Henry Rose is a man full of charity, kindness, and
even temper; he can’t recall ever thinking ill of anyone, and
he’s never been angry. Life is good, always has been, and through a
combination of hard work and good luck he’s been able to retire at
age 52 and immediately start volunteering his time to help others. He donates his days to many causes, but he enjoys his
time with seniors the most — they give him more than he gave them. He
finds comfort in their quiet dignity and in the oasis of civility they
offer. Henry was reared by loving grandparents, and his time with seniors
brings back memories of an idyllic childhood. This day starts as all days start for Henry. Morning
coffee, always two cups’ worth, is always at Millie’s
Café, always with a single cigarette between the two cups.
There’s no better way to start a day; Millie is one of those forever
happy people, and she is always there with apron and smile and refill as
Henry sips the last of his first cup, just as she’s doing now. Just
as he finishes . . . her . . . shoe . . . the
bright morning sun hits her shoe buckle. He looks down, and her feet are
hooves — she has pig legs! Her forearm splits open to expose a
pulsating dark shadowed vein that ever so slowly, drop by drop, drips
coffee-colored poison into his cup. The hand with which he holds his cup is shaking, and
he must grab on with his other hand to steady it. He draws his eyes from
Millie’s forearm to his own, which, top to bottom, is well muscled.
Henry Rose is stronger than most men, and if . . . he wanted, he . . . he could reach over and snap Millie’s forearm like a
twig! He starts to
reach and . . . he . . . he instead uses all of
his willpower to take his mind to the day’s senior-center agenda.
First off he is scheduled to help a few charming old
gals review for upcoming driver’s-license tests and . . . suddenly he is caught behind a one-lane-road caravan of
1980 Buick Roadmasters, all driven by widows, each car purchased by the
driver’s husband the year he died, most likely of the coffee poison! If the Buicks move any slower, they’ll be
backing up. If “head above dashboard” indicates that someone is
actually driving the vehicle, 12 of the 14 cars are on their own. Wherever Henry is going, he is late, and he’s
never been late in his life — not once. The old bats ought not to be
allowed to drive at all, Henry thinks — herd ’em up and ship
’em all to a walled-in Florida compound where they can rot away, out
of sight of people still useful. His only option is to ram each car in
turn, force ’em all off the cliff — piles of rusted bones in
piles of rusted metal!
Henry bangs his head with his fist to stop the vision.
Instead, he thinks of the center’s monthly newsletter. Composition is
scheduled for this afternoon, with three of his favorite people; Sam
Barlow, Frank Nunn, and Bill Turner — characters all, each brimming
with 80 (or more) years of wisdom, and wonderful stories, and laughter. Henry Rose’s feet are asleep! The composing routine: Sam, Frank, and Bill draft each
month’s newsletter in longhand, then give the words to Henry, who
enters it all into a PC, adds graphics, and prints copies. It’s
always the same: announcements for bingo nights, bridge tournaments, maybe
a dance; the month’s birthdays; a speaker stopping by to explain yet
another Medicare rule. Boring, but the time spent with his three old
friends is . . . is . . . what they ought to
do is add a section called “The Liver Spot” and each month
feature the blemish that looks most like Jesus, or JFK in profile. And how
about a trophy-wife centerfold? They could start with Sam’s wife; she
can’t be older than her midfifties, and she’s one
fine-lookin’ woman, mighty fine! What the hell she’s doing with
an 82-year-old man is . . . no way the senile slobber-drooling old bastard can handle . . .
handle . . .
Henry crushes the handle of his coffee cup just as
Millie finishes pouring. Coffee runs the table from right to left. Her
smile never fades as she wipes up the mess, Millie asks, “First day
of the city smoking ban got you uptight? I mean, no cigarette between
cups?”
Henry’s eyes are twitching, and his vision is
blurred; he can’t . . . Millie’s
face grows a snout! The other two early-morning customers are digging their
teeth out with spoons — to leave as tips. “No problem, Millie. In fact, I quit cold turkey
last night. No withdrawal effects whatsoever.”
This article appears in Jun 15-21, 2006.
