One of the many ironies of retirement was that now that he
could
sleep until mid-morning, if he wished, his body wouldn’t cooperate. He’d risen at 6 a.m. for forty-five years five days a week, often waking groggy and disoriented. Weekends he awoke at ten feeling fully refreshed. Now he found his bladder screaming at him twice a night. He’d stumble into the bathroom at 3 a.m. and then fall into a fitful sleep. He was awakened again at 6 a.m. like clockwork. Try as he might he couldn’t fall asleep again.
The question still begged.
What would he do
?
Find a hobby, his daughter had told him often over the phone. He’d tried cooking gourmet meals but he was soon put off by all the preparation for twenty minutes of pleasure. And little that he cooked using six books of supposedly tantalizing menus tasted as good as a greasy pizza he could order from a corner store a few blocks away or a steak or burger he could cook in fifteen minutes. His experiment with gardening was even less successful. Volunteer work? Teaching had been volunteer work for the paltry salary he had drawn. He no longer had the patience nor stamina to work with handicapped children. He had no desire to work with the elderly. And he certainly didn’t want to be reminded of his mortality by working with those who were ill.
He found he spent more and more time in his Lazy Boy lounger, one of his few new purchases since his retirement. He decided to catch up on his reading. He had hundreds of novels and biographies he’d purchased and never had time to read. He attacked them with gusto. After reading several chapters, though, he’d get a headache. His optometrist prescribed new, even thicker glasses than the ones he’d already had. After a month the headaches returned. Worse his concentration wandered. He found himself reading the same page,
the same paragraph
over again and again. A book that had taken him days to finish just a few years before now took two weeks. And as so much of what he read was instantly forgettable he finally gave up the effort. The daily newspapers,
The Sporting News
and
Newsweek
served his reading needs. He seldom made his way through those without dozing.
He’d awaken in his lounger with a start and he couldn’t see his feet for several minutes.
They weren’t there
. He could sense them, like an amputee, but they had vanished. Soon, though, they reappeared. Maybe he’d been dreaming that he’d awakened when he hadn’t. But it seemed so real. And over the next several weeks it only intensified. He’d awaken
—or so he thought—and he couldn’t see his feet nor his legs. Another time his feet and arms appeared to have melted away. Once his penis shriveled into nothingness before his eyes. He had to stifle a scream.
Bad as the dreams, hallucinations or whatever-the-hell he was experiencing were, worse was that he had nobody to confide in. His few good friends—precious few—had all died several years before. He couldn’t speak to his children. They’d think him crazy and send him to the dreaded nursing home. He feared seeking out a shrink for the same reason.
Each time when he’d finally come to his senses and literally counted his toes and fingers making sure he still had all ten of each, he was again assaulted by the question.
What would he do?
What he did was pick up his gun. He’d completely forgotten his purchase when he answered one of his infrequent phone calls and was told that he’d received a clean bill of health and his gun was waiting for him. He began to visibly shake as he put the receiver down. Not from fear, but anticipation. He wanted the gun more than he’d wanted anything in his life, not that he had any use for it.
At the gun shop the owner again indulged him, showing him again how to properly load and clean the gun. The proprietor suggested he purchase a lock box. James shook his head. There was nobody who could get hurt in his house. He purchased several boxes of ammunition. He had no idea why. He just felt a surge of power knowing he was fully protected. When he arrived home he put some of the ammunition in every room in his home. He sat in his lounger caressing the gun. Fully loaded, he pointed it at a picture of his ex-wife and made believe he shot her. He then unloaded the gun, just as he’d been shown and pointed the gun at his head. Pulled the trigger and laughed aloud as he thought of the mess he’d make if he hadn’t emptied the gun. He imagined a realtor trying to sell the house. A nice young couple, with the woman expecting, walking into the bedroom and asking what had happened to the former owner. The realtor, of course, had lied. “He passed away.” Suddenly the blood splatter and brain matter appeared on the wall where James had shot himself and the couple fled.
After several hours, however, he put the gun away. Okay, now he had a gun, but he wasn’t about to do anything rash. It had been an impulse purchase. But what use did he have for a gun?
He began watching more and more television. With cable there were so many choices he felt like a kid in a candy store.
Biography
on A&E, episodes of
The Twilight Zone
on the Sci Fi Channel and reruns of
The Honeymooners
on any number of cable outlets were just a few of the delicacies he feasted upon. He devoured movies on HBO and Showtime as he didn’t want to go to the theater alone. College football, pro football, baseball, college and pro hoops. Sometimes he’d doze during sporting events. He’d be watching the first quarter of a basketball game and awake with a start to find the game well into the third quarter. Most movies disappointed him. Reruns of his old favorites like
Star Trek
now seemed inane and outdated. After his initial burst of enthusiasm he soon gave up the tube.
So what would he do
? It was then that a second question surfaced.
What do I have to live for?
He had no answer.
He decided to try to reconnect with his children and grandchildren. That he hadn’t been the model father was not his fault. His ex-wife had won custody of the children and he saw them so infrequently after the divorce the bond he’d had with each quickly dissipated.
He called Stephen, his oldest son, who had always been his favorite. Before the divorce he had taken Stephen to see Sixers basketball contests and Phillies baseball games. They’d replay the game on the way home. Stephen had been a fanatical fan. No matter how bad a season the team was having, Stephen looked on the bright side. A prolonged winning streak. Once in the playoffs anything could happen. His son was an eternal optimist.
He called Stephen now and his nine-year-old granddaughter Carly answered. After a quick hello, she called out to her father. James was sorely disappointed. He’d wanted to ask his granddaughter about school and activities she was involved in, but she hadn’t given him the chance.
“ … calling, Dad?”
“What?” James asked. His son was talking to him. His mind had drifted.
“Why are you calling, Dad?” Stephen asked, again. James heard concern in his son’s voice.
“Do I need a reason to call?” James asked. “Maybe I just want to shoot the shit with my son. You know talk about the Sixers.”
“Dad, I live in New Mexico. I haven’t been in Philly in over thirty years.”
“You don’t keep up with the Sixers?” James asked, perplexed. “You were such a rabid fan.”
“I didn’t have a job or family then,” his son said. “I don’t have time for frivolous pursuits.”
“Like talking to your old man,” James said and instantly regretted the rebuke. Then he was angry at himself. He might not have been the best father in the world, but it hadn’t been completely his fault. His wife had taken his kids from him. And now his son wanted to dismiss him. For a fleeting minute he thought of the gun that rested in a drawer on a night table beside his bed.
“I didn’t mean that,” Stephen said. “Look, is something wrong, Dad?” He sounded impatient to James, like he wanted to end the conversation unless there was some emergency.
“I’m fine son,” James said. “As important as your job and family are you have to make time for yourself.”
“Easy for you to say now that you’re retired,” Stephen said. “Now are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
I’m lonely
James wanted to say, but he held his tongue. “Nothing son. Really, I just called to shoot the breeze.”
“I’d like to talk, Dad. I really would, but I have to take Billy to soccer practice, Jason to the orthodontist and Carly has a girl scout meeting.”
“I didn’t mean to impose,” James said.
“Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you in a few days when it’s not so hectic,” Stephen said. “Promise. Okay?”
Stephen hung up before James could answer. Moments later James found his gun in his hand. “You’ve gone too far, Stephen,” he said aloud. He pointed the empty gun at a picture of his son and blew his brains out. “You little shit,” he shouted. “You don’t know what it is to be … to be alone. All I wanted was to chat. But, no, you’re too busy for your old man. Wonder how busy you’d be if I flew out and stuck this gun in your face?” He was standing now, shouting at the picture of his son, pointing the gun steady just as he’d been instructed. “And that bitch daughter of yours. Didn’t you teach her any manners? I’m her grandfather, her fucking grandfather but she doesn’t want a thing to do with me.” He pointed the gun at a picture of his granddaughter. “Maybe this will convince you to be polite,” James said, unaware he was shouting. Slowly he calmed down. Maybe Stephen would call. He’d give his son a chance. Stephen, after all, wasn’t a bad kid. Just a little too preoccupied with his own life to worry about his father.
His son hadn’t called back. Any number of times James put his hand on the receiver. But he feared catching his son on another of those days when his family responsibilities overwhelmed him. So much for reconnecting with his family. And he felt foolish when he thought he would use his gun on his son or granddaughter. No,
if
he used his gun there were far more deserving targets.
On a whim, while downtown one day for his six month checkup, James returned to his school to visit. Maybe, he thought, he’d volunteer some of his time. He could come in when he wanted and leave when the spirit moved him. Best of all he would no longer have to fear his old pal Mr. Scalia, his former boss. Unfortunately, he felt like an outsider as soon as he stepped in the building. Over the past six months he’d forgotten the names of many teachers on the staff. Hell, in his last years he barely knew the names of a third of those who taught. He was met with stares of indifference or a polite but insincere hello.
Then he bumped into Pat Rutherford, the school counselor. She had also been the school’s union representative. While not close the two had talked often about the sorry state of education and the ineffectiveness of their union. He remembered, with a chuckle, how Pat had hounded him for three dollars to pay for a gift when Principal Scalia remarried. James had been adamant. He detested the man. He was no hypocrite. He didn’t care if it got back to Scalia that he’d been the only one on the staff not to contribute. If nothing else James had principles. No, he told Pat half a dozen times. But Pat had finally worn him down. “Forget Scalia. Do it as a favor to me,” she implored. Why it was so important to her James had no idea, but he’d relented. Now seeing her he thought she was someone he could relate to.
“Pat, it’s good to see you,” James said.
“Good to see you … James,” she said. James had the impression she’d had to dredge up his name. Had she already forgotten him in six months? “How’s retirement treating you?” she asked, with what looked like a forced smile. She looked at her watch. James didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know what was coming next. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a meeting to attend,” she said. “Maybe some other time. No …
definitely
some other time.”
Right
, James thought. A not too subtle brush off. As Pat walked down the hall James couldn’t control himself. “That three dollars I gave you for Scalia’s wedding present. Think I could have it back?”
Pat turned and looked at James oddly. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor, I see,” she said, then made her way down the hall.
I was being serious
, James wanted to reply, but thought the better of it. So much for a meaningful conversation with Pat.
He went outside and watched students at recess. Seeing several children taunting and chasing a small, chubby boy with glasses brought back ugly memories he longed to suppress. “Animals,” he said aloud, not deserving his time. He left vowing never to return.
At home that night James sat in his lounger and cleaned his gun. Lately he’d taken it out of his drawer several times a week and indulged in fantasies. “Pat,” he said aloud, “You
really
should have taken the time to talk with me. But you were too busy.” He pointed the gun at the imaginary Pat and ended her life. Then he imagined bumping into Scalia who had heard the commotion. James pointed the gun at Scalia’s groin. “I was going to kill you, you son-of-a-bitch, but I think I’ll just shoot you in the balls. See how high and mighty you are when you recover. Every time you berate someone their eyes will venture downward, knowing you don’t have to balls to carry out your threat …
literally
.”