DISGUSTED AT EXISTENCE

 

DISGUSTED AT EXISTENCE

The little white dog that lives

on the south side of the horseshow

beyond Piccadilly Street North

is totally dismayed and disgusted

that I exist

I sympathize

Sometimes, I feel

the same way

John Robert McFarland

 

We Reserve the Right, a short story. 4-25-24.

 

BEYOND WINTER: Personal Reflections of an Old Man—

We Reserve the Right, a short story. 4-25-24.

 

[Someone—Bob Parsons, I think—said that I could still post things here, even if they were not spiritual/religious meditations. This is a short story that won an award at a conference but never found a publication. Warning: it’s 1700 words]

 

WE RESERVE THE RIGHT

John Robert McFarland

Lori first saw him as he tried to get out of the long, old dinosaur of a Chevy. It was gold, mottled by patches of brown rust. She usually didn't notice cars much, at least not old sedans, but it was just the night before that Father had pronounced one of his pronouncements, about gold cars.

            "Hardly ever see a gold car anymore," he had said, pulling at the tuft of hair in his ear. "I was just saying that to Ed this morning. Hardly ever see a gold car anymore, and if you do, it's got a woman behind the wheel."

            Father liked to quote whatever he said to Ed.

            Here, however, was proof that Father was wrong, which didn't surprise Lori much. A gold car, with an old man.

            With his feet out on the blacktop, he bounced on the edge of the seat three or four times, until he got enough momentum to lurch out and grab the open door to steady himself.

            Lori watched him through the field of plate glass while she wiped the tables and picked up trays and cups and muffin wrappers that people had left strewn around the dining room.

            They were supposed to put them in the big boxes marked "Thank You," but a lot of folks didn't. Lori was the newest girl, so she got the cleanup job, instead of working behind one of the cash registers with the cute little pictures of food in place of numbers.

            Cleanup was dull but it was fine with Lori, at least for today. Brenda, the morning manager, was in a real mood. The first thing you learned from the other girls, and even the older women, was "Don't do anything to set Brenda off when she's in one of her moods."

            Besides, Lori was happy just to have a job. Since the canning factory had closed, they were barely able to pay the rent and the heat bill from what Mother made at Wal-Mart.

            The old man was thin and stooped, wrinkled red skin pulled tight over the bones of his face. He wore a black baseball cap with a logo Lori didn't recognize. Thin, white hair wisped out from underneath it, like cobwebs that had collected on the cap's black felt while it hung on a hook. His light yellow shirt was buttoned at the neck. Dark blue pants gathered in folds around his pipe-stem waist. His shoes were long and bright brown and had strings tied in big looping bows. 

            Lori wasn't sure why the old man had caught her attention, why she was watching him so closely. Maybe it was because he looked like a grandpa. Allison had a grandpa who took her places and listened to her. That was neat. Not many grown-up men were willing to listen to a girl talk. Lori shrugged. It was probably just because he was more interesting than cleanup duty. She could wipe the tables and watch the old man at the same time, anyway. “Fast food ain’t rocket surgery.” Maybe she would say that to Allison and then quote herself to Father.

            She didn't want to stare at the old man, though. That was rude. Besides, he might stare back. Lori didn't like for people to notice her. But maybe he looked like the grandpa she had never seen, the one who would take her places and listen to her talk, if he hadn’t been killed in the mine. The only picture she had of Grandpa was when he was very young, in a Marine uniform, but he would be old now. Maybe he would drive a gold car. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

            The old man weaved his way across the parking lot like she'd seen soldiers do in mine fields during the war on TV. His bird-like head moved from side to side, as if he expected to be run down by a “16” at any time. That’s what Father called a 4x4, a “16.” Maybe that's why he went to the wrong door, because he was watching out for “16”s.

            It was simple enough to do. The door was toward the rear of the building, back where the rest rooms were, and he had parked in that end of the lot. It looked like a regular door, until you got up close and could see the sign that said "Exit Only." He tried to pull it open, though, before he saw the sign.

            He stood there for a minute, looking confused, like maybe he thought they weren't open. That was silly to think, of course, on a Friday morning, with a bunch of other cars in the lot.

            Then he saw her inside, wearing her red and gold overseas hat, like those singing sister acts wore in old movies, and the red and gold uniform smock, too. It looked like he knew she was watching him, even though she was trying not to stare.

            He muttered something and looked down at his brown shoes and tried to make a quick turn. He almost lost his balance and started to fall into the bed of ivy and gravel and little spotlights. He reached out, like he was grabbing at an invisible trapeze bar. Somehow he managed to catch it and hang on and right himself. He backtracked down the concrete walk and found his way around the gravel to the two sets of glass doors.

            It took him a while of tugging and pulling to get the doors open. Lori thought maybe she should hurry over there to help him. She actually took a couple of steps, but she knew he was already embarrassed about going to the wrong door. She didn't want to make him feel any worse. She stopped and let him pull until he finally wedged himself through the opening. He pushed his cap back a little and darted a quick glance at her, then fixed his gaze on the wood and metal sculpture on the wall above the plastic booths. It showed two women and a pig driving an open, old car past a barn.

            "Been a long time since I've been out," he said.

            Lori wasn't sure he was talking to her, but there was no one else on that side of the restaurant.

            "Forgot about that door bein' just for leavin'."

            She thought she should say something, but didn't know what, so she just stood and looked at her pink and white running shoes. Finally he'd seen enough of the sculpture on the wall and went around to the counter.

            "May I help you?"

            Lori could hear it even around the corner. It was Kim's voice, bright and cheery and false. Kim was perfect behind the counter. You could tell her your mother had just died and she'd perkily inquire if you wanted fries.

            "You got them chili dogs, don't you?"

            "Yes..."

            Kim's voice was a little more tentative now. They had chili dogs, but...

            "Good. I'll have me one of them chili dogs, and a side salad, and a hot tea. And I get ten percent off, don't I?"

            "Well...uh...we have chili dogs...but it's not lunch time yet. It's still breakfast. We can't serve chili dogs until 10:30."

            Lori slipped around the corner, still carrying a stack of brown, plastic trays. The old man looked confused. Kim was pointing at the clock on the wall above the fryer.

            "You mean, you've got 'em, but I can't have one?"

            "Well..." Kim looked exasperated. "It's not that you can't have one. You can have one at 10:30. That's when we start lunch."

            Just then Brenda lurched into view from behind the warming slots where the ready sandwiches lived between cooking and eating. Her face was red and her hair was spreading out in what was known behind her back as "the mood special."

            "What's wrong, Kim?"

            Brenda didn't like for things to be wrong.

            "Uh, this man wants a chili dog, and I'm trying to explain..."

            "She says you have chili dogs..." the old man began.

            Brenda pointed at the clock.

            "No chili dogs until 10:30. That's when we start lunch."

            "No chili..."

            "No chili dogs until that clock says 10:30, Sir!"

            Brenda was almost shouting now, in her manager's voice, the one that said whatever was wrong, it wasn't her fault.

            The old man ducked his head and shoved his hands down into the pockets of his ballooning pants. It made him look like that famous clown with the sad face. Aunt Edna had a little statue of him on her coffee table.

            "I...been a long time since I've been out...That's why I went to the wrong door...I thought there was a discount..."

            He seemed to be muttering to no one in particular. Brenda's mouth turned down in a disgusted scowl.

            "No chili dogs until that clock says 10:30," she declared again.

            The old man turned away from the counter and started shuffling toward the doors.

            He started to get wavy in front of Lori, and she realized she was crying. She didn't know whether she was crying for him or for the grandfather she had never even seen. Maybe I'm crying for myself, she thought, because she already knew what she was going to do.

            "And I really need the job, too..." she muttered.

            She dropped her stack of trays on top of one of the big trash boxes. She stepped in front of the man. She reached out and gripped his thin arms.

            "Wait," she whispered. "It'll be okay."

            She turned him back around to face Kim and Brenda. Then she went behind the counter and pulled herself up onto the shake machine with a move she had learned in gymnastics class, back when Father was working and she was taking lessons. She put her finger on the long clock hand and pushed it down to the bottom of the circle.

            "Ask him if he wants fries with his chili dog, Kim," she said.

 

FOND FAREWELL [T, 4-9-24]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—FOND FAREWELL [T, 4-9-24]

 

Well, it finally happened. I’m out of words, ideas, stories, energy. I suppose I could keep on writing if I were out of just one or two of those, but all of them together…that’s too much.

I thought I was out of writing possibilities at my birthday, Feb. 4. But I had a few more ideas, especially since Lent and Easter were on the way. But Easter is over; resurrection is here. Now seems to be a good time to say farewell.

I’ve said two or three times in the past that it was time for me to stop writing, that I was replete with depletion, but it didn’t stick. Some event or idea or memory would come along, and it just seemed right to share it.

Now the only events in my life are cups of coffee. Each one is precious to me, but provides nothing unique to share. My ideas and memories… Nothing new there. I’ve written about all of them, many times.

And energy? Just a shimmering recollection. I wouldn’t even have those cups of coffee if I didn’t make them strong enough so that they can walk from the kitchen to my sofa by themselves.

So now, you’ll just have to go elsewhere to hear shopworn stories, and irrelevant ideas, and memories of times so remote that no one today can believe that they were even real.

But sharing those shopworn stories and irrelevant ideas and remote memories has been so meaningful to me in my years of winter, and I thank you for reading them.

It would be reasonable, of course, for you to say, “Why Christ in Winter? Yes, it’s clear that you’ve been writing in the winter of your years, but why Christ in the column title? You’ve never said much about Christ.”

 Well, I’ve never said much about Jesus--even though I have a great interest in Jesus--but every searching and wondering and remembering and rejoicing word has been about Christ, for “Christ is God’s eternal answer to the world’s eternal why.”

Now, deep in winter,

fondly, farewell.

Grace and peace,

John Robert McFarland