What Does It Mean.....

Don't ask  questions....just read the following...and interpret.


Theres this man, pushing eighty and looking it. He's been a citizen, a patron, a father, a husband and a believer. Those roles are all he has, all he will leave behind, definitions of external worth as seen by his society. His life, the endless string of disappointments, successes, close calls and what ifs, stands to be over quite soon, assuming his pack a day habit has been quietly whittling away at the lungs  behind his rib cage. Who knows? Who rightly cares?

Tomorrow, nothing is happening, nothing of definition. For him, if something must occur, it need be worthy of defining as monumental, even in a fractional way. Considering today's events, which amounted to nothing, it is safe to assume tomorrows happenings will follow similar structure. He's quite alright with that. It means he doesn't have to put his shoes on..or his pants. He can keep his Notre Dame boxers on, as well as the wife beater he hasn't changed in two days.

Comfort, for a man in his twilight hour, is key. The routine is what keeps hims sane. There's a wonderful succession of television shows to view from sun up to all hours of the deep night. He'll sleep in waves, stirring at the same times to catch the tail end of Law And Order or half of 60 Minutes. The idea is to sleep, watch TV  and remember to eat some of the cereal he sends his neighbor out for once a week. It's some generic stuff, a store brand flake of banal description. It's not that he likes it. It's that he just doesn't  care.

That's not all he doesn't care about. If you were to visit him, and you never would, you'd notice the dining room table, which he doesn't use, is covered in unopened mail. None of its bills or coupons. His bills get paid by the military. Coupons are for queers, or so he says. No, this mail is from people who love him, who miss him. They write notes, send Christmas cards, birthday gifts, invitations to weddings. He always pulls the envelopes from his mail box and carefully alphabetizes them by each childs name...Ron, Sue, Jill  and Jane. The boy is a soldier. The girls are all hairdressers.

He doesn't like salons. He gets buzz cuts from barber shops that still advertise a "close shave". The men who cut his hair are near his age, all a tad heavier and more jovial than he. They watch Fox News on a muted screen and chew tooth picks as they lather shaving cream on the necks of other aging, disheveled American men. The conversations he has with them, when he goes every two weeks, are narrowed to football, politics and car engines. Outside of these talking points, the only semi-breached subject is wives. His is dead, so he doesn't have to say a thing...which pleases him.

His day is something of a revelation. If he times it right, the shows on his flat screen segue into one another ever so gently, meaning he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts. That's what its all about...keeping the thoughts out of his head.

When he dies, no one will find him for a week. He'll be stiff. They'll close the casket for sure. Some people will cry, a eulogy built on hyperbole will be read. Then people will crowd into the church hall and eat fried chicken with green beans and mashed potatoes. Amongst them, a couple with hold hands, knowing they've created life..and soon...very soon...it will begin again.