Life As We Know It

"How old are you?"

"Hmmm," I hum in a sigh.

I hate answering the question but he's older than me so what the Hell, "Sixty-One."

"Well, I'm sixty-nine," he continues ... though he looks far older to me ... sadder ... tired ...

He talks as I consider him sitting in the air conditioned cab of his very large white pick up truck ... the kind of heavy duty vehicle that's never hauled anything that Americans love so much.

"Any way, I'm upside down on the house and have to sell it for more than anyone's going to pay ... I took out a reverse mortgage seven years ago and it's maxed ... so I have to make the money to live till I die ... which I don't want to do."

"That sucks," I say, having no idea how else to respond ... even with two Master's Degrees and a lifetime of counseling experience.

"Yeah," he sighs suddenly looking even older ... sadder ... more tired.

"You got your boat picked out?" he asks changing the subject.

"Sarah's working on all that but ... no ... we're stuck for a bit on that ... crazy, unforeseen things and greedy people who want more than they've already taken."

"Sarah runs things doesn't she?" he laughs ... "but she lost her job!"

"Yeah ... well ... the Alzheimer Association forgot how much they need her."

"Is that the baby?" he inquires noticing for the first time Che sucking on her pacifier while standing in her stroller watching us.

I pick our ten month up who's smiling flashing the four teeth.

"The fact is Micheal," he plows backwards, "I can't afford to live here and don't have the money to go somewhere else to die."

There is no sound other than the sucking noises Che makes with the pink pacifier.

"I've read all your books," he changes the subject again and I know damn well he's lying because he's only talked about the one about Tybee Island.

"You should write a new book about being sixty-one raising a ... how old is she ... two?"

"Ten months."

"Oh, she looks older ... anyway you should write one about being old and raising a young one."

"I did that with the other kids," I answer putting Che back in the stroller," I'd rather spend time with her than write ... writing only got me books published and contrary to what most think, there's not a lot of money in it."

"Well," he huffs, suddenly miffed, "it'd be a terrific read."

"You gonna have any more kids?"

Horrified he slams the air conditioned white truck into drive, "ME? No ... HELL NO!"

"Yeah I'm not sure there's much a market for what I'm doing."

"It'd be great," he says driving to his unsold home.

Che stands in her stroller turned around to face me, sucking the pink pacifier with blue eyes blazing in the thousand hues of Aquila.

"He's a dick," I explain.

Our baby turns and dances in the stroller facing forward, signifying, "Let's roll Daddy."

So we head to the Beach for a swim before home for dinner with Sarah and our girls.