“Okay, stand outa the way. Sometimes when I go to exertin’ myself I use up all the air nearby and grown men faint from suffocation.” – R.P. McMurphy
The old man liked to work alone. Solo. Just convenient. You can start whenever you want cause everybody is already there.
He had started that day’s walk earlier than usual. Lately – usually – he had been going earlier and earlier. Took that as a good sign. Today was barely past nine. Thought that was about the best he could do. He stretched by picking up the latest piles of shit in the dog run. There are beetles which feed on the dung. Through the plastic bag, he could feel movement inside the turds. Bugs probably think they’ve died and gone to heaven. What happens when you eat all the poop and you are left alone holding the bag.
He watered the flowers, more stretching. Dribbled on the leaves and talked to them, bent over as if whispering in their ears. If flowers have ears. Drink hearty, my little friends. If flowers have hearts. The irrigation loosened up his back. A giant puzzle needs every piece – even the smallest piece – to be complete.
The conversation seemed to clear his mind. Flowers reminded him about the importance of hydration.
Do you ever find yourself thinking about good people not near as crazy as you and still they kill themselves. Do you ever find yourself thinking about that? Oh, look, there goes Robin Williams! The young redhead suggested the old man thought much too much about death. Oh, look, there’s David Bowie gone! She about had him convinced. Bye, bye, Prince, bye, bye.
Life is a party and parties aren’t meant to go on forever. Prince said something like that.
The old man had – at his core – only two speeds, Statuesque and Geronimo. And a general lack of focus at any other velocity. But either the world was speeding up or he was slowing. His first instinct was to fight. No, that’s not true. His initial first response was to pretend shit was not happening. Used to be called The Manly Way.
You can’t run away from getting old. Suicide is flight and I like it here. He wasn’t afraid of dying but he loathed illness and he was bad at being sick. Shoot me now was his typical lament. If he must be ill, he preferred diseases easily cured by chocolate milkshakes.
They joked about no longer slapping high fives, no more knuckle bumps. Now on the young redhead and old man would gently bump elbows. She’d go up and he’d go down.
He worried he might die from hand sanitizer poisoning. Did you touch this?
This is about as clear as his mind ever got.
Walking six miles today. Just like yesterday. Pray tomorrow, too. The old man was clear about one thing. His running days were over. Lot of life like that. Had to admit it. Like an alcoholic, he’d always be a runner, a recovering runner. You can’t take running out of guy like that. And suddenly, you could almost hear symphonic music, something John Williamsish, he realized the grimace was gone. He was free, no longer clinging onto a way of being he could no longer be.
Like being young.
On the other hand, maybe it’s just the new probiotics….
