But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.
– Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
Originally published on May 2, 2017. Don’t remember writing it.
Hence, the update.
Storm system moved in from the northwest. Those tragic deaths and devastated homes watched on the news became a lovely breeze and much needed moisture for dry hereabouts. This time.
The old man slept through the storm. He awoke to rustling palms and felt the strangest sensation.
What was it?
He didn’t move. He knew if he didn’t move, might not ignite the pain. Part of the irony, part of his story. Couldn’t be sure, but he thought, deep breath, wait, make sure, he maybe felt good. At least not bad.
He had to move. He lived to move.
Lived for the freedom to move, to go where he wanted to go when he wanted to go there.
He got out of bed.
On television, bowel movements are usually skipped over as if nobody poops.
Imagine reading a Peggy Noonan old school op-ed about taking a dump. I bet she takes a dump. She’s no spring chicken.
Weight light now. There’s getting better, there’s feeling better and then there’s feeling better about finally feeling better. Sisyphus gets to push the rock over the top finally.
For now. Part of the fun of getting old. You can be reasonably confident, some other shit will show up.
If it is not working on you already.
He went for a walk.
Andrew Jackson and Frederick Douglas walk into a bar and find Clint Eastwood talking to an empty chair. The chair, one of those plastic rockers on sale at Hobby Lobby for sixty-nine dollars except on Sundays, is arguing with Dirty Harry about which one of them can get the florid floozy at the end of the bar to sit on him first.
Don’t know which is worse. Toothpaste stain on the black t-shirt or that he didn’t change before he set out. Or that nobody much cared what he looked like.
Why would anyone care?
Opened the door and looked outside. Pouring rain. Your regular deluge.
He was listening to Unbroken still. What would Louie Zamperini do?
Can’t let a little rain stop him. The old man didn’t just have access to an umbrella, he actually had an umbrella he could take with him. Like insurance. Which it turns out he didn’t actually need. Not a drop dampened him. Scent of magnolia and road tar filled the air. Still fresh to his face. Hey, every breath is a good breath.
He waved at a quiet Yorkie behind a pane of glass. Mickey sits on a crocheted blanket, bright like Joseph’s coat, quietly waiting for his goddess to return. Imagined he heard the dog say, he wished he could go with me. Oh, no, far too muggy, little buddy. You stay on your blanket. She’ll be home soon.
The unnecessary umbrella became Officer Krupke’s nightstick, twirling like an audition for The Ed Sullivan Show before becoming a police baton you can club Rodney King for the crime of excessively dark skin.
He waved the umbrella – a free gift from the Wal-Mart Credit Union, where he can’t imagine ever doing business – like a royal sceptre, urging oncoming vehicles move into the other lane before they rise the ire of their Lord.
A sword! A baseball bat!!
Arthritis!!!!!!!!!!
He stopped swinging. Drum major, too gay for this audience. He imagined little old ladies, thin pale robes, peeking out from behind parted blinds, undressing him with their eyes.
Really, how good can they see anyway?
An hour later, the old man arranged the umbrella like a yoke behind his head and powered up the final hill.
The final hill for today.
The last scene opens back in Japan with Louie Z., now in his eighties.
He’s carrying the Olympic Torch past the concentration camp where he’d been imprisoned and abused.
Torture doesn’t begin to cover it.
The old man is still alive, he is again smiling, he is happy, he is running.
Unbroken.