Vincent

The first time Vincent called I was convinced of his professional stature. He was obviously a busy man… I could practically hear him walking quickly down a busy city street, most likely New York, I thought, based on his accent. I could hear the way he looked quickly both ways before stepping into moving traffic... in perfect sync with the chaos. In my job I receive phone calls from professional people of all types.
He did talk a little more than most callers. What he wanted was a dictionary… or a book of modern usage. He knew the differences between the various kinds. He knew the number of entries. His deep and raspy voice was strong and his vocabulary was vast… he was well educated. There seemed to be someone with him, someone to whom he spoke, moving the mouthpiece of the phone back slightly from his face. I could hear mumbles intermittently through his hurried and forcefully urgent call.
Our conversation ended abruptly, and to say I was bewildered when Vincent said goodbye is an understatement. It had been a whirlwind… the frantic search for ancient dictionaries… they are better than the modern ones… the sedative rambling, which, I discovered, required no response… all ended suddenly. I had been pulled into his world. There had been no way to foresee it, no way to avoid it. The world was quiet and lonely for a moment. That was Vincent’s world.