his friend, he says, and comes over and cleans and sometimes cooks. I wonder if “John” is real.

Ray tells me that the guy who used to live in my apartment invited him into the air conditioner and gave him a Coke and a candy bar. Some of the people at the Manor don’t like him and call him names.

It took some time to get the rules straight. One day Ray came over and knocked on the door and I had to tell him “No. I’m not coming out. You’re not allowed to knock on the door, Ray.” He nodded and shuffled off back to the Manor. We need rules.

The next day I waved him over and he said “I want to apologize.”

“What do you want to apologize for?”

“I came over and knocked on your door. I’m sorry.”

“Ok. Thanks, Ray.”

During one of his lucid times, he tells me he used to read books. “What kind of books do you like to read?” I asked.

“Mysteries.”

So, I bought Ray a Hardy Boys paperback from the bookstore. They are short reads for children. He was happy when I gave it to him. I said, “Bring that one back and I’ll get you another one.” The next day he brought the first one back and asked for another one, so I gave him another one. A few days later I was sitting outside reading on my phone and I heard Ray shuffling over across Brown Street toward me, and I looked up and he was almost to me. “Ray, I didn’t wave you over.”

He made an abrupt turn and shuffled back across the street. I watched him as he walked up the walk and into the Manor. A half-hour later he came down and he had a book in his hand. It was the Hardy Boys. He shuffled over and across the street, didn’t look at me, opened the dumpster and slammed the book into it, then shuffled back over and into the Manor. I walked inside and said, “I think Ray just threw away the book I gave him.”

The next day I waved him over. He asked me if I had a book for him. “Where’s the one I gave you last time?” “I lost it.” “Ok, Ray.”

I gave him another book.

Yesterday he came over and the book he tried to return to me in exchange for another Hardy Boys book was the Brownwood telephone book. I said, “Ray, that’s the telephone book.”

“You could call me.”

“I’m not going to call you.”

“Ok.”

He asks me again, like he does every day, “Where do you work?” “At the bookstore.” “Oh, I like books,” he says. “I like mysteries.” He never remembers that I work at the bookstore.

But it’s spring, so yesterday I was sitting outside. Ray wasn’t outside smoking. He tells me he likes to watch television, “but not R things” (R-rated movies). “I like basketball and baseball.” Maybe he’s inside watching baseball.

I went to sleep wondering if there were any more new Hardy Boys books and why Ray thought a telephone book was a good trade for a mystery book. That’s the real mystery. What goes on in a man’s mind?

—-

February 14, 2024 – Today

Looking back a week or so, I was glad to get to meet John, who was Ray’s friend. I met him when he was walking by the apartment. He saw me and just wanted someone to talk to. John sat with me and he was surprised when I said I knew and missed Ray. He told me that he would help Ray whenever he could. Ray would knock on his door in the morning and ask John if he’d had coffee yet. John would sometimes cook and clean for Ray and give him a Coke.

“If I gave him a Coke he’d go into his room and not come back out,” John told me.

John is in his 80s, and he’s lonely too. He likes to talk, and he chatted with me for an hour about everything in his life. I just listened.

But we talked about Ray, John and I did, and he said, “I miss Ray. He was a good friend.”

I’m glad Ray has someone who misses him.

***

Michael Bunker is a local columnist for BrownwoodNews.com whose columns appear on Wednesdays and Sundays on the website.