It was depressing to realize that the older he got the less he knew. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Doubly depressing because he made his living as a scholar. Oh, he could still shotgun blast an opponent with erudition and silence him, but he didn’t believe a word of it. What he said was mostly for suckers.
Your students included? he asked himself.
Silence.
So what do you believe?
That good cooking is not only worthwhile, it is an accessible art. That a blow job is an old man’s delight. That . . . There were a couple of others, but he couldn’t remember them.
It strikes me you’re not quite as lost as you allege.
Oh yeah?
A successful cousin had invited them to a 50th wedding anniversary, and he didn’t want to go. The invitation specified formal attire (black tie optional). He would need to buy a new suit, and that would be the one they would bury him in. How could he enjoy wearing it? Instead of fine feathers, it would feel like a shroud.
Was he in poor health? No, merely getting creaky. But he no longer dressed up. Not since he retired (a word he detested). Now he was strictly blue collar. His wife said he looked like a woodchopper.
But his wife insisted they were going. Five years before she had bought a lovely gown anticipating a reception that would announce the engagement of their daughter. One way or another she was going to wear that gown.
Even the French didn’t have a better word for it, though the Spanish did. Jubilación. To rejoice. What a prisoner might cry when set free. He considered alternatives:
Aisé.
A man of independent means.
A man of leisure. Awakening each morning . . . free. With the leisure old Greeks had. Maybe—except that he didn’t own a slave. Not even a domestic.
Everyone asked him: How are you doing? What are you doing? All of them wondering if they would go crazy when their time came. Of course the only acceptable answer was: Fabulous! Just returned from a trip to Nepal; raised a million for my church’s new grand organ; volunteer firefighter; museum docent; putting the finishing touches to a novel. Writing was always acceptable, indeed expected. Writing, writing. But he was sick of this pretentious BS. He merely said: I’m enjoying doing nothing. If I get bored, I’ll take a job as a pizza delivery man.
But it wasn’t quite true that he was doing nothing. He had inventoried a multitude of back-burner chores, projects, obligations, repairs. The garage, for instance, was stuffed to the rafters with all sorts of junk he had not had time to deal with during his busy career. Things were just thrown into it, leaving no room for automobiles. He did not want his daughter to have to confront this mess after he was dead. He knew his wife wouldn’t touch it.
He figured he had eight extra hours per day compared to a working stiff. It should be easy to get a lot done. But when he threw himself into chores, he made little headway. His to-do list merely grew longer. He felt more and more inadequate, until he realized that a full-time job provides the perfect excuse for not getting much else done. Guilt can be shrugged off. The retiree, on the other hand, has no such excuse. He has lost his defense.
When you die, some believe you will finally see the face of God. But what he wanted to see was family and friends. To be reunited first with his schizophrenic son (healed) who would be waiting for him, since the last shall be first. Then with his wife, his daughter, his father and mother, his brother, his best friend, and so on. They would embrace, look into each other’s eyes, sit, and hold hands. Too bad he didn’t believe in an afterlife.
He was sitting in a waiting room, daydreaming. A woman entered and sat down next to him, quite close. She was attractive, and it became apparent that she wanted to stay near him. This was unusual, and he enjoyed the feeling. Being wanted, being chosen by this attractive dark-haired woman, made him feel very content—even as he realized who she was.
Although time was running out, he felt he didn’t have to hurry. He was retired, after all. He could afford to let others go ahead of him.