Mar 2019
We were both either in the right or wrong place at the same time, the old codger in the straw hat and I.
And, I’m not looking to write, tell, or think of any other stories about my mother, whom had died.
Nevertheless, here we are at the FastGas on Frederick Avenue.
And, as he pays for fuel he starts telling the clerk and myself about the trouble he has with numbers.
“I just lost my wife of 47 years,” he says.
“I’m sorry to hear this,” I reply.
“I remember looking at the clock in the kitchen just after she had died. I couldn’t read it.”
“Hmmm…”
(Because I couldn’t think of anything better to say.)
“It was like it didn’t make sense anymore. It was like nothing made sense anymore.”
I could relate, but didn’t say so.
“Yeah, I’m 74 years old, and if I died tomorrow that would be just fine.”
“You miss your partner fiercely, yeah?” I asked rhetorically.
He nodded reverently and handed the clerk three $20 bills.
“I don’t know what pump my van is on and all I did was pump til it stopped…
Take whatever you need for us to be squared up.”
The lady behind the counter did as she was asked.
The codger thanked her, collected his change, turned to leave.
“Your partner will wait for you. You still have some stuff to do here for awhile.
It’s okay that numbers don’t make sense anymore. It’s okay if a lot of **** has stopped making sense. You’ve got people that’ll steer you right, I’m sure.”
The clerk nodded.
I winked at her.
He nodded, sighed, stepped into the cooling air outside.
I stopped to light a cigarette.
I smoked and thought about how, in spite of everything, it all still made sense.
When I looked up, all that was left of that old fellow’s van was a plume of exhaust.
Even that made sense.
At least I hoped so.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019
And, I’m not looking to write, tell, or think of any other stories about my mother, whom had died.
Nevertheless, here we are at the FastGas on Frederick Avenue.
And, as he pays for fuel he starts telling the clerk and myself about the trouble he has with numbers.
“I just lost my wife of 47 years,” he says.
“I’m sorry to hear this,” I reply.
“I remember looking at the clock in the kitchen just after she had died. I couldn’t read it.”
“Hmmm…”
(Because I couldn’t think of anything better to say.)
“It was like it didn’t make sense anymore. It was like nothing made sense anymore.”
I could relate, but didn’t say so.
“Yeah, I’m 74 years old, and if I died tomorrow that would be just fine.”
“You miss your partner fiercely, yeah?” I asked rhetorically.
He nodded reverently and handed the clerk three $20 bills.
“I don’t know what pump my van is on and all I did was pump til it stopped…
Take whatever you need for us to be squared up.”
The lady behind the counter did as she was asked.
The codger thanked her, collected his change, turned to leave.
“Your partner will wait for you. You still have some stuff to do here for awhile.
It’s okay that numbers don’t make sense anymore. It’s okay if a lot of **** has stopped making sense. You’ve got people that’ll steer you right, I’m sure.”
The clerk nodded.
I winked at her.
He nodded, sighed, stepped into the cooling air outside.
I stopped to light a cigarette.
I smoked and thought about how, in spite of everything, it all still made sense.
When I looked up, all that was left of that old fellow’s van was a plume of exhaust.
Even that made sense.
At least I hoped so.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2019
A true story that I had to write because I thought it might be something that John, my friend, needed to read.
