by Brock Rhodes
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The ride stops at the hospital district of Denver, conveniently complemented with restaurants. For the sake of progress, Matthew opens the old man’s door, “Go ahead and grab a table. I’ll be there in a second.”
“Are you sure I can do it by myself? Don’t I need you to sign off on it?”
“No, you can do it. I’ll be right back.”
On this summer day, the old man naturally selects a shaded table. In the dark, his skin is cool and off color, making him shiver like he’s under ground. Desperate for comfort, he switches to an area open to the noon sun, and the warmth keeps him from freezing to death.
A waitress nametagged Bonnie puts a cardboard coaster down in front of the old man and smiles, required and bizarre. She starts her pitch, “Good afternoon. Will there just be one dining?”
“No, he had to run off to the little boys’ room.”
“Oh… Did he tell you what he wants to order to drink or would you like to wait for him?”
“I’ll order. It’ll be fine. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” The old man is careful to make the right choice. “It’s a hot day, a June day. Father’s Day. Do you have any lemonade?”
“Ready-Made Lemonade, we sure do.”
“Boy, that kinda rolls of the tongue, huh. That’s not lemonade. What is that?”
Feeling the bad vibe, Bonnie tells herself it’s okay for mistakenly performing the Ready-Made part to an improper audience. Lemonade is lemonade. “It’s lemonade.”
“Then what’s that whole first part about?”
“It’s just the brand.”
“It’s a mix. It’s not fresh. It’s just a powder, not real lemons?”
“Yeah, it’s a mix.”
“Jesus Christ!”
Bonnie reacts to the Lord’s name like she was slapped, and the old man lowers his tone to keep from making a scene. Calmly, he questions, “Why would I want to drink powder?”
Bonnie smiles, but her stuttering eyebrows show she’s only posing. “What would you like, sir?”
The old man itches for a real drink. “Long Island Iced Tea, large glass. I don’t care where it comes from as long as it has alcohol. And if you want to card me, kiss my ass.”
Bonnie giggles, offensive to the old man as a side-effect. “That won’t be necessary. What would he like?”
“Oh, just get him water out of the faucet. He likes the chlorine taste. It keeps his sperm count low. Feel free to piss in it, too. He likes that.”
Bonnie only hears “water,” her cue to leave. “Okay sir, I’ll be right back with that.”
“Hurry, I don’t have much time.”
Bonnie turns to witness the old man mime the torment of hanging from a noose around his neck. When he spasms for the moment of death he sticks his tongue out to the side and hides the colored circles of his open eyes. He punctuates the dramatic episode by straightening out as if he were too stiff to sit in the chair, and folds his arms over his chest–very cadaver.
Bonnie’s nose and mouth reflex as if she was caught cheating by whoever pays her bills, and hurries her pace to shake off the ugliness.
The reaction isn’t a surprise to the old man. Everyone has lost their sense of humor. He may be the only honest-to-God human on Earth anymore, and the beings around him seem to be aliens on a strange mission. He had hoped it was Orson Welles again, but it’s looking doubtful.
A heavenly spotlight from an opening in the increasingly cloudy sky shows the old man that he’s not alone. An old woman that a face lift could make look seventy at the youngest is highlighted by the momentary harmony of nature. Wrinkled, weathered, and rotten, her expiration date has long passed. Her stretching breasts and sagging legs excite him. A man can only make love with his own kind. He respects the retired beauty she must have had, and is compelled to approach her like a gentleman.
When his size ten Velcro shoes enter her line of sight she knows that she’s in the presence of a man and is immediately in love when she sees his soon-to-be thrift-store clothes covering his crooked body. She looks up at him with a flirtatious smile.
With ease, the old man rips through the cob webs. “I noticed you over here. Are your kids taking you out today, too?”
“Oh, yes. Whatever’s best, I guess. And I wouldn’t know what that is anymore, right?” Her ladylike sarcasm charms him like a pheromone, and they laugh together.
With pleasantries exchanged, he tries to close the deal. “So, how about it, pretty baby? Want to make them some whoopee-sauce right here for them to choke on?”
The old woman is quite taken with the idea but intuition stops her. “Do you think that’s such a good idea after what happened the last time around? It’s just not. My grandkids are even unbearable.”
On cue, a middle-aged waiter screams in misery. An eleven-year old has bitten into his inner-thigh and holds on like a snapping turtle. In a plea for survival, overwhelmed with immense pain, the waiter gives the kid a swat on the ass, causing it to release and cry.
The child’s mother joins the assault, slapping the recovering man, screaming, “Don’t hit my kid, asshole!”
The manager arrives to straighten things out, “I’ve called the police. You’re fired.”
“You see what I mean?” asks the old woman.
The old man appeals, “Should we really be concerned about it? I mean, neither one of us have much time left.”
“It sounds nice, but I’m still a woman and you’re still a man. Any itty-bitty chance is still enough not do it.” The old woman laughs, “I know it’s childish, but my name is Rosemary, too. The kid would be a new Antichrist. For real this time.” She has to raise her voice to be heard over the child and her mother negotiating complimentary dessert, “And they’d raise it.”
The old man sees wisdom in the old woman that he must agree with. “You’re right. We should’ve learned our lesson.”
They have bonded with the comedy of crippling disappointment, but the old man is overtaken by natural urges that ignore fear for thrill. Undetected, but in broad daylight, the old man ventures down her concealing Sunday dress to touch her raisin breast. “Are you sure you don’t want to?”
Rosemary closes her eyes and bathes in the long-absent treat of being touched like she’s desirable, but she still has to turn down her worthy suitor. “It’s not what I want to do. It’s what’s right.”
The old man recovers his hand from his solitary game of tetherball with her nipple, and respectfully says, “You’re absolutely right.”
She says goodbye to temptation with, “Happy Father’s Day.”
The old man smiles, bows, and returns to his chair off of the dance floor.
In heavy pace, Matthew arrives at the table, “Sorry, I had to make a call.” Matthew unfolds his napkin and puts it in place to avoid eye contact. “Oh, you’ve gotten the menus. Good job, Dad.”
“I’ve even taken the liberty of ordering our drinks.”
“Oh… You didn’t wait for me? I can order for myself. You don’t have to do it.”
“Well, I know we’re in some sort of a hurry. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I’ve done it before, remember? I fed your fat ass for years… and years… and years.”
Matthew swallows more guilt than he can chew, “What are you getting to eat?”
The old man has grown numb to sensitivity about Matthew’s indigestion. “… And years… I don’t think I’m too hungry today. Your foul ugliness helped me lose my appetite.”
“Stop this. This isn’t helping anything.”
“If I had a will worth anything I’d cut you out of it, you Goddamned miscarriage.”
“That’s not nice. We’ll just go.”
“Go? Go fuck yourself. You eat. I’d like to watch it. I’d like to see my fuck up of a son stuff his fat shit head.”
Matthew readjusts his posture to defend himself from the slaughter, “I think I’ll have a Caesar Salad.”
In reaction, the old man opens a beckoning menu. “I
think I just changed my mind. Gotta load up. They say you shit your pants when you die.”
“Why do you have to say things like that? We’re about to eat. I swear, Dad.”
“I swear I’ll have them put it in one of those specimen jars and give it to you to remember me by. Hey, it’ll be your little brother. I never gave you one and I’m going to make it up to you. It’ll be great. I bet you’ll have a lot in common.”
Matthew checks the time left as the old man squints through the right columns of each laminated page in search of the largest number.
Bonnie balances the drink and the water to the table. “Water, and Long Island Iced Tea. Are you ready to order or do you need more time?”
The old man enthusiastically orders as if he’s been waiting for her his whole life, “I’ll have 'The Executive.'”
Matthew searches through his menu for The Executive. Priced at seventy-dollars, it would definitely put him in the hole for the day. “No, he won’t be having that. Sorry, it’s just too expensive.”
The old man hostiles, “Parasites never give back. Twenty-four years of support can’t even get you a decent last meal anymore.”
“Sorry! God! Why are you being difficult?”
“I’m sorry. I know you have a problem with difficulty. Why don’t you order for me, you pick? You’ve been doing such a good job so far, and this way you can help decide how your little brother turns out. I’m gonna poop, remember?”
“Father, please.” Matthew and Bonnie share a smile as teammates upset by the trouble the geezer is giving them. “I’ll have a full Caesar Salad, and he would like… He’ll have some pie. You have banana cream? He loves bananas. They all do, right?”
“Yes,” Bonnie pens it down. “I’ll be right back with that.” She gathers the menus and hurries off.
“Can’t you forgive me for being a bad son? You should forgive me. I deserve forgiveness. I’m your son. Just admit you’re proud of me.”
“What’s proud?”
“I don’t want us to be like this.”
“I don’t want us to be like this, either, but we are. It’s out of my control. I don’t have any legal authority anymore, you know that. What’s it to you, anyway? You don’t have to worry about me much longer.”
Another special moment, “Oh, come on, Dad. I…” destroyed by the ringing of Matthew’s secretly requested call. He puts one finger up and answers.
The old man pulls up his Long Island Iced Tea and prepares to slam it, but Matthew stops him. He speaks outside of his conversation-on-air, “Give me that,” to take the Long Island Iced Tea and slide over the water. “A man your age shouldn’t drink.”
The old man’s teased nerves shake him to hysteria. “A man your age shouldn’t make decisions.” The camel’s back is broken so the old man slings off his belt. “Stand up, dickhead! I’m gonna teach you something I should've a long time ago!”
The young and well-fed Matthew stiff-arms the decrepit old man back to his seat. “Stay there. Don’t make a scene. You’re embarrassing me. Keep your clothes on. I’m doing business.”
The old man is put in his place and the numerous overflowing trash cans make him realize that it’s a lost cause. Again, he drifts. Looking towards the sun with his eyes closed, he tunes out the chattering yuppie. The gentle breeze mimics the ocean in his ears like a seashell. He hallucinates a seagull when Matthew wads his napkin and arcs it to the table.
“Okay, we have to go. They need me back at the office.”
The old man’s head is a checkered flag that lies, “You make me proud, miscarriage.”
Matthew takes what he can get. “Thank you, Dad. Let’s go.”