The old man had outlived his utility yet still wished to be of service. Also, he was bored. So he decided to become – without ever using the actual word – a "witness." He’d sit with a small notepad by the side of a busy intersection, on a playground bench, or in the clinically bright coffee shop at the discount store, and watch for a disputed event – a case where his testimony might be of assistance. Such as providing the license plate number of the man who sideswiped a parked car. Or writing to the City to say that they should not be blamed for the child’s injuries because the young father had pushed the swing much too high. Or telling the dough-faced security guard that the boy who snatched the old woman’s bag lived just around the corner, at 53 St. James Street.

The incidents the old man observed were rare, and not always as dramatic as the ones above, but the people he helped were effusively grateful, while those caught in lies were angry, sometimes even threatening. The old man quipped that his new avocation was only slightly more satisfying than playing checkers with Elroy, who cheated behind the guise of senility, but the truth was that he felt more fulfilled than at any other time in his life. Until the day when he witnessed a man even older than himself step into the path of an oncoming bus and realized that he had already begun to rehearse what he would say – that the old man looked a bit deaf, that it was even possible he had wanted to end his life, and the bus driver had absolutely no chance to avoid hitting him – when a woman grabbed the old man by the collar, like a child, and pulled him back in the nick of time. And, instead of feeling relieved, the old man felt like a bright prize had been snatched away.

As a rule the gecko moved with microscopic languor, to not attract the attention of prey, or predators. But there were instances, my friend said, more often involving food than fright, where his primitive green pet would lunge with surprising speed. Following such an abrupt movement – and this was the aspect that my friend adored – instead of locking into its new position, the gecko would shake softly a time or so, to mimic a breezed leaf settling back into position.

Though I didn’t ask for a demonstration – I could picture it well enough in my mind, and I was already self-conscious about intruding on Sammy, as he was called – my friend tried over and over to show me this "shaky" effect, slamming a book on the table, clapping his hands just behind the creature’s head, and temping it with live crickets. But, while the gecko followed our movements with one yellow eye, it either would not or perhaps could not perform on command.