Playing Fair and Being Kind

All Over Again

Seventy years ago, Buddy was standing on his tip-toes to look at his eyes in the bathroom mirror on the second floor of his parents’ huge house. Eleven rooms with seven bedrooms. Nine-year-old Buddy stretching himself tall with an assist by pressing his palms down on the rim of the ceramic sink below the mirror he was able to see directly into those pretty brown eyes of his. He looked into those brown eyes and looked way into the future. He looked at his countenance and wondered how long he would live. Sixty-two more years he figured. Sixty-two maybe, give or take.

Now Buddy was standing in front of the mirror in his one room shack. He noticed his slouch and straightened. He stood closer to the sink to see better his eyes. The lids hooded, eyebrows full of gray wiry hair, Buddy stared balefully in the direction of his countenance to detect what was left to detect. What would he ever imagine to see? What would be left of himself, he wondered. With a feeling of accomplishment, he thought about his personal best age compared to what he’d guessed seventy years ago.
“Sixty-two, eh?”, Buddy mused. “I got it with seventeen to boot.”
The urge to take another, updated guess passed; ignored. “I’m not going there”, Buddy muttered.

Recent days Buddy had been reminded of all the bodily functions that were becoming noticeable. Body parts were loosening in their joints and sphincters. Sometimes one leg wouldn’t want to keep up or support weight. Tricky moments were multiplying.
“Some days chicken, some days feathers”, Buddy would philosophize.

The image in his mind of his nine-year-old self peering over the lower edge of the mirror kept him in a positive mood. Still, Buddy couldn’t grasp how it was this feeling of returning to childhood behaviors and ideations was what it was. His recent way of chuckling when he farted upon standing or bending or taking a few steps made him think he was approaching a juvenile phase of his development. Development?!? A little late for that! He thought that he was reverting. Just like he’d read someplace that we all return to infancy later in our lives. Second childhood come late. Buddy had begun to whoop and holler and sometimes sing aloud with the T.V. Spontaneous dancing moves in the kitchen while cooking. Grand gestures to no one in particular with loudly voiced expletives came as well. He was his own entertainment system.

Buddy’s eightieth birthday was coming. No special cake for him. He was a radical vegan. No shit food was passing his lips. He might find a blueberry pie at a special bakery though. That was his choice. Blueberry pie. A whole pie for himself. He’d take a slice in the morning (a real Maine breakfast!) and another later that afternoon with a large cup of coffee. Nothing better! Eighty! By gawd, eighty! How did this happen?

He never figured to live this long. Not that he was complaining. One time he’d come to wonder if maybe he’d live to a hundred and seven. That number kept popping into his head or showing up in various forms during his days. The house he grew up in was number 107 Adams Street. Later on, he would see 107 this and 107 that. Like the digital clock 11:11 that lots of people noticed 107 became a trigger for Buddy. It showed up so much he deduced that it must have been a sign of sorts from the ether. Buddy was going to live to be a hundred and seven years old.

Well, maybe yes and maybe no. You never know. You can never tell. Dia por dia, poco a poco, Buddy liked to use his limited Spanish whenever he was carrying doubts in his head. It was his way of avoiding serious contemplation. It was also his way of surviving that for which there was no defense. Buddy was wise in a few ways and this avoidance kept him moving along the path with a minimum of worry. “Poco a poco”, he said to himself. “Poco a poco se va lejo”.  Well, we’ll see. That bout of urosepsis fifteen years ago that put him in intensive care in North Carolina for four days could have messed up his private predictions. How about the bi-lateral pulmonary embolism five years ago? Damn near bought the farm there too. Not long afterward there was the heart attack in Santa Fe. Good thing he was at Naomi and Rick’s house. Naomi drove him to the emergency room where they put in a stent. Another bullet dodged.

Buddy stepped away from the bathroom mirror in his one room shack and laughed. He struck a pose and pointed at himself. “Lucky motherfucker!” he shouted and went out to put on pants and shoes. He needed to mow the lawn.
G. M. Goodwin
June 19, 2018