I saw my future and I didn't like it. There I was 59, on the train, sleeping with my baseball cap turned up at an awkward angle. Grey corduroy jeans, a new Columbia snow jacket; not the color I wanted, but it was on sale. The only gift I would allow my family to buy me without me becoming unbearably cranky because it's all I really needed and why fuss over it. The neck of my sweater had long since held a shapely "V" and was now more of a cursive "U". My collard shirt underneath prescribed to the company policy and two buttons open showed my white t-shirt that was once white, back in 2020, but now, another gift pack of three undershirts that had worn out their welcome. My face. Oh, lord, my face. Whereas I could almost see the glimmer of some kind of shape or combination of namable features, perhaps a childish stoic quality or serious inquisitiveness, was now just a lot of worn meat, a jerky of sorts, with divots and folds making bags of everything that wouldn't slough, which was almost all of it. Had I turned out like Christopher Lloyd or some other interesting character, on might be able to look back at pictures that would surface on the net and say, "Wow! He was kinda handsome!" or "Look at Christopher Lloyd as a youngster! Just amazing!" But, there would be none of that. So much-beat down, so much down-trodden, so many ideas gone to feed the wind that my poor face is left looking more like a few good meals for a colony of fleas or other such opportunistic society of vermin. I'm still wearing my wedding band. I wonder how old my son is, what he's doing... Does he even speak to me? Do we have a relationship that keeps him sticking to the basics of "How's mom?" and "Are you eating?", or do we delve into the finer topics of politics and sex and music? I can tell by that face that I am likely no fun to talk to. He, like my wife, have probably heard all I've ever had to say three times over by now. Looks like I eventually just shut up, learned to nap, and everyone was the better for it. So, what happened? I must've stuck out at my job and just kept paying the bills. A real treat for a flea! I never could stick to any one thing, until I did, and then I guess I just died inside. Crazy. I look like a shell of a man, the inside all fleas and vermin and probably cancer and other tasty things all feasting on what was once a man, now a manageable sarcophagus. I wonder what I would say to me, if I saw me sitting here right now? I'd probably say, "Stop being so damn judgmental. You always were so damn judgmental." I wonder what book I'm reading? I always did have great taste in books. Perhaps that's all there is left; finish reading all the books I bought in my twenties when I was nimble and thought I might stay that way. Even from here I can see how immature I have always been. At every step of the way. Even looking at older self. Not quite knowing how to really dig in and be a distinguished 60. Just passing the time and probably really mad about it. I wonder if my wife still loves me? And what, perchance, would I call what I feel for her? Is it deep admiration? Respect? Fear? Comfort? Love? Perhaps it is and perhaps I've even learned what that actually means. It certainly isn't what they're pumping on the airwaves or on the TV. That's desire. It's easy to spot. Gives you a boner right away. Love doesn't come with a boner. It comes with a box of tissues. For your eyes. And a scarf or vest. But, that's what I know now. As a 40 year old looking at a 60 year old me. On the train. Waiting to get to my station. So I can get home. And kiss my wife and kid. Have some dinner. Feed some fleas.
Gary Memi
