It is two days in a row that I have done some reviewing of my father's rather voluminous short short stories, and observations and have actually posted them. I found myself separating a few out that I will never post, because something is missing, a page or because of how badly dad typed, lines I cannot quite edit to clarity. I have also separated out those in which he waxes, often interposing tales of mythology, on sex with a certain amount of frankness. Oh, nothing extreme, but despite the frenzied society's embrace of the most disgusting habits, they will remove or flag something that is harmless or true, and censor it. It is wildly inconsistent. But we are, alas, the victims of the hubris which generates the inconsistency.
And, in other postings, sometimes my father's cynicism is just too much, albeit I completely understand it. So, I've put aside several stories that will not see the light of day on this site. I have considered destroying them, but really, some are quite good. Maybe someone clearing out my stuff after I have shuffled off this mortal coil will think them worthy of some public denouement. I doubt it, though, because neither dad nor I have any particular cache, especially the cache of fame. Still, he could be another Vivian Maier, the late photographer, whose hoard made her famous after her death. I think he might like that. The following really short piece was typical of dad's travels in his neighborhood. In his way, using words, he did what Maier did with her photos--he captured the detail of the ordinary parts of real life.
NEXT
We spend our days in anticipation of some event, sometimes routine, sometimes joyous or sad. e are destined for a lifetime to await the next call from some umpire in the game of life, within our roster of destined events--next. . .
I am reflecting on this matter as I inch my way towards an overburdened bank cashier.
It is always crowded and burdensome at the bank. I miscalculated in that I forgot that social security checks would be distributed early. There is, this month, an intervening weekend before the third day of the month, the official day of distribution. Washington is ever solicitous on behalf of the senior citizen on that signal day of our golden years.
I am so engrossed in this state of inconvenience that I do not hear the mellifluous bell tone that signals the availability of the next teller. My reverie is broken by a rude and impatient "next in line!" on the loudspeaker by a stressed out voice. The announcement is not for me. The ample lady ahead of me is NEXT. She, however, urges me forward. I am familiar with the reason. She is waiting for a cashier who speaks Russian.
"Spasiba," I say and she smiles, revealing a series of alternately spaced gold teeth.
As the cashier ministers to my financial needs I look at the ever growing, snakelike file of walkers and canes. I hear the incomprehensible drone of new languages, as it must have been in the ancient city of Bab-El. I think, "Wherein O Maker of All Things, have we offended Thee again?"
It is no different at the Albertson Market where I must perform my next task of necessity. I follow a lady bent almost into an inverted L, pushing her empty cart into the store. There is more than the usual clamor and bedlam, more of the elderly maneuvering their metal prosthetic aids through the obstructed corridors of can laden shelves. But this is ordinary madness. I am not prepared for what happens next.
An elderly man taps me on the shoulder. He leas forward with a partially filled hand basket and says: "May I leave this a moment in your cart?"
He is also pushing a modified perambulator, one that carries a prostrate figure, covered snugly against inclemency, and immobile. I would have thought her dead except for two bluish eyes that did not blink, yet betokened life.
"Was she looking," I thought, "at vistas beyond the scope of our vision, an incomprehensible dimension that might be next when we leave this world?
I did not ask any questions, but he answered the one I was thinking. "She's my mother. She's ninety-two."
I would have guessed she was older. She had the appearance of a ancient cadaver excavated from a long abandoned tomb.
I motioned him to precede me in the checkout line.
As he pushed his charge forward I looked at the other customers. No one was paying attention, even looking our way. Was this lack of curiosity, interest or concern, or was it whistling past the inevitability of our own mortality?
"You are a very kind gentleman," the man said in leaving. I thought the accent was British. Perhaps it was the way he emphasized "gentleman" that gave it a sense of class distinction.
"By the way," I said, "how old are you?"
"Sixty-seven," he replied.
I thought older.
"Next," called the sales clerk.
You may well ask.
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