Jeff Bridges thrusts a single foot onto his desk.
A muscular foot, clad in a funky rubber sandal.
A well-cared-for foot to be sure.
Surprisingly slender, unsurprisingly pale, lit by late-afternoon sunlight from his window.
Even his foot is cool.
He has just worked out; his thick gray hair is wet and slicked back.
Its just a single foot.
He is the titular character, after all, the old man.
Dont you hate putting on socks?
Bridges asks, and thats when ta-da!
his sandaled foot is raised: See?
This is why I dont put on socks!
Bridges then plugs the sandals he clearly thinks they might help someone.
Check these out, man!
Theyre for foot recovery!
I dont know if there are any readers out there who haveMortons neuroma; its like a nerve thing.
These are the only shoes that I can wear.
Hes laughing, kind of pumped, and positively excited to have the right shoes.
They work great, man!
The man is a talker.
Is it something of a disguise?
Are you actually the old man?
Im 73 now, so I guess I qualify, he says.
He purses his lips and squints.
Bridges continues with a searching look.
With us guys, anyway, if were lucky, we are all old men, finally.
Jeff Bridges weighs his last word: finally.
But of course, pretty soon, he will start talking about all of that.
He got sick, death came upon him.
I thought to myself,Hmm.But it didnt hurt or anything.
I asked Sue what she thought.
She said: I dont know, but youve got to get it checked out.
I dont want to go to the doctor.
He and his wife went on a planned trip to Montana instead.
