There’s no room in this country for old men.

December 28th, 2007 Edit

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I said this to nobody in particular, but the boy being the only other person in the room, he new it was for him. Someone somewhere far off and more glamorous than the living room said something about the zesty orange flavor of tang.
The sound of my voice spilling over onto the edges of the living room, threatening to breach the kitchen, where sounds of pans being stacked in sized order, before being put away, spoke distinctly of the meticulous nature of the person cleaning.

The boy looked up at the sound of it. Away from the intense draw of tang, and watched my somber age stained hands as they held some dangerous brown elixir, carefully measured, savored, and consumed, over ice, usually. Then I swirled the oak-casked liquid in the glass, the boys eyes, wild, chasing the liquids ellipsis. There would be a silence. Someone far off in some distance would ask that I take her away.

From the kitchen, over the stacking someone would mutter “Yea right, get in line honey.” I would glance around, and utter, simply, ” You know, the true test of a man, is that his greatest grief is always silent.” Another “Yea right” rolls from the kitchen in a malevolent wave.

Commercials would end, and a din would set over the living room again. I would only share with the boy during the 3.25 second breaks. Sound bites of wisdom sandwiched between crimes being solved, or arguments hashed out by TV judges. We both bathed in the warm light of the mammoth console television a thing so gargantuan that it had its own zip code. It hummed when turned on, and made arm hair stand at attention. The boy wondered often if the humming stopped, or he just stopped noticing it. This and yanking open the refrigerator at breakneck speeds to see if the light turned on, or was always on, was his summer obsession. The latter would begin to wane after he broke the butter dish in an exploratory session that got a little too heated.
We would use a plastic Tupperware dish for the remainder of the summer. The boy resented the beige of the thing, as if it picked that color just to annoy him.

As an episode of Colombo, where the aging detective had annoyed the lead suspect more than usual, ended, I looked over and said, “Killers don’t have friends. Just accomplices.” as I placed my empty glass on top of the table that sat between me the boy and I. In the dim room, lit by an incandescent box attempting to lure me into purchasing something called a Snausage for the dog I’d never convince mywoman to buy it, the boy made eye contact, and nodded.

I passed the boy the TV guide and the remote, scanning, the book, this guide to the box, the boy looked up, confident. “A-team.”

I looked down, and reached for the remote. Smiling.

“Life is short, friends are forever, and we should pity every fool.”

The ice melted, and clinked in the glass on the table between us. And the A-team theme music began much to the boy’s delight

Is this my future?

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