There were about three or four women who looked alone.
I had no idea what to do. As it turned out, I didn’t have to do anything.
After drinking a half glass of my beer, a woman sat down at my table and snapped, “Shouldn’t you be at home with your grand-kids or something? You picked the wrong girl. Jesus, you’re almost twice my age.”
She had a big head of blonde hair and a bright red mouth. I couldn’t stop staring at her, not knowing what to say.
“Well,” she added. “That’s fucking classy.”
“I’ll pay,” I said without thinking.
“Yeah,” she laughed. “I just bet you do.”
“I just -- the thing is, I really want to get to know you.”
“I’ve had my fill today, and it looks like you’ve had plenty.”
“Can I buy you a beer?” I asked with a smile.
The woman backed away from me, trying to get a better view of the band. And then, she slipped back towards the other end of the bar.
I spit up the rest of a beer and part of the second.
That was awful.
I thought about the woman, and I realized I would never have a chance for a relationship with anybody. When I met her, it was new for me, but it was the end of the encounter for her.
It would work that way for anybody. As I grew to know them, they would forget me until I just slipped away from their minds.
What kind of freedom was that?
Loneliness washed over me. I was a stranger in a strange land.
The other people in the bar laughed during the break between sets, sneaking kisses and holding hands. Even two blond men kissed at the bar, clearly happy with each other.
At that moment, all I wanted was five minutes -- maybe even five seconds -- just one small hug from somebody who knew me.
That somebody would never exist, though.
I choked up four more beers.
I was more alone than anybody else had ever been, and I didn’t like it one little bit.
After topping up my last beer and sending them back with the waiter, I backed out of the jazz club. The band was setting up to play their first set as I closed the door and wound my way back home.
Chapter 11
The days stretched into weeks, months, and then years. I learned how to cope in a world where time ran backward, where I remembered my future but not my past.
In time, I learned a lot about the world. All about wars in the name of religion, religion that looked more like politics, politics that looked more like organized crime, and organized crime that turned into war.
Television and the Internet were my lifelines to the world. I was generally happy and didn’t even notice a decade disappearing.
I didn’t go to any more jazz clubs. Or anywhere else for that matter. I was back to my old hermit self. That was safer.
I aged down to 55.
Freedom at 55. Sounded like a TV commercial jingle for an insurance company. I didn’t need life insurance; I knew exactly how long I’d be alive.
When I finally clued in, my life was almost twenty percent over. Wasted, just like Mrs. Caldwell told me. It was time to make something of myself.
After ten years of living alone, I entered the work force. I was really glad when this happened. I was fifty-five and felt stronger than ever, ready to take on the world. I was also really lonely and looked forward to the company of other people.
On my last day on the job, I found out I worked as a carpenter, for a company called The Great Oakland Woodmakers. We specialized in construction projects across the Bay Bridge in San Francisco, mostly in the tourist areas around The Embarcadero, especially Fisherman’s Wharf. Lots of condos as well as commercial work. I had a big advantage over everybody else, since I’d arrive at the project when it was already finished, and I just had to carefully help take it all apart and stack the planks up in neat piles, ready to be tied up and sent back to the lumber yard.
I also got used to driving my car. It came naturally to me, of course, as everything did. I’d be taking my driving lessons decades earlier.
That first day, after spending a quiet evening alone, my ten-year-old Datsun drove me backward through the traffic, and I just had to be careful the cars in front didn’t back into me. It was very exhilarating to drive, especially that very first time, since I knew I was going to work but had no idea where that was. My car would surprise me.
The first job I worked on was a townhouse complex. The homes were all fabulous, even though the paint had already been brushed off and dropped back into the cans. Whoever would end up living here would have a great view of the Bay, and I was a little jealous. I knew I had a lot of money in the bank and wondered if I would ever own a house like these.
Maybe I sold the place I lived and that’s where all my money came from?
It was nice to think something like that might await me. I imagined myself living on a cliff overlooking the Bay, a twenty-foot balcony hanging around the second floor, facing the Golden Gate in the distance.
Maybe. One day.
When I arrived, my co-workers welcomed me, wishing me a happy retirement. They patted my back and shook my hand, and they were just the most friendly group of guys you could imagine. It felt great to be with them. I must have grinned all day.
The thwack of my hammer felt solid and strong in my hand. I immediately got to work pulling out my first nail. I hit it hard twice and it popped right out. I held it carefully for the last few small taps and put the nail away.
“Last one,” I said.
I hesitated a bit, just wanting to appreciate being at work, doing something useful with people who seemed to like me.
Then I shook my head and worked my way down the cedar planks, pulling out nails one after the other and placing them away, side by side.
We stopped for lunch, and I gathered with the other four guys (Tom, Jamie, Mark, and Dom) sitting on a pile of lumber. My lunchbox was empty, but I unchewed a tuna salad sandwich with lettuce. I found an old apple core in the garbage and slowly chewed bits onto it, turning it into a nice fresh beauty.
After finishing my lunch, I felt hungry.
“Sure,” said Dom. “I’ve heard that before.”
I shrugged. They were all looking at me now. “I’m sure I’ll find something. I’ve always wanted to read more.” That was weird, and I almost regretted saying it. I knew my retirement years were going to be frustrating and lonely. Why not admit it?
“What’re you going to do with your spare time?” Tom talked with a nasal twang, sniffing as he spoke. It wasn’t very pleasant, but he was nice enough to me.
“We all gotta get there one day,” I said. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You really all set to retire?” asked Dom. He had an Italian accent and spoke as much with his hands as with his mouth.
Jamie and Mark hadn’t said much over lunch. They might’ve been twins, both blond-haired, tall, and skinny. I had to keep reminding myself that Jamie had the moustache. He seemed bored and kept looking at his watch.
We went back to work for the morning shift. The sun was nice and warm, but it started to cool a bit as it lowered in the morning sky.
By 8:30, there was a big pile of wood sitting beside the last of the townhouses. We had gotten a lot done, and the house had gaping sections where we could see the tarpaper and pink insulation sticking out.
When I had arrived at the work site at quitting time, my muscles were really sore and I’d wondered how I would get through the day. Now that my workday was finished, I felt much stronger, my muscles completely refreshed.
I could do this.
I smiled and said good morning to everyone as I climbed back into my car and headed home for a fast shower. I read the newspaper and had two cups of coffee before climbing into bed.
As I fell asleep, I remember mumbling, “Life is good.”
Chapter 11
The days stretched into weeks, months, and then years. I learned how to c
ope in a world where time ran backward, where I remembered my future but not my past.
In time, I learned a lot about the world. All about wars in the name of religion, religion that looked more like politics, politics that looked more like organized crime, and organized crime that turned into war.
Television and the Internet were my lifelines to the world. I was generally happy and didn’t even notice a decade disappearing.
I didn’t go to any more jazz clubs. Or anywhere else for that matter. I was back to my old hermit self. That was safer.
I aged down to 55.
Freedom at 55. Sounded like a TV commercial jingle for an insurance company. I didn’t need life insurance; I knew exactly how long I’d be alive.
When I finally clued in, my life was almost twenty percent over. Wasted, just like Mrs. Caldwell told me. It was time to make something of myself.
After ten years of living alone, I entered the work force. I was really glad when this happened. I was fifty-five and felt stronger than ever, ready to take on the world. I was also really lonely and looked forward to the company of other people.
On my last day on the job, I found out I worked as a carpenter, for a company called The Great Oakland Woodmakers. We specialized in construction projects across the Bay Bridge in San Francisco, mostly in the tourist areas around The Embarcadero, especially Fisherman’s Wharf. Lots of condos as well as commercial work. I had a big advantage over everybody else, since I’d arrive at the project when it was already finished, and I just had to carefully help take it all apart and stack the planks up in neat piles, ready to be tied up and sent back to the lumber yard.
I also got used to driving my car. It came naturally to me, of course, as everything did. I’d be taking my driving lessons decades earlier.
That first day, after spending a quiet evening alone, my ten-year-old Datsun drove me backward through the traffic, and I just had to be careful the cars in front didn’t back into me. It was very exhilarating to drive, especially that very first time, since I knew I was going to work but had no idea where that was. My car would surprise me.
The first job I worked on was a townhouse complex. The homes were all fabulous, even though the paint had already been brushed off and dropped back into the cans. Whoever would end up living here would have a great view of the Bay, and I was a little jealous. I knew I had a lot of money in the bank and wondered if I would ever own a house like these.
Maybe I sold the place I lived and that’s where all my money came from?
It was nice to think something like that might await me. I imagined myself living on a cliff overlooking the Bay, a twenty-foot balcony hanging around the second floor, facing the Golden Gate in the distance.
Maybe. One day.
When I arrived, my co-workers welcomed me, wishing me a happy retirement. They patted my back and shook my hand, and they were just the most friendly group of guys you could imagine. It felt great to be with them. I must have grinned all day.
The thwack of my hammer felt solid and strong in my hand. I immediately got to work pulling out my first nail. I hit it hard twice and it popped right out. I held it carefully for the last few small taps and put the nail away.
“Last one,” I said.
I hesitated a bit, just wanting to appreciate being at work, doing something useful with people who seemed to like me.
Then I shook my head and worked my way down the cedar planks, pulling out nails one after the other and placing them away, side by side.
We stopped for lunch, and I gathered with the other four guys (Tom, Jamie, Mark, and Dom) sitting on a pile of lumber. My lunchbox was empty, but I unchewed a tuna salad sandwich with lettuce. I found an old apple core in the garbage and slowly chewed bits onto it, turning it into a nice fresh beauty.
After finishing my lunch, I felt hungry.
“Sure,” said Dom. “I’ve heard that before.”
I shrugged. They were all looking at me now. “I’m sure I’ll find something. I’ve always wanted to read more.” That was weird, and I almost regretted saying it. I knew my retirement years were going to be frustrating and lonely. Why not admit it?
“What’re you going to do with your spare time?” Tom talked with a nasal twang, sniffing as he spoke. It wasn’t very pleasant, but he was nice enough to me.
“We all gotta get there one day,” I said. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You really all set to retire?” asked Dom. He had an Italian accent and spoke as much with his hands as with his mouth.
Jamie and Mark hadn’t said much over lunch. They might’ve been twins, both blond-haired, tall, and skinny. I had to keep reminding myself that Jamie had the moustache. He seemed bored and kept looking at his watch.
We went back to work for the morning shift. The sun was nice and warm, but it started to cool a bit as it lowered in the morning sky.
By 8:30, there was a big pile of wood sitting beside the last of the townhouses. We had gotten a lot done, and the house had gaping sections where we could see the tarpaper and pink insulation sticking out.
When I had arrived at the work site at quitting time, my muscles were really sore and I’d wondered how I would get through the day. Now that my workday was finished, I felt much stronger, my muscles completely refreshed.
I could do this.
I smiled and said good morning to everyone as I climbed back into my car and headed home for a fast shower. I read the newspaper and had two cups of coffee before climbing into bed.
As I fell asleep, I remember mumbling, “Life is good.”
Chapter 10
I hate to admit it, but a lot of years went by in my life where nothing happened. I’d wake up at night and watch the late news, eat dinner, go to work for my eight hour shift, come home and crawl back into bed. I was definitely in a rut, but somehow I just didn’t seem to care.
I wasted twenty-five years, and it all just evaporated into nothing. Here I was, now only thirty-nine years old, and what did I have to show for myself? Not much. I was just as lonely every day, and my bank account was smaller than ever. I only had about sixty thousand left, with interest having chipped away at my money.
Was this all there was? It’s not the way the soaps taught me.
Yes, I was free, I kept telling myself, but freedom doesn’t automatically bring happiness.
In fact, with every passing day, I felt a sorrow grow in my heart. It started one December with a general feeling of loss, and every day I woke up feeling worse. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I asked.
Every day became a pit of sorrow, and I didn’t know why. After a week of this, I started to cry myself awake at night.
I was completely miserable and needed to find some way to stop that. I felt just devastated.
Finally, one Saturday afternoon, I drove down to a nearby animal hospital. Tears were streaming up my face like a spring shower. I absolutely needed to get to the vet. The sign above the door read Oakland Animal Critical Care Hospital.
I slowly backed inside, and worked my way around the receptionist, directly into the back part of the building. I joined two veterinarians dressed in whites, each standing beside a table covered with a soft blue cloth.
A dead dog was lying on the table.
It was a small dog, not more than a foot and a half long. A dachshund. Weiner dog. He was on his side. I moved over to pat him. His body was warm.
His hair was mostly brown but his little face was stark white. He was a very old guy.
A tag on his front paw listed his name as “Johnson, Doof.”
My dog.
I petted him, trying to wish him to life.
One of the doctors said, “We’ll take care of him.”
I nodded.
She added, “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
She slowly put her stethoscope on Doof’s chest, and then removed it.
He had a thin breathing tube glued to his forehead and running down his black snout and into one nostril. Pure oxygen
that would help him breathe when he came alive. I could hear the hiss of the air flowing through it.
There!
I saw a small shiver as he took his last gulp of air. He opened his eyes a fraction of an inch and looked at me. My breath caught, and I leaned over and kissed his cheek. I couldn’t stop crying.
Doof started to pant, not able to get enough oxygen. I tried to reassure him, since I knew he would only get stronger from there.
“It’s okay, boy. You’ll be fine, now.”
The doctors backed away from us, and I called to them when they were looking at some other animals.
Doof’s little white face stared up from his blanket, and I could see how frightened he was. He gasped, trying desperately to breathe. His pink tongue hung from his mouth, dry and cracked. He didn’t know why he couldn’t get enough air, why he didn’t have any strength to move. He just lay there like dead meat.
I knew he was scared, knew exactly how he felt.
There wasn’t enough strength for him to even whimper. His eyes were glassy and only occasionally would focus on me, asking me to help him.
My whole day was spent with my little dog, and he struggled the whole time. And the Friday before that. I didn’t go to work that day.
Just before I left the hospital that morning, the lady vet, Dr. Burns, stopped by to talk to me.
She rubbed Doof’s back. “The prognosis isn’t good. All we can do is make him more comfortable.”
“What do you mean had?”
“He’s eighteen, which is very old for a dachshund. He’s had a good run.” She nodded. “It’s not uncommon. Oh, yes.”
“A stroke? I didn’t know dogs had them.”
“It looks like he had a stroke, Mr. Johnson.”
That morning, I took Doof home at just about seven a.m. He was still in terrible condition from his stroke, but it was time to go. He’d gained a small bit of strength from his time at the vet.
I held him in my arms for hours. We cried together, him with pain, me with love. He tried to lick my face, but he couldn’t. He yelped whenever I moved him.
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