Grey man

By Allan J. Bassler

I met the grey man for the first and last time when I was the editor of a weekly newspaper in southwest Michigan. My life has not been the same since. It’s not worse or better than it was, just different. I’m sure of that. I don’t know what track my life would have taken if I hadn’t talked to him that one lazy afternoon. But he changed forever the way I think about fate and destiny – and why we all get those strange, certain feelings that something was inevitable. You know -- sometimes it just seems that someone has been working behind the scenes to make a particular event happen. I now believe that nearly always, someone has been. Rarely do things happen purely by chance.

What do I mean? Ever have something like this happen: You go on a vacation hundreds of miles from your home. When you arrive at your hotel, you find to your surprise that your neighbors from down the block are in the room two floors below you. You enjoy their company throughout your vacation and get to know them better – much better than you ever would have just waving at each other from your backyards. Do you really think that could be a coincidence?

Or maybe you lose your job due to no fault of your own. You spend some time in despair, but then, just when things seem bleakest, a door opens. You land a job that’s better than the one you had – and you realize that it had been time for you to move on anyway. You just hadn’t recognized that. Did someone make that happen for you?

I used to write things like that off as coincidence. But after meeting the grey man, I will always suspect that someone is working quietly behind the scenes, making sure that certain things happen for reasons that we will never know.

This is how it unfolded for me: I was sitting on my couch late one June afternoon devouring a John Irving novel. I had tried to sit outside in the backyard, but Michigan’s mosquitoes had driven me inside. I’d gathered up my beer and book and retreated to the coolness of the indoors, trading fresh air for a bite-free environment.

My wife Karen was on a business trip to Oregon and I had the week to myself. I intended to spend it wisely, which meant that the food in the fridge had been pushed aside to make way for a 30-pack of beer and there was a stack of books waiting to be read. I deserved the break. The previous weekend I had pulled several major muscle groups helping my wife’s sister Krista move to her new apartment, one that she'd be sharing with her boyfriend Bill. The weekend before that had been a fun but exhausting trip home to Pennsylvania to visit Karen’s family for Memorial Day. Since both Karen and I hail from central Pennsylvania, we consider it home, even though from southwest Michigan it’s a day’s drive distant.

My objectives for the week were to read incessantly and deplete my store of cold beer. Emily, my ever-loyal springer spaniel, was at my feet and Irving was describing a sun-dappled university campus in New England when there was a knock at the door. It was the front door off the living room, so I knew right away that it was a stranger. Only pizza delivery guys and Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked at the front door. Friends and neighbors always used the side door. Since I hadn’t ordered a pizza, I walked across the floor debating using my “I’m a druid” or “I’m a Satanist” defense.

I peeked through one of the small rectangular windows set in the door. On my stoop stood a stranger in a long overcoat the color of a stormy sea. Under the coat were a dark jacket, a very white shirt and a silky grey tie. He wore a black fedora with a broad silver band tied in a flat ribbon at one side. The hat was pulled down nearly to his ears. His face deeply wrinkled, the sort that I consider interesting – what could happen to a person to cause such creases? He had a neatly cropped salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes drew mine like a magnet – they were deep and black and on that warm day, I felt a chill. He dipped his head and touched his hat brim in greeting. He wore grey gloves with a pearl button at the wrist.

I pulled open the door. It opened with a screech and a groan as seldom-used hinges swung. We were face-to-face across a screen door. He was very tall – well over six feet. I’m five-eight.

“Mr. Bassler?” he said, pronouncing it correctly as “BOZ-ler,” not with the first syllable like the game fish. It was the first time in my life that a total stranger had properly pronounced my name.

“Yes,” I said. He didn’t have the false-friendly aura of a salesman. He didn’t look like a pizza guy. Besides, I hadn’t ordered any. Long-lost uncle? Bill collector? Calm, cool and collected chainsaw killer? I settled on the religious type, out to save my soul.

“My name is Ezekiel Hatch. I have news for you. May I come in?”

The first name confirmed my fears of an impending religious annoyance. I considered his request to come in. My friendliness warred with my wariness. Friendliness called wariness a chicken and the battle was over.

“Sure,” I said, swinging the screen door open. He caught the edge with his gloved left hand and stepped inside. He seemed even taller in the living room. He removed his hat, revealing slicked back, receding grey hair.

“Thank you,” he said.

I motioned to the couch as I moved to sit in the love seat.

“No thank you,” he said. “I prefer to stand and I will be only a minute or two.”

His voice was controlled but liquid, like that of a trained speaker – a radio announcer used to reading alarming news of distant wars in calm, measured tones. He smiled a tight, controlled, functional smile – like his voice.

Emily looked up from her sprawled position. She gave a quick sniff, then closed her eyes and lowered her head. That surprised me. She usually had two reactions to strangers – outright hostility or instant friendship. I thought it odd that the grey man provoked neither.

“I suppose you are consumed with curiosity,” he said.

I decided honesty would do until I figured out what was going on. “Yes,” I said. “I’m curious. Are you selling something?”

“No. I have a few things to tell you. I’m afraid something has gone wrong.”

I involuntarily drew in breath and my world reeled. I was an idiot. He was from the airline – bad news about Karen. He noticed my reaction and his brow knitted.

“No, no, no,” he said. “It’s not about your wife. I’m terribly sorry. No, she is fine.”

The trip-hammer that was my heart slowed. I closed my eyes a moment and sighed deeply in relief.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I'm very sorry. Actually, I misspoke. What I have to tell you concerns your wife, yes, but indirectly. It directly concerns you.”

“OK,” I said. I was ready for anything now. “I’m listening.”

“I see you are reading Irving,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Have you read ‘A Prayer for Owen Meany?’ ”

As a matter of fact, it was my favorite Irving. I told him so.

“Excellent. Then you are not unfamiliar with the concept of what is variously called fate, destiny, divine providence or predestination.”

“If you mean having your life laid out in advance by God or some superior being, no, I don’t believe in it,” I said.

“The purpose of my statement was to discern whether you are familiar with the concept, whether or not you believe in it,” he replied, without seeming snippy.

Yes, I said, I was familiar. Oedipus and all that.

“Well,” the grey man said, “many people are caught up in the idea that fate, or kismet, applies only to an entire life – that a life is lived for some grand purpose or terrible tragedy. What most people fail to understand is that kismet can apply to just a part of a life – a small part – and might not directly affect the person in question. It could be that the grand design is for someone else entirely. It is sheerest ego to assume that kismet manipulates only those who are its direct subject.”

“What? What is kismet? I’m not following you.”

He kneaded his hat brim in his gloved hands.

“Kismet. Turkish for portion or lot. As in, ‘It’s your lot in life.’ But ‘portion’ is actually a more accurate translation because it contains the concept that fate usually affects people for only brief periods of time – not an entire life.”

I still wasn’t following him and I told him so.

“OK,” he said with patience and no hint of frustration. “Let me kill two with one stone. I will explain what I came here to tell you. It will illustrate the broader concept of kismet.”

Sensing that this might be a bit drawn out, I asked him if he wanted to sit down. He consented and perched on the edge of the sofa. He declined a beer.

“You recently moved your wife’s sister to Dearborn, is that not correct?”

“Yes,” I said, putting aside for the moment concerns about how much he knew about my personal life.

“What if I told you that your move to Michigan from Pennsylvania, indeed, your acceptance of the newspaper editorship which you currently hold – what if I told you that it had only one purpose and it was not related to you at all?”

“I'd tell you that you were wrong. I took this job to further my journalism career,” I said.

“Well, yes, you think you did,” he said. “But you didn’t.”

I was annoyed. “Yes, I did. I wanted management experience. I wasn’t getting it at my daily paper in Pennsylvania. I took the editor's job at this weekly newspaper to get experience in newsroom management.”

“Well, yes. But it is so far from home. A nine-hour drive, am I right?”

I nodded. Memorial Day was still fresh in my mind.

“And to such a small paper. A weekly with only one-tenth the circulation of the daily paper you left.”

“I wanted to learn management,” I repeated. “It was an opportunity. No greater force told me to take this job.”

“You are correct. No force told you to. But a hundred small nudges pushed you in the direction of this job. If you look back, did it not seem inevitable that you would get the job?”

I had to grant him that. I had felt from the first moment that I walked into the small paper’s office that I would end up working there. My interview with the publisher couldn’t have gone better. It ended with Karen and me having lunch with the publisher and her husband. Her husband and I liked the same kind of beer – Samuel Adams. We all got along like old friends. I would have bet a week’s pay that I would be offered the job. I was. I took it. And I had been there more than three years. I sometimes thought about how odd it was that I felt positive that I’d get the job. I had felt a confidence that was undeniable but which had no basis in logic.

“OK,” I said. “I grant you that. It did seem odd – like there was no question I’d land the job.”

“There wasn’t,” the grey man said. “You had to take the editorship, one way or the other. In fact, had you decided not to take it, you likely would have found trouble or been fired from your daily newspaper job. Your life would have suddenly changed dramatically. You probably would have said yes to the editorship just to remain employed, wouldn’t you have?”

I agreed. Being without a job would have frightened me. I wouldn’t have turned down one waiting for me, even if it was nine hours from where I call home.

“How do you know that I would have been fired?” I asked.

“I know,” he said. “You had to get to Michigan.”

“Why?”

“Because Krista and her boyfriend Bill had to be brought together.”

I sat back. It was complicated, but there was a path there. Karen and I sometimes laughed about how my moving to Michigan had brought Krista and Bill together. The joke was usually along the lines that it was the best thing to come from my move to Michigan.

It had worked like this: Before Karen and I moved to Michigan, Krista was living with her parents in Pennsylvania. When I accepted the job in Michigan, Karen followed me. Krista, later, interested in new horizons, made the same move to Michigan and lived with us temporarily.

Karen found a job as an office manager for a truck fleet maintenance company. There she met Bill, who was in charge of the company's books. Karen, being Karen, decided to play matchmaker and used our wedding a year later to match up Krista and Bill. They hit it off. When Bill was recently offered a position at Ford in Dearborn, Krista followed him. Thus the backbreaking move the previous weekend. So there was the chain of events: it was true that if I had never taken the Michigan newspaper job, Karen never would have taken the job with the fleet maintenance company. Karen never would have met Bill. Which meant Bill and Krista would never have met and hit it off.

The grey man watched me, his hat on his lap, as I puzzled it out. He seemed to follow my thoughts.

“It works, but it’s crazy,” I said finally. “Why was it so important that Krista and Bill get together?”

He shrugged. “That, I don’t know. I get my orders; I carry them out. That has been my project for the last six years.”

“What – getting those two together?” I was incredulous.

“Yes.”

“And you had to get me to move to Michigan to do it?”

“That was one path. It seemed the easiest,” he said.

“So I have been some sort of pawn?”

“Not really. You have helped fulfill a noble quest. What could be more wonderful than helping two people come together and find love?”

When he put it that way, it did sound pretty damn noble. I just wish I’d been told I was really in Michigan for someone else’s purposes.

“So what happens to me now? I just fade away?”

He looked uncomfortable for the first time.

“No. In fact, that’s why I’m here. You see, I usually work behind scenes. I rarely, if ever, speak directly to the people I am guiding. But as I told you, something has gone wrong this time.”

“What?” I asked.

“Well, you have a kismet of your own. But it was necessary that you first assist Bill and Krista. For your efforts, of course, we also arrange that small benefits come to you as you help us. For example, you and Karen decided to get married. And you have learned what you wanted to from your job, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “Those are definite benefits.”

Moving to Michigan and living with Karen had clarified for me that we were right for each other. I hadn’t really realized how much I loved and needed her until we were out on our own, far from the influences of friends and family. Our wedding was a happy blessing in my life. And I had learned important management skills at my job.

“You likely would have married Karen anyway,” the grey man said. “But it might have taken longer to realize that she was the right one. Regardless, you see that as you helped bring two other people together, you also benefited.”

“OK. I'll buy that. So what has gone wrong?”

His look of unease remained and his brow knitted.

“What we do – I and others like me – is an inexact science. We attempt to influence events and decisions to produce certain desired outcomes. But we are not gods. I cannot wave my hand and make someone change his mind. We employ subtle techniques, we finesse, we facilitate, we nudge. We outline broad parameters and then narrow to the specific desirable outcomes and work to bring those about. We help define the possible choices for someone who is undecided. We do it, sometimes, by eliminating or making undesirable options that we do not care to see realized.

“But our pressure is unobtrusive. This, of course, is both what makes it work and makes it fallible. It works because people make up their own minds. It fails sometimes because people and events are unpredictable. Direct force would not work. Telling someone ‘you must do this’ often – as you know – produces the opposite result.”

He paused and looked at me with those deep, dark eyes under bushy grey eyebrows. I swear it looked like he was pleading with me for understanding, as if he were a subordinate and I the superior – and he had failed me.

“I don’t think it wise to tell you what we were attempting to arrange for you. It would be similar to telling you the date of your death. You would be forever altered by the knowledge. Suffice it to say that you need not worry about what might have been. I prefer that we concentrate on the present.”

I was curious and persisted.

“Still,” I said, “it can’t hurt to tell me what went wrong. I’m not asking that you tell me what you had planned.”

He looked pained. “Someone died.”

I was taken aback.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He looked relieved suddenly. A few brow furrows flattened out.

“There is no need to be sorry. You did not know the deceased. It was simply one of those completely unpredictable accidents that derail years of planning. It happens.”

He seemed completely calm as he said that, with no hint of frustration. I got the impression that he was one of those rare people who are truly capable of accepting bad luck and frustrating obstacles as they pursue a goal.

“In any case,” he said as if changing the subject, “I am here to ask what you would like the next few years to hold for you and Karen.”

“Is this a genie-like thing? Three wishes?”

He smiled, a comforting thing to see.

“No, no wishes. In fact, I cannot guarantee that what you ask for will even come about. But I have been cleared to make your desires a high priority for the next few years. It is the least we can do. You have been most cooperative in getting Bill and Krista together. You have been constant and have not caused me to worry that you might derail the process.”

“What is it with them?” I asked. “Are they going to give birth to a future president?”

“I do not know,” he said. “It is not impossible that their child will be someone of importance. But I do not know and I do not speculate. My orders were simply to bring them together. You might be interested to know that I received a commendation for my work on that project. My superiors considered it a nice touch that you actually – physically – helped move Krista into an apartment with Bill. Such attention to detail is appreciated in my line of work.”

“Just who are your superiors anyway?” I asked. “Corporate moguls? God? The government?”

He smiled again. “Let us say that I work for mankind and leave it at that,” he said. “Now, please, let us return to your case. I offer you a chance to pick a positive track for your life for the next few years. I will honor any reasonable request and will give it my highest priority until it is achieved or – as sometimes happens – it becomes clear that it cannot be attained. At which time I will inform you of that and we can start again.”

I thought. Here I was with the modern equivalent of a wish – no matter what the grey man said – and I didn’t want to blow it. “I suppose asking to become rich would be crass,” I said.

“Not at all,” he said. “Material gain is a legitimate goal. It is – surprising to some – not difficult to attain.”

He leaned forward a little and peered at me. I felt his gaze as a gentle pressure, like a steady breeze through a tunnel.

“But material gain does not present a challenge for me,” he said. “Indeed, you are quite capable of attaining it yourself without my assistance. I would, were I you, select something which is beyond your ability to ensure. Something, perhaps, more directed toward satisfying your soul.”

He leaned back and I felt the force recede. His display should have terrified me, I suppose, but it was entirely non-threatening. Against all reason, I trusted and believed this odd man who had intruded on my afternoon of quiet reading.

“Perhaps it will help to start with this. What is important to you?” he asked.

“Karen,” I said. “My career. The fate of our nation. My friends.”

“Ah,” he said. “Whatever you choose will affect Karen, obviously.”

A long-considered idea surfaced. Immediately, it seemed to fit.

“Karen and I have talked about moving back to Pennsylvania, to be closer to her family,” I said. “The nine-hour drive is awful. You drive an entire day to get home, spend a day there and turn around and drive back. It’s a pain. We’d like to be closer to Pennsylvania, but it’s hard to apply for jobs a day’s drive away. Besides, we might take a loss on this house if we sold it so soon after buying it.”

“So you would like a job in your field – journalism – in Pennsylvania?”

“Yes.”

“Any particular region?”

“We’ve always liked the central-east part of the state. We both have some family there. It’s far enough from home that we could have our own lives but close enough that we could jaunt home for weekends.”

“Any particular job you are interested in?”

“Well, I don’t really know. I like the Times-Express in Harrisburg. I applied there once, but they filled the job with someone else. I know a guy who works there – an old college buddy. I’ve thought about applying there again.”

The grey man again favored me with his smile.

“I believe you will be receiving a call from your friend within the next two weeks,” he said. “The Times-Express has an opening, or will shortly. The newspaper’s needs are aligned with your skills.”

I’m afraid my mouth fell open.

“What?” I said. I was astonished that he could have any knowledge of my desire for the Times-Express job. But how else could he be so confident? “Did you set this up?” I asked. “How could you know what I would ask for?”

“It is my job to anticipate the needs and desires of those with whom I work,” he said. “After a while, one gets good at it.”

“How did you set this one up? Did you get someone fired? I don’t want that,” I said.

“Oh no,” he said. “I applied gentle pressure in a few key areas. Things fell into place rather neatly.”

“How?” I asked. I had to know.

“Usually, we do not discuss our methods,” he said. “It could lead to . . . difficulties.”

“Please,” I said. “Just outline it for me. I’m fascinated.”

“Very well. A large daily newspaper – one on the northern east coast – is run by a female managing editor. She and her husband recently vacationed in Florida. He had recently suffered a mild heart attack, possibly due to stress. The woman and her husband have been well paid and have invested wisely. The heart attack and pleasant warmth of Florida have convinced the couple that it is time to retire there. The editor’s retirement will, of course, cause a shifting of the staff at her newspaper. Such shifting often produces vacancies.

“One of the vacancies – a key one – is likely to be filled by a certain ambitious young journalist. Due to recent departures, this young man will be able to hire a few staff members of his choosing.

“The ambitious young man has a friend who works at the Times-Express. That friend is experiencing difficulty in a personal relationship and has become stagnated at his job. He also has accumulated a number of outstanding traffic tickets and could be arrested. That would be most embarrassing, since he is the city hall reporter. It is not unlikely that in the next few days, he will accept the offer of a job from his ambitious young friend. His departure, of course, will cause newsroom shifts at the Times-Express, resulting in an opening – which will open a door for you.”

I shook my head.

“And you arranged all of this?”

“No. I set a few things in motion, watched a few developments, made a few discreet suggestions. Like dominoes, a touch here can result in a cascade of events there.”

“So you – for example – caused the man's heart attack?”

The grey man looked shocked. He nearly crumpled his hat.

“No, no, no!” he said. “I would never intervene so directly.” He shivered. “That would be appalling and crude. No, absolutely not.”

“So what did you do?”

He studied me with those eyes. Just as I grew uncomfortable, he spoke.

“It so happened that as the couple was reviewing their vacation decisions last year, a flier arrived in their mailbox advertising a Florida resort which closely matched both their expectations and desires for a sunny vacation.”

“That’s all?” I asked. “You stuff one mailbox out east and I get a job 600 miles from here?”

“There were many small things. For example, there was a billing error at the resort, handled well by management,” he said. “It created positive feelings.”

“What? That's what convinced them to retire?”

“There were other factors,” the grey man said. “They have substantial cash reserves. The woman was growing weary of the stress of her position due to certain recent events. Also, they met an old friend at the resort. The resort suddenly seemed very welcoming.”

“So you arrange these things and bam! -- everything falls into place?”

“There was more, much more,” he said. “Many small events can prompt action in a certain direction. There was daily monitoring. Paying attention to detail. Noting small changes. Observing. Suggestions delivered discreetly, as if by chance.” He smiled. “And occasional action of the most reserved sort.”

I shook my head in amazement.

“So this is a done deal? I’m a good boy and take a job in Michigan. Karen comes with me and happens to get a job where she meets a fine young man who is unattached and might like her sister. Karen plays matchmaker. This fine young man and Karen’s sister meet at our wedding. Fireworks go off. A year later, the fine young man gets a good job and moves to Dearborn. Krista follows. And bang! My job is done. I can go home now.”

“You put it well,” he said. “Yes, your job is done. You may go home with our gratitude and the knowledge that you have helped a wonderful thing come to be.”

I ran out of things to say. The grey man stood and extended a grey-gloved hand. “Thank you,” he said. “You have been most dependable. You will not see me again unless things go awry.”

“The way you operate, I don’t see how they can,” I said, rising. I took his hand. Under the soft glove, it was hard and knotty. His grip was painfully firm.

“I wish for you a fine life,” he said.

He turned, walked to the door, placed his hat on his head and stepped outside. I watched as he walked down the block – slowly, in no hurry – and disappeared around the corner.

I stood at the door for perhaps fifteen minutes, absently petting Emily with my foot and wondering at the strange and wonderful visit I had just experienced. Then I got myself a fresh beer and opened my book.

Six days later, my telephone rang just I as walked in the door from work. Karen answered and held the phone out to me.

“Tim,” she said, naming my friend at the Times-Express.

“Hey, Boz!” Tim greeted me. “Hey, are you still looking for a job? We just got an opening.”

The next day, I called the Times-Express managing editor to let him know that I would be applying for the job. He remembered me from my previous application.

“Mr. Bassler,” he said, mispronouncing my name, “a strange thing happened. I was going through some old papers last week and I found your application from a few years ago. I don’t know why, but I apparently didn't chuck it. So it’s right here in front of me. I guess you’ll be wanting to update your resume. I’m glad you’re interested again. This time I think we’ve got the job for you.”

I thought for a minute about telling him that I wasn’t at all surprised that he had come across a five-year-old job application in the clutter of his office. I thought about asking him if he’d noticed a tall, grim, grey man around the office lately – perhaps a workman fixing a broken water pipe in the bathroom or replacing a blown light bulb. Maybe the janitor who cleans his office each night was replaced for a day or two by a tall man with grey hair and a furrowed brow.

But I didn’t. I told him I’d get an application and updated resume in the mail immediately.

“Allan, it looks like you’re perfectly suited for this position,” the editor said. “I’m looking forward to the interview. Funny how these things work out sometimes, eh?”

When Karen and I put our house on the market, it sold within a month. We got our asking price. I talked to the real estate agent who worked for the couple that was buying our house. It was a strange story, she said.

She explained that a young couple – about the same age as Karen and me – had recently moved to the area because the wife had been transferred in her insurance company job. The two were living in an apartment and looking for a house, but hadn’t found one that they liked. One day, the wife had to detour on her drive to work because a waterline had burst and city crews had torn up the street. The detour happened to route traffic onto the street on which Karen and I lived. And there was our house with a “for sale” sign in the yard and a phone number on the sign. Our house, as it happened, resembled the house where the woman had grown up. And the price was in the couple's range.

“Funny how these things work out, isn’t it?” the agent asked me.

I could only smile and shake my head.

Last week, I got a call from an old high school friend. We had kept in touch, talking once or twice a year. We maintained the link, I suppose, because we both became journalists. He had purchased a small weekly newspaper in New England and wondered if I was interested in becoming a partner. He knew that Karen and I liked the Boston area and the paper was only about an hour’s drive away.

He got a good deal, he said, because the owner had decided to retire to Arizona. I turned him down because the Times-Express was more along the lines of what I wanted to do.

But who knows? I couldn’t help but think of a grey man busy developing contingencies, working with what he knew about me to make sure I had a few attractive alternatives. After all, sometimes plans derail. It helps to have a backup.

Boston is a great city. I wouldn’t mind living there.

It’s just one path that I’m not going to take.

The offer, it seems to me, was one more domino falling.

I’ve given a lot of thought to what the grey man said about whomever it is that he works for. If my memory is correct, he said he worked “for mankind.” Now, you could take that two ways. You could take the “for” to mean “in the employ of,” as in, “I work for IBM.” Or you could take it to mean “in the service of,” as in, “I work for disabled veterans.”

The latter meaning, of course, doesn’t answer the question of who the employer is. I wonder about that.

And I don’t believe in coincidences any more.