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First Person By Don Duncan
The Invisible ManAging, active and battling blind indifference
I CAN'T RECALL the exact moment I became virtually invisible to a large segment of the population, although for several years I've grown increasingly aware that younger people have difficulty seeing me. How else to explain those elbows in the ribs in elevators, supermarket lines and sidewalks without so much as a "sorry about that" or a "beg your pardon"? How else to account for motorists boldly entering intersections at four-way stops when it's clearly my turn? Obviously, I'm becoming increasingly hard to see. But I never expected to become a virtual non-person. If I were into science fiction it might be easier to accept that flesh and bones simply disappear when one reaches a certain age. But I'm a confirmed feet-on-the-ground realist, and logic dictates that even if my physical body becomes invisible, my shoes, shirt and trousers should still be seeable. I think a lot about Claude Rains these days. He was a movie actor a few — no, make that quite a few — years back. As a boy of 10 or 11, I cringed in my seat at Seattle's Beacon Hill Theater as the mortally wounded Rains, "The Invisible Man" in a scary 1930s movie of that name, dripped blood in the snow while pursuers closed in for the kill. I secretly rooted for Rains, who, even though "invisible," could be seen in outline when he donned clothing and put tape on his face. Look who's here Today, at age 80, he lives in Kirkland with his wife, Mary, with whom he has three children, eight grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Duncan underwent cancer surgery on his 66th birthday and, with the help of medications, continues to fight the disease. It hasn't stopped him from playing serious weekly tennis matches with "much younger friends," nor has it kept him from being active in civic, church and political affairs. Duncan wrote "Washington: The First One Hundred Years (1889-1989)" while at The Times and followed with "Meet Me at The Center," the story of Seattle's 1962 Century 21 Exposition, after retiring. He has edited four books, three published, for friends who asked if he'd look over their manuscripts. At The Times, "Dunc" was noted for nonstop work and invariably smiling and saying, when handing in a 30-inch story instead of the 20-inch one requested, "Hey, it looks long but it reads short." The funny thing is, unlike poor Rains, I'm not always invisible. Every morning, thanks to modern cataract surgery, I see myself quite clearly in the bathroom mirror when I brush, floss and shave. Wife Mary acknowledges me at the breakfast table, as she's done for 57 years, although there's no denying she pays less attention to my opinions than she once did. Later in the day, older neighbors out walking the dog return my "hello" when they see me cutting grass with a blessedly quiet, admittedly quaint, push-mower. To prove to myself that I still exist, I leave a trail of reminders around the house. The stack of books next to the chair where I sat reading last night. The editorial column I clipped from the newspaper to give to a friend. The daily crossword puzzle, almost finished. The calendar, with inked-in reminders that I have something "vitally important" to do almost every day of the month. It's when I venture out on the road or into impersonal shopping malls that I am transformed into a non-person. Yet, even then, a glance in the rear-view mirror confirms my presence at the wheel of our automobile. And a sideways glance into a store window shows a male person of average height and weight, erect carriage, graying hair and reasonably symmetrical facial features — although, in all honesty, the latter are losing the battle with gravity. My concern about becoming invisible grew to alarm recently when I noted that I was no longer easily recognizable in once-familiar settings. Young people, two or three at a time, cut me off in church-potluck lines. In a crowd, I'll ask someone how things are going. They'll smile. My heartbeat will quicken. Then they'll pass me by and shake the hand of the person behind me. Even at gatherings of close friends, no one seems particularly interested in my stories about the Great Depression, the Big War and the Golden Age of Radio — stories honed by countless tellings and re-tellings until they are definite improvements on the originals. No longer a central figure in remember-when conversations, I quietly nurse a cup of coffee off in a corner, becoming increasingly invisible. But sometimes I want to shout: "Listen, it hasn't always been like this. People once paid attention, or pretended to, when I spoke. Few knew more about how it was in Seattle 50, 60 or 70 years ago. Few have walked the sidelines at as many Husky football games as I have. Or were on a first-name basis with mayors and governors. Or interviewed a young and vibrant Elvis Presley, a wise and compelling Eleanor Roosevelt. Or "scooped" the nation's newsmen by finding Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas and his youthful bride in a small cafe in Forks. Why, I was the first to interview labor leader Dave Beck after his release from federal prison, and I'll never forget his words: "It will do Jimmy Hoffa good to go to prison; I came out in much better shape than I went in." What, you've never heard of Dave Beck? Just goes to show, the schools aren't doing their jobs these days! But I don't shout. It would be unseemly for a man of my age. Besides, my shouter isn't as strong as it used to be. So I decided to write a few words to prove that I — and countless others just like me — haven't always been invisible.
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