She was taking her usual Sunday afternoon nap; her lips let little whispered puffs accompany his dog’s snores. It was quiet. A good day to lay low.
Angry old white men are angry, the old man heard that on television. He knew at least one angry old white man. With liver spots, varicose veins and a receding hairline. And he was in good shape. Practically impervious to pain. But he had five grandchildren he never saw. He worried more than he liked to admit. That made him angry. Has the country completely lost its fucking mind?
Years ago, Hunter had told him, ‘you buy the ticket, you take the ride.’ A young man, that might’ve made sense. But now, the old man thought, not so sure. Today the old man was thinking of Papa, a couple lines seemed to speak to him. Every fucking morning, as he inventoried his body. In a constant pale whisper he’d hear echoing in the back of his head; “Today is only one day in all the days there will ever be. But what will happen in all the other days can depend on what you do today.”
And to whom.
Call them angry old white men, gives them too much power. They are really just old men. That’s what really pisses them off. Short fuse but not enough powder.
He had long ago determined better for all concerned if he kept to himself. Especially when he was feeling like an angry old white man. Hadn’t even realized he was like this until the campaigns started a year early and the pundits blamed him personally for all the tragedies on the American landscape.
A Cuban, a Socialist and a realty television star walk into a bar. Don’t get me started, he thought. Then tried to think of anything else. Which was so damn hard sometimes.
