The Old Man a work of Fiction by brezhnev (James Offer) This is a story spawned partly from true events and partly from my imagination. International aromas hovered around my nostrils as I completed another circuit of the packed food hall, my chicken nuggets (questionable in their protein content) increasing in their tepidness while my heavily ice-cubed Coke (questionable in its Coke content) melted into a weak, light brown fluid. The hall was atypically packed for lunch time; conversations blasting away like guns on a battlefield all around me. Somewhere in the background some anomaly of a music played, driven into submission by the weight of six-hundred hungry consumers. Finally I saw a seat; next to some old man. He was gently finishing off some hamburger and a coffee in a white Styrofoam cup. He was nearly finished, so I leant against a near wall anxiously. I waited to pounce like an insane bourgeois vulture on the seats and tables that, through my purchase of greasy fast food, I was entitled to eat on, smoke on and leave my rubbish behind on. As the man masticated the lipid-infected bun with a painstakingly slow pace (ëso I donít damage my dentures, son!,í I could see him saying), I scanned around for possible threats to my table. As the man continued to relish his slowness, I noticed his strange dress. On his feet were two brown slippers, remnants of a Christmas many decades ago. From there, his legs were in a pair of faded pyjama pants, blue polka-dots just visible. The arms that supported the frail burger with frailer hands were covered by a ragged brown jumper that his head popped out of like a turtle, the skin on his neck convoluted and wrinkled. This guy had to be an insane rambler; probably on his way to spot some trains or convert the metropolis single-handedly to his religion of choice. Or just running around shouting abuse like the ìgood olí days.î This was getting ridiculous. He had placed his burger down on the table and was sipping eloquently at his coffee like a king or something. As he sat there watching with little interest the noon news on the televisions high up on the walls, a fat business man and two Japanese tourists were starting to show interested in my table. The chicken nuggets on my plate, meanwhile, were growing lukewarm and moist. ëStuff ití, I muttered under my voice and marched over to him. ëExcuse me, do you mind if I grab a seat? This place is full as and I canít find a table anywhere.í He looked up at me with these huge, globular eyes while he swished his coffee around in his mouth. After swallowing, his wrinkled mouth answered me. ëIf you really want to, son. Although I wonít be finished for a whileí. ëThanksí, I answered flatly with uninhibited gratitude as I sat down and started drowning my lukewarm, moist nuggets in my pitiful tray of tomato sauce. ëYouíre lucky, you know.í The old man said, his posture assuming authority as he tapped his nearly empty coffee cup on the table. ëI am?í I replied half-way through my third nugget. ëYep. Donít usually let anyone sit here.í ëWhyís that?í I asked, sipping my pseudo-Coke. ëItís a game isnít it.í ëWhat is?í This guy was an insane rambler. ëThis. Everyday, without fail, I come in here at about eleven. I order the same meal: a Fillet-O-Fish with beef and a cup of coffee with ice-blocks. Thereís hardly anyone in here then. An hour later my fun begins as lunch-hour starts, and I just sit hereÖdrinking my coffee slowly while fools like yourself wait for me to finish.í ëWhy the Fillet-O-Fish with beef?í I asked, bewildered. ëHell, how old are you boy? Everyone knows how much fun it is making life hell for those little fifteen year-olds chained to the cash registers. To do it properly, you read their name badges and call ëem by a name very similar... like ìKatieî for ìKateî or ìBobbyî for ìBobî. If Iím feeling really bored, Iíll go back and make a fuss about the beef I ordered being in my Fillet-O-Fish burger. And of course Iíve always got my handy thermos to top up my cup. The unwary who wait for me to finish think I have some perpetual coffee-cup thing happening. Goddam thatís funny!í Just then I noticed a wire descending from his ear. ëYou must be really bored.í I said, raising my voice. ëHell, son! Donít shout! I ëaint deaf. I probably hear better than you do!í The old man retorted. ëWhatís with the hearing-aid then?í ëOh, this. I eavesdrop with this. See that couple over there...í he pointed them out to me. ëBefore you interrupted me, they were having a fight because the boyfriend stole some chips from the girlfriendís plate. Hmph. Some of the stories Iíve heard... I should write a book.í ëSo you do all this for fun, then?í I asked, finishing of my last nugget. ëHell, son, youíre quicker than you smell. Iím eighty-four years old and a widower. What else can I do with my life? I ëaint gonna sit around some damned retirement village playing Yahtzee ëtill my prostate becomes malignant. To hell with that. After all the shit that everyone gives me at this age, I decided a long time ago to annoy everyone as much as possible before I finally cark it. Look at the clothes I wear. I just donít give two shits. You may not believe this, but Iíve got a degree in bio-chemistry and I can speak three languages. I worked in the same job for forty years and have about one-hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Iím as active as I was the day I turned eighteen. But then a few years back my damn kids threw me in the Goddam retirement village.í ëThatís how this all started, you know. Damn kids. I work my arse off to feed the blighters for twenty years and what gratitude to I get? Six hyperactive Grandchildren who think my Valium are smarties and a trip once to the beach every year. The first Christmas I was in the home they came and took me back to one of their houses for Christmas dinner. All they did the whole day was patronise me. Theyíd only give me one glass of Champagne. ìWouldnít want you to get drunk, Dad...î Thatís what my son said. After giving me a box of coat hangers for Christmas, of course I wanted to get drunk. So that day, I started the real fun of my life. When I got home that night, I laughed like Iíd never laughed before. The treasure trove of remote controls, tap heads and car keys I stole from my own kids kept me cackling for weeks after. Even to this day I prank call ëem at least once a fortnight.í I had nothing to say, which was just as well as I couldnít get a word in edge-wise anyway. ëSay, ever been in a toilet and had no toilet paper?í I nodded. ëEver wondered why Coke machines were always out of order?í I nodded again. ëSat on a train seat and had chewing gum stuck to your pants?í Again, I nodded. ëHow about a public phone with two five-cent pieces jammed in the coin slot?í I nodded yet again. Triumphantly the old man announced: ëThat was me. People always look around suspecting some kid whose pants are to big and whose hat is around the wrong way and blame him. No one would dare suspect the poor, fragile innocent Senior Citizen reading the paper.í ëDonít you ever get caught?í I inquired, the old manís eccentric enigma growing quickly. ëYeah, on occasion. The worst time was when my license was about to expire because ìI was too oldî. The day before, I got into my car and Kamikazied a power-pole. Hmph. The police said I caused a black-out for four hours.í ëWhy?í ëHell, son! When you live in the retirement village I live in, you get jealous of those smart-arse younginís with their twenty-four hour electricity.í ëDid you get charged?í I asked, every answer he gave more questions arising. ëNope. I did a beautiful job on them. They took me off to the hospital and treated me like an unfortunate decrepit senior. I didnít even have a scratch on me! The classic thing was that the insurance company reimbursed my car!í The old man laughed at this hysterically, his cackle breaking into a cough in beautiful senile timing. ëTell you what. Guard my table until lunch hourís over. I might go and disorganise some books in a book store or set off a fire alarm. Havenít done that in a while!í As the man walked away, laughing, I gladly guarded his table. I looked forward to getting old. Created on Fri, 15 Aug 1997 and last modified on Sat, 20 Dec 1997.

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