That Old Man
He never plans his visits to the coffee shop, just goes when the mood strikes him. Keep a little spontaneity in his life, instead of walking the same trails every day. Today he brings his paper and gets his coffee, plain with a splash of cream, then the usual polite small talk with the owner before taking a table in the front where he can look out at the street. He’s retired, of course. Retired from a job he never truly enjoyed, but now he gets to enjoy his “golden years”. Whatever that means, whatever is left to enjoy at this age.
Most of the people coming into the coffee shop are young people on a break from their jobs. Often times they’re impatient. He remembers those days; got to have something to worry about. What is life if there’s no stress? A few fellow old-timers stop in as well, a few homeless looking for free coffee, the occasional student looking for a place to work on their computer. Always someone doing something. He’s not one of those old men that gather for McDonald’s breakfast every Tuesday and Thursday to solve the world’s problems. He keeps to himself, a loner, a hermit. He prefers it this way, he tells himself.
He reads his newspaper. He has a smartphone and knows how to read the news on it, but he thinks the newspaper really ties the “old man” look together. He judges the old men that drink their coffee and then read the news on their phones, brows furrowed in anger. Like they’re trying to look young. He’d rather flip through the newspaper. Nothing in it worth reading, of course, but at least it looks productive. He refuses to be a total stereotype and skips reading the obituaries. He never recognizes the names in there anyway.
As he skims over the Opinion section for anything intelligent, a young couple walks into the shop. They’re laughing with each other, with jokingly-linked arms as they walk. They aren’t terribly young, maybe mid-thirties. Definitely too old for that flirty, puppy love business. Their love must either be very new or very strong. A more outgoing old man would just ask them, but he wasn’t going to be that old man. He knows how to mind his business.
They giggle as they order their overly-complicated order, double espresso with skim milk and two pumps of some sugary syrup that negates getting skim milk in the first place. They should be annoying, but the owner finds them charming, makes little jokes as he rings them up. Their love is infectious.
The old man recalled being their age once. It was around the time people repeatedly started asking him when he’d get married, only a few short years before they gave up asking. He never had a good answer for them, as if falling in love were a choice one person makes alone, like getting a tattoo. It was a mutual thing, and he’d never found someone where the love had gone both ways. Love was usually unrequited. Sometimes he was the one unable to return the feelings. The stars just hadn’t aligned, despite others saying they would someday or “It will happen when you stop looking”. Such nice-sounding platitudes that he soon got tired of hearing.
He finishes his paper and leaves it on the table, a freebie for the next person who may want to flip through. He takes his to-go cup out into the street, starts to roam. Had to get out of there. Outside is better, can look at the clouds, look at the grass, look at the river. Not look at the young couple in love.
Love. The most wonderful feeling in the world. Whether it’s familial, platonic, romantic. Books are written about it, songs are sung about it, far too many movies get made about it. Sure, Valentine’s Day was invented to make money (what holiday wasn’t?), but the power of love is still a force to be reckoned with. But romantic love, agreed in unspoken words to be the most powerful kind, he’d never had the pleasure of experiencing. How had that happened?
On the other side of the street, he spotted a man in his fifties walking beside a young woman, maybe in her late twenties. She seemed to be wearing a sports bra as a top, and she was very visibly pregnant. They both looked miserable as they walked in silence. Was she his daughter? Younger wife? Mistress? Could be anything. But again, none of his business.
Perhaps he was looking to avoid a situation like that: a situation where you can tell two people are miserable together but they refuse to be alone. He never wanted to end up like that, trapped in his own home. He’d made himself as happy as he could, made money, had space. He had created his own life.
Memories kept coming back to him as he slowly made his way back to the house. Damn memories, a lot of them painful. Most men his age were getting senile, and he was almost jealous of them. He had to remember his past failures. He only remembered the hurt. Unrequited love. The rejection and embarrassment, how it kept him bedridden for weeks. But like with every bad feeling, it eventually stopped. He’d thought the end of the heartache meant that he had gotten over it. But after that time, he had never really pursued love again. One way to avoid getting hurt is to never try. Now, at this stage of his life, he wished he’d tried a little more.
He had gotten back to his house sooner than he’d realized. Maybe he was going senile after all. Something to look forward to, or perhaps not. He was proud of his house, of what he had done with it. There were lots of things to be proud of, still a lot of good things. No use getting cranky about the past. He goes inside to his favorite chair, puts his feet up, turns on the TV. It’s not a bad life, even at this age.
Tomorrow was Thursday. Maybe he’d get up early tomorrow, go to McDonald’s. Get a biscuit sandwich and see if the old men need any help solving the world’s problems. He could help with that, he really could.
