“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” the very, very old man said as he sat down across from me on the mid-day bus. “I remain balanced,” he said, “by wearing an equal number of rings on each hand.” He paused to let this information sink in. Then unsheathed his hands from his jacket pockets and, leaning in, rested them on my knees. I could only assume there were fingers underneath the mass of jewelry. “Go ahead and count them,” he said, “exactly the same number on each hand.” He was uncomfortably close to me, but his breath smelled like cough drops, which was somehow reassuring. “Go ahead.” He nodded at his hands that stayed heavy on my knees. The bus rattled on, over potholes around fast corners, and the very, very old man sat perfectly still. “I haven’t fallen down in nearly fifty years,” he boasted. “I used to be, let’s just say, inelegant, but now fifty years without a single stumble, not one misstep. Imagine that.” I tried to visualize fifty years. I tried to see the very, very old man as an old man. I imagined him tumbling down marriages, rolling out of jobs, bruised and shaky. “Whenever I feel even a little unsteady,” he continued, “I just add more rings.” He patted my knees and his hands felt like sacks of pennies. He stood up as the bus jerked to a stop. “What do you think of that?” he said. He eased his armored fingers into his pockets. The doors opened and he danced lightly down the steps into the afternoon.

– Patrick Swaney