A Brush With Nobility

Many regular readers have asked me from time to time what became of the hairy-eared old gentleman who chased me from the bus all those years ago to dote upon me with the gift of jam. "Where is Noble these days," they would say. Where is Noble, indeed! I would reply. For all I knew the ancient researcher had gone on to a better place and was no more. But it seems fate had another chance meeting in store for myself and the brittle Brit (from whom this blog earned the top ranking google search spot for "manatee kidneys.")

Today I saw him at a cafeteria near my office. He has forsaken the cabby hat of yesteryear and donned a baseball cap (and I am sorry, but in my excitement upon seeing him again, I completely neglected to pay attention to the decal on the front.), but not the tired tweed jacket with elbow patches for which he is known and loved. I was with a friend and so I did not approach him, only pointed him out. I was in the checkout as he rounded the corner of the salad bar and headed to the coffee station. I and my friend found a quiet spot on tall stools along one window. As luck would have it, Noble had already claimed the table next to us. As he came over I saw, out of the corner of my eye on one of the chairs nearby, the same dingy green knapsack from which the famed jar of strawberry preserves was once produced! Noble set down his tray to eat his lunch. Lunch consisted of two large pieces of soft bread and a cup of coffee with cream. I tried not to look at him too much as my friend and I ate. We talked and laughed per usual, but I could feel a Noble moment right around the corner. I knew I couldn't leave without saying hello. I had to say hello.

As we stood up to leave I said loudly, "Hello, Noble! How are you?"
"What?" He looked up at me with his mouth full.
"Good to see you. How's your research?"
Still chewing, "What?"
"How's your research?"
He stood up and walked over to me, leaning in with his hairiest ear, "What?"
"How is your research going?" Once again I am in public, yelling at a little old man. How does Noble always do this to me?
"Oh, you work here now?"
"I work on the other side of the street. How's your research in kidneys going?"
"I only come in once a week," he says cryptically with bread crumbs shooting like sparks from his mouth. I notice for the first time that half his teeth are missing in the front and the other half are a dark brown color. He is still talking through the bread crumbs, "You should stop and see me sometime."
"Yes? Where do you work?" I ask.
"I'm at the same place," he says.
"Where is that?" I ask again.
"In Lakewood! Same place I've been living! it's not that hard for you to stop by sometime. On a weekend. Stop by some weekend!" It is a brilliant plan and Noble is already congratulating himself on bagging a romantic encounter. He caps off the achievement with a bit of that magical memory work for which we love him so much. "Your name is Sarah, right?"
"Yes!" I show my surprise that he remembers me so well.
"You look different," he studies me up and down for a moment. he continues, "Your last name is..."
I wait for it. Hoagland. Say Hoagland.
"Hollander, right?"
I burst into the biggest smile, "Yes! Hollander."
"H-O-L-L-A-N-D-E-R?" He spells it out.
"Exactly," I say, wondering what my last name will be the next time we meet. Actually, now that I think about it, he'll probably go right home and look it up in the phone book. If there is a Sarah Hollander out there, I apologize.

I began my exit, "Well, we've got to go, but I wanted to say hi." Noble opened his arms inexplicably and it looked as if he was waiting for a hug. He never got it.

My friend and I headed outside.
"Was that the guy who followed you off the bus?" she asks.
"Yep."
"Then why'd you want to talk to him?" she queried.
"Because he's Noble."

And that's as good a reason as a person should need.

Caption Contest

Winner gets a used RTA bus pass from Cleveland, OH, USA.

Resting Place

This photo was recovered from my cell phone this afternoon after a long bus ride across town which happened to pass by this small cemetery. Would you like to be buried here? Within view of this enormous Church? I would not. Not only is it on a major busline, it's directly across the street from a Discount Drug Mart. That's right. The final resting place of these few poor souls is at gravestone level with the parking lot of a ghetto-fabulous drug store. A discount drug store. I'm pretty sure that when St. Patrick's chose the corner of Puritas and Rocky River Drive in 1851 it was probably a spacious lovely area. A fitting burial place for devout Catholic believers of the parish. But now... yes, now. Not the same.
But whereas we are skiddish of such garish juxtaposes and quiver at the thought of Slurpee cups tossed over the fence onto our memorial plaques, I doubt the dead mind it nearly so much as we do and it would certainly be a sobering sight for any would-be robbers. They are such even-minded folk, the dead. Sometimes I admire them for their composure. Or decomposure. However you want to look at it.

Watermelon Cocoa and Bus Breath

You ever have one of those grumpy days where you start out grumpy and very little occurs outside of yourself to change the grump factor? It's one of those days for me. I try to ride low when this happens and keep my head down. "It'll pass" is my favorite motto on days like this one. Of course, I still hold out hope that in about twenty minutes things around me will suddenly turn to sunshine and roses and pull me (even unwillingly) from my duldrums. But as of yet, it hasn't happened. (It's not a necessity, either. Just it would be nice...)

I have two major complaints of the morning and I'd like to share them with you so you can be on the look out. I'm here for you, sharing my wisdom so you don't have to.

1) Bus breath. If you get on a bus and the person behind, beside, before or around you is both a smoker and a cold sufferer, switch seats. If you think smoker's breath is bad, try mixing it with cold breath. It is the most horrendously ungodly combination of odors and since you can't open a window on a bus in winter and you're unlikely to breathe fresh air for some time, get away from the stench. Seriously. Let them be offended. Just go. I sat for ten minutes like an idiot with my scarf around my face trying to "thin out" the smell. Didn't work. Would have been a lot happier if I'd just moved. And the smell always increased exponentially when the man behind me rolled out a juicy cough. I almost vomited, but just managed to keep it in. Dangerous. Just dangerous.

2) Watermelon cocoa. Don't let it happen to you. Just because someone gives you a red and white striped candy cane doesn't mean it tastes like peppermint. I wrecked a perfectly good cup of hot cocoa by stirring in what I thought was a peppermint candy cane. You know how you get yourself all set to taste one thing and then it ends of being something completely different and your brain just can't wrap itself around the puzzle of what is going on? Yeah, that was me five minutes ago. And just for the record, watermelon and chocolate aren't that great together. Seriously. It kinda sucks.

Anyways, hope your day is going better than mine. Don't eat the yellow snow and if you're lucky enough to have sunshine and 50 degree weather please don't complain about it here. I just don't wanna hear what kind of Hawaiian print shirt you'll be wearing to the office Christmas Luau party.

Yaar the Champion

I grabbed the seat closest to the front of the crowded bus, the one jammed behind the driver with no view. The little woman sitting next me was attractive, middle-aged, and foreign. I smiled, said hello and then made an off-hand comment about the crowded condition of the bus.

"It was not this bizzy when I took at sevens in the morning. But now I take it later; it's bizzy." She smiled. She had a cute smile. She had y wrinkles around her eyes, olive skin and a crop of curly brown hair pulled up in a loose ponytail. She was dressed casual nice.

"You don't have to go to work so early anymore?" I chimed in, "That's good. You can sleep in now!"
She smiled, "No, I have five childrrren." She gazed at me as the information sank in. She was gratified by my response.
"Five?"
"Yes."
"What ages?"
"My oldest thirteen. My youngest five." She gave a pleased smile that was half exhausted and half mischievous.
"Wow! That's a lot!"
"My husband is dead. I am widow," she added.
"Oh," I replied, rather sobered, "so you have a lot of work to do each morning!"
Again the exhausted impish look, "Yes." She was staring at me again. "I'm here in U.S. three years. I have no family living here to help out. My husband family, I no like them. They think because I widow I do something bad, you know..." Here she gave me a pious, celibate frown meant to allay my fears that she might be running out on her dead husband.
I smiled at her. "What country are you from?"
"I move here from Germany, but I come from Afghanistan. After my husband die."

"Do you miss it? Afghanistan?" I asked.
"No," she shook her head thoughtfully, "It is beautiful country, but I don't like anymore..." She trailed off and smiled shyly.
'Your husband's family lives there?"
"Yes. There."
"So you have no one here in the U.S.?" As I watched her face I couldn't believe that she was about to hit me up for money, she looked too well off. But then why would she volunteer so much information to a total stranger?

"I have few friend. They help sometimes. One friend, Elizabeth, from the college, she come and tutor my childrrren each week. They speak now better English than me!" I liked the way she rolled her 'r's. She added a laugh and shook her head good-naturedly. "I have also other friend," she lowered her head and almost whispered, "A man. His name is Mohammed, but he not Arab, he black, you know Muslim, but from here," she pointed to the floor.
"Oh!" I nodded affirmingly. Her smile broke out like sunshine.
"He a good friend, he help out with kids sometimes, you know." She rocked her head side to side to indicate the breezy way in which she could take or leave this friend.
"That's good!" I responded. "Everybody needs friends."

I imagined her and this black Mohammed, their budding friendship and the growing sense of impropriety that their friendship created in this woman's life. She was obviously proud of him, whatever his role.

I turned back to the green-brown eyes, "Do you work down here?" I pointed vaguely out the window.
"Yes, I work at hotel _ _ _. I work there two years."
"Oh really? What do you do at the hotel? Are you a manager?" I couldn't imagine this lively, intelligent woman cleaning rooms.
"No," she murmured, "I do the rooms, you know..." She looked embarassed.
"Oh! Really? I used to do that, too!" A complete lie. "Do you like working there?"
"Is ok," she shrugged. "I'm sorry my English so bad. It's very hard. I know five language, but in my country no one teaching English, so..."
"Actually, your English is quite good. It will get better the longer you live here." I beamed at the little Afghani.
"I used to be teacher," she confessed.
"Really? What did you teach?"
"My language. To children. I know Russian, Farsi, Hindi and two languages of Afghanistan. But I can't speak English very well."

As a teacher and a perfectionist, I could easily understand her frustration living in a country whose language she'd never been taught. How hard, I thought, to know so much and be unable to express it. I assured her, "It will get easier over time. Don't worry."

As we pulled up to my stop, I rose from my seat to exit the bus. I turned back to say goodbye and as I did this small woman opened her arms to hug me. As I hugged her I wondered when I would ever hug a total stranger on the bus again.

"My name is Sarah, by the way. What's yours?"

"We are."

I struggled for comprehension, "We are?"

"Y-A-A-R," she spelled out the all important word as I stepped backward toward the door of the bus.

"Yaar. OK. Goodbye," I said it as the doors slid shut.

The bus pulled away carrying the only Afghani immigrant I know.

A Noble Birthplace

Seeing an empty seat next to Maloof on the bus, and steeling my nerve for another strange confrontation, I sat down.

"Good morning, Noble!" I had to shout. His hoary ears pivoted toward the sound, "Oh, hello!" he said, as if he were shocked to see me even though he had watched me climb aboard the bus and pay my fare.

Sitting next to his slight body, I felt him tilt away as the bus took the corner.

He ventured to say, "Lovely weather this morning." I fired back with a chipper, "Yesterday was beautiful, too!" There was nothing he could say. We were at a standstill in the conversation and I had no intention of helping him out, despite my natural feminine desire to ease the tension.

As we turned another corner he began again, this time in earnest, "We got weather like this in England. Cool and with a breeze and all that." "Oh, were you born in England?" I've been waiting a year to ask him that question. "Oh, no," he looked embarrassed, "I wasn't born there." Pause. "So, where were you born?" I asked. Then Noble responded in one of the most classic of all human responses. He said, "Where do you think I was born?" I laughed out loud. "I have no idea where you were born, that's why I'm asking!" "Well, I was born in Cairo. In Egypt. That was a long time ago." Here he modestly shook his head and looked out the window. And I thought about the distance between him and his place of birth. Removed in space and time from this bus. I wondered if I would ever end up so far from the place I was born.

While I was thinking, Noble made yet another offer, "You should come up to my place some time for tea and you can look at my paintings." 'The Noble Collection,' I thought. "Ah, yes," I said, "I remember you telling me that you paint. What medium do you use?" "Hm?" he queried. "What type of painting supplies do you use; what medium?" He resonded with, "Well, they're not all my own paintings of course. A lot of them are French or Dutch." I wasn't sure why this mattered, but in the world of Noble, it obviously did.

"So you were raised in England?" I asked, hoping to prompt a further exposition into the antiquity to my left. "My father was a Colonel. He was stationed in Cairo when I was born. then we moved to England" "Ah, so he was in the military!" "No, no, he wasn't in medicine. No. He was a lineman." "In the Army?" I clarified. "Yes, of course! In the army!" Noble's patience with my stupidity momentarily wore thin and he glared out the window to collect himself.

I ate a mint and stared straight ahead.

He finally resumed the conversation. "So, you work downtown, yes?" "Yes. I get off at the same stop you do now." I'm still not sure why I volunteered that information. I even told myself not to. "What?" asked my favorite deaf man.

"The same stop as you. That's my stop now."

"Oh really!? You'll be getting off at that stop! That's... that's, ok, good." He was practically beaming. He was delighted. He smiled as we pulled up to our stop and followed me off the bus at our stop.

And so we wandered along the boulevard, talking and laughing; the air rich with warm summer breeze and the promise of love.

Noble Pursuits

I didn't mean to follow him home. It just kind of happened. Our paths converged despite my attempts to follow at a discreet distance. As he crossed the street toward me he raised his hand and shouted, "Hello, Sarah!" I fumbled with my cellphone trying to look preoccupied, but it didn't work. "Hello, Noble," I said. Green bag in hand, Noble stepped to the sidewalk where I was. His hat, as always, sitting on his gigantic glasses. "You never talk to me anymore," he said, by way of introduction. Startled, I began to retort, "That's not exactly true..." but he was still talking. "You can say 'hello' you know. If there's a seat open next to me, you can sit there." I stammered out the rest of my excuse which, like my frequent greetings to the old chap on the bus, went unheard. "We should be friends," he summarized, finally pausing long enough for my response. "Yes, we should be friends. I agree." I said, somewhat flatly. "You can sit by me on the bus if there is a seat free." It sounded like an order. "Well, thank you." What else could I say? And then of course he pressed the advantage, "Would you like to come up for tea or coffee? Just a cup..." I stammered out an excuse, "I promised my grandparents I would stop up to see them." It was a lie. "We're having dinner this evening and I promised I would come right after work..." Lies, lies, lies. Noble mulled over this new bit of information. "Your grandparents? Huh." I refrained from suggesting they might be about his age. Instead I reached for his hand and shook it in an attempt to be proactive. "It is good to see you, Noble," I said. And I meant it. Because it is good to see Noble. No matter how strangely he may behave or how many times he follows me off the bus.

"Good to see you, too!" And he was off to his building.

Your Maloof Moment

Picture of Noble Maloof

As I got on the bus this morning, I saw what I had been looking for all week: an open seat directly in front of Maloof. I plunked down next to walleye (the wobbly gent with the oblong head) and fiddled with my camera, pretending to clean the view screen and surreptitiously clicking photos. The first three were absolute crap. I knew this because I immediately reviewed them in the confines of my bag. Walleye kept sneaking glances at me and seemed like he was going to burst into heavily-accented conversation at anytime, but he refrained. I took one last shot over my shoulder at my ancient, wary target and hoped for the best.

It was a beaut.

I couldn't have asked for a better or more atmospheric shot.

And since I'm taking next week off and won't be here to offer you all the tidbits I think you so richly deserve, I'm giving you the next best thing: the beauty of Maloof!

It's my way of saying thank you to all of my readers.

You're the best!

The elusive Noble Maloof.

The Elusive Maloof and other stories

Noble Maloof has escaped my grasp thus far this week. I had plans to photograph the elderly gentleman as I board the bus we share to work. He's just not there. Except Tuesday. He was on the bus Tuesday. Of course that would be the morning I forget my camera. There he sat like a tiny, ancient flower waiting to be picked. His enormous bespectacled eyes and hairy ears tufting out from under his Kangol cap. I will own a picture of you, yet, you gorgeous creature!

Instead of Noble there was an assortment of other people. One of my favorites these days is an Eastern European man with wall-eyes that point off in funky direction from the front of his incredibly shaped head. His head looks like an upside down pyramid. Narrow at the bottom. Flat and wide at the top. Entirely flat. When the weather is cold he wears a scarf wrapped around his head which causes him to look a great deal like ET. He seems very nice, but he has very poor balance. Especially when the bus is moving. Which it usually is. He teeters and weaves and wobbles all over the aisles and then gets off.

Today, at the bus stop, there was a vaguely comforting sound coming from my umbrella: rain drops. You know the kind, not just little patter, but firm occasional splats. The kind of rain that drips off trees in the early morning onto your tent on a camping trip. Why does it always rain on camping trips? No matter where I camp - even my own back yard - I am awakened by soft persistent rain. Usually at 3 in the morning. I love it. I should go camping more often.

Just need a sleeping bag...

The Tale of Noble Maloof

Meeting Maloof
Noble Maloof, My Stalker
Noble Maloof Doesn't Like Me : (
Noble Maloof, The Athlete
Noble Maloof, My Stalker Part Deux
Noble Maloof Fan Club
Update
Noble Maloof Votes For Bush
The Elusive Maloof and Other Stories
Taking the Picture
Noble Maloof 1
Noble Maloof 2
A Noble Birthplace
A Brush With Nobility

Noble Maloof Update

He's still there, most days, on the bus, sitting, looking on longingly as I walk past him in the aisle to find a seat. Far from him. He hasn't risked another chase-down in the middle of downtown. No jars of jam or messages on slips of wolf-paper. He's just there in his kanga cap with his hairy ears that don't hear so well.

I just haven't had the energy of late to plop down next to him and say, "So, where were you born, Noble?" When that day comes (and I'm really feeling my oats) you'll hear all about it. In the meantime I sit somewhere else and read a book or watch the landscape rush by.

Just like always.

The Maloof Fan Club

"I'm not just the President, I'm also a member!"

Seems I'm not the only one enraptured by Msr. Maloof's continental charms. This comment was added to my blog yesterday by a friend of Maloof:

"kay-sra-sra...hey:if you're still in NOLA you should be headed NORTH... for home.re: ivan-the-terrible/ITT.....estimated landfall: tomorrow, 9/16/04.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~this is my story:i recently googled: "Noble Suydam Rustum Maloof". needlesstosay --- your blogspot was the first result/hit listed. with curious delight, i read about your encounters w/him. found four daily postings dated: 7/20, 8/20, 8/24 & 8/27. my connection w/maloof (aka: dr. strangelove); we both live in the same highrise condominum earlier this month, there was a condominium owners' association meeting. just fyi, there are 125 suites in our building... the condominium board of managers called an owners' meeting to address a pressing.. controversial.. derisive issue. dr.m. was in attendance. he raised his hand to be called upon. he was acknowledged. he stood up w/clipboard in-hand and read a prepared statement. and, for the most part, his statement was accurate and to the point. however the dialog that followed was somewhat inappropriate and confrontational... basically he lost the battle and stormed out of the meeting room. most of the long-time residents know him as an eccentric and bizarre old man. but, NOT as kind old man. i don't think that most of the residents are aware of the fact that he is very hard-of-hearing/deaf. poor guy. not only does he need a volume-control on his phone... he should make an investment and buy a whisper 2000; one for each ear. he is an original owner, meaning he's lived here since the building first opened in 1976. can you imagine what his suite must look like considering twenty-eight years of build-up of stuff, junk or trash? based on the same old same old soiled, tattered outfit he wears everyday; his place has to be a mess. at one point you were able to glean he does not have a television. i do not think he has a computer either; what do ya think? anyway, back to the google results for dr. noble maloof (an anatomist) ... a total of 387 hits.. but not all are directly related to him. (check it out) however, he's has numerous publications. 50 articles listed w/national library of medicine (PubMed & MEDLINE); went to amazon.com/books, again 130 items listed for OUR-GUY. journal publications w/info re kidneys, renal anatomy, the bladder, blood transfusions, etc., etc. one of the articles is dated 1954, ergo, he's been doing this for at least fifty years. a more current article in the "Anatomical Record" re the kidneys of giraffes lists the author as: N.S.R.Maloof - Dept of Nephrology @ Case Western Reserve University / CWRU, April 2002. ----- now, most-of-all, i want to pass on, to you, the following scenario: this week, we ( ten of us who live "in-the-building" ) got together for a picnic/potluck... there's picnic area at the rear of our building... tables and grills, it's right by the lake. there were several in our group of ten, who were not able to attend the recent owners' meeting, therefore, those who did attend presented a brief overview; including the info re OUR-GUY storming-out of the meeting. it was at that time, i introduced them to: "YOU LEARN SOMETHING NEW( almost) EVERY DAY" by: kay-sra-sra. one of the group members read it aloud, i.e., the four daily postings re: dr. maloof. everyone listened in awe; all were very impressed with your narrative style, wit and humor. mucho applause. excellent ! wonderful ! thank you so much ! p.s., i tried to e-mail you @ wabc; not sure if you got it or not. please, be-in-touch."


Oh, I surely will, tiki. I surely will.

Noble Maloof, My Stalker: Part Deux

I admit I was slightly relieved when Noble Maloof actually waved at me timidly on the bus this morning. I was sure he didn’t like me after he gave me the cold shoulder a few days ago. Turns out, he either changed his mind or he was never mad at me in the first place.

This morning he chased me off the bus… again. I was walking briskly (as I always do) to the city building with big glass doors, when suddenly I heard the pitter-patter of little feet. I thought to myself, tell me that’s not Noble Maloof running up the pavement after me, when – too late – the reflection in the glass doors confirmed my suspicions. Noble Maloof was indeed chasing me down. I needn’t tell you how ridiculous I felt being tagged around town by a panting, puffing old man in a cabby hat. "Sarah!” he managed to say between gasps as he caught up with me. "Oh, hello,” I said, trying to act surprised. "I brought you some French jam!” he said.

Now, seriously people, when Noble Maloof envisioned this conversation earlier this morning, do you think he blurted out the words, “I brought you French jam!”? I really doubt it. I also doubt he envisioned himself bent over double, trying to catch his breath as he said it. But at least he didn't make me wait around. He got right to the heart of his mission. No dilly-dallying.

He fished around inside his little bedraggled green bag and produced a jar of French strawberry jam carefully wrapped in a sandwich bag. “Oh, how sweet!” I said. Which was kind of an obvious thing to say about jam, but well, I was a little shocked to be honest and I was also thinking about how happy you all would be about this little turn of events. So I just smiled and thanked him. Then came the kicker: "If you want more… call me and I’ll get you some.” He smiled faintly and slapped my shoulder and said, “Cheerio!”

Where did he come up with this scheme? Who said that was a good idea? Do you know how long it will take me to eat an entire jar of French jam? Months, years, decades. I won’t be calling Maloof for more jam anytime soon. Seriously people, is there a book out there for old men on how to attract younger women entitled, “What To Get The Girl Who Doesn’t Want Anything … from you”? It probably would say something like, “First acknowledge the girl loudly on public transportation. Make sure to get her name (even a false one) at any cost! Next follow her into a building and question her about the name and give her your number. If this fails to produce a phone call, give her the cold shoulder while you think up another strategy. Next, give her something sweet to eat. Preferably candy, or chocolates or tea biscuits (Jam’ll do in a pinch). Then sit back and wait for her phone call...”

Good grief.



The proffered jar of jam.

Noble Maloof, The Athlete

The bus was fairly crowded this morning. Noble Maloof was sitting next to - surprise surprise - a white woman. I've noticed he prefers white women as bench bus companions to all others and he will never speak to a fellow passenger unless they are a white woman. Wonderful.

I take a seat up front as the bus drives on and suddenly Noble's voice rings out, (You haven't forgotten that he's practically deaf, have you?) "I really admire the high jumpers, you know." "Do you?" his companion-of-the-moment says politely. "Yes, they have a great deal of skill you know," he said. There was a slight pause in the conversation, probably because the other woman didn't know what to say. I mean obviously if a high jumper is any good he or she has skill. That's what makes them a "high" jumper. If they had no skill they wouldn't get very high and would be called "low jumpers" or "chump" or something derogatory. But anyways, back to the conversation... "I used to do the high-jump," said Maloof, loudly, for all the bus to hear. Several heads turned to look at the shrivelled old man in the cabby hat. "When I was younger," he qualified. "Oh, did you," said the nice, white lady. "Are you watching the Olympics?" she said, probably still trying to make sense of the overall meaning of the conversation. "What?" he said. "Are you watching the Olympics on TV?" she asked again. "No, no," he said, "I couldn't do that anyways. (here he chuckled) You see, I have no television." If the nice white lady responded, I didn't hear it. The bus roared onto the highway.

Noble Maloof Doesn't Like Me : (

This is sad, folks, just sad! Noble Maloof doesn't love me anymore. For those of you not paying attention or just gliding by on the internet autobahn, this is a continuation of the old geezer meets girl, old geezer loses girl saga from previous posts.
This morning on the bus I took the bench in front of him and said loudly (because he's a little deaf), "Good morning!"
Nothing. Just an icy stare out the window.
Is he mad at me? I don't know. I only know that Noble Maloof was on the bus, but Noble Maloof was not happy. Do you think this dessicated kidney researcher did a Google vanity search and found this blog? And as he read each page, his heart sank further and he stealed his wiry old nerve to never, ever speak to me again!
I'm just making this up. I really don't know. Probably he just couldn't hear me over the silence of the stopped bus. That's more likely.

I hope his phone has a volume button...

In Sight

Blind people don't mind if you stare at them on the bus. It's not even rude! How cool is that?

Noble Maloof, My Stalker

So, I thought my adventures with Maloof were about over when he asked for my name and told me about kidneys on the bus a few weeks ago. But I was wrong. Very wrong. Even if I had forgotten about Noble Maloof, Noble Maloof had not forgotten about me. Far from it.

This morning he chased me into a city building and mumbled out a greeting and then said, "I thought you'd given up on me." "Given up on you?" I said, "Why?" "Well, he said,"because I looked up your name in the phone directory and I couldn't find you. In fact they told me there was no 'Sarah Hoagland' in Cleveland." "Oh," I said. "I thought you'd given me a false name," he said mournfully. "Did you?" I asked and then added, "I'm not listed because I have no phone." (which, is kinda true, you understand) "No phone??" he asked. "Yes," I said. I was beginning to get a queer feeling about this old gent. "You see, I wanted to call you," he said looking pleadingly in my eyes. "Did you?" I answered, "What about?" "I wanted to show you some of my paintings," he said. Hehe, can you believe it? A ninety year old geezer wants to "show me his paintings." I supressed a laugh and said, "Oh, how nice." "Let me just give you my number," he said, fumbling in his pocket for a notepad. After scrawling out his number in shaky writing, he handed me the paper and said, "You attract me. I hope you don't mind." "As a friend?" I asked innocently, "of course not!" He looked so pitiful as I pumped his hand in farewell, that I began wondering why on earth this tiny, little, old Brit should think I would want to start something. I later realized that he must have jumped off the bus to follow me since his stop isn't for some miles down the road. Tsk.

Who knows, maybe this time next year my name will have changed to Sarah Maloof. If it does, call the cops...


I mean, I know wolves have kidneys, but are you sure you want them on your paper when hitting on people fifty years younger?

This morning I finally met Noble Maloof. I'd seen and heard the old man with the Brit accent many times on the bus, but sadly never met him until today.

I plunked myself down next to him and after a moment he extended a hand saying, "Good morning!" as if we were going to be working on a long project together rather than just taking the bus into town. "Good morning," I said rather surprised. I shook his hand. "My name is Mumble mumble," he said. "What?" I said. "Noble Mumblef," he said. "Nice to meet you," I said. After a few moments he turned to me again. "What's your name?" "Sarah" I said. "What?" he said. "Sarah!" I said as the young man in front of us turned to look.

Noble fumbled in his breast pocket for something, pulled out a battered plastic check book, absent-mindedly opened and closed it, and stuffed it back into his pocket. He then pulled out his wallet. I wasn't sure why he wanted to show me his medical insurance card until he pointed at his name: Noble Satskru Rihnums (sp) Maloof. "Ah!" I said, "how did you get a name like that?" "It's a long story," he muttered. He then pulled out his checkbook again and a pen. "Write your name here, please," he said, pointing to the back of a deposit slip. I wrote my first name. "Sarah!" he said with approval, very relieved at knowing my name. "Do you have a surname?" he asked. "H****," I said. "Hoagland?" he said. "Yes," I said. He carefully printed out the name Hoagland next to the first name on the back of his deposit slip and then underlined it twice. "I once knew a Hoagland," he said.

Today for the first time ever, I was Sarah Hoagland. This will probably never happen again.

I found out that Noble Maloof is a surgeon, operated once on a naval captain's daughter's appendix and the grateful father took him along on his ship, he fought in WW2 where he lost most of his hearing, moved to the US, took up research at a local University, where he is currently working on a book about kidneys.

"All mammals have kidneys," he said, "elephants, humans, whales (pause), rhinos." "That's something we have in common then," I said. "What?" he said. "Kidneys," I said. "You do?" he asked, startled. "All mammals," I said (slightly louder). "Do what?" he said. "HAVE KIDNEYS!" I said. "Oh, heh heh, yes. Yes, we do."

We arrived at my stop and I thrust out my hand to shake his and said, "Good luck in your research today." "Oh, thank you," he muttered and looked out the window.