An Old Man's Loss

The old man opens the door to his shadowy apartment. Flakes of paint slide the surface when it slams into place. The man mutters a curse quietly, shuffling his feet on the rough brown mat inside the frame and glares down at the green specks embedded between the rough, brown bristles. His back is hunched and although he is a tall man, his bones have worn down making him appear shrunken and the years of sun exposure show in the many age spots and deep wrinkles spread over his skin. He moves towards the small table in the kitchen and turns on the light. It casts a yellow glow strong enough to illuminate the rest of the flat but leaves the corners and hallway leading to the small bedroom in shadow. In the man's right hand he carries a brown paper bag that is as wrinkled as his high forehead that contains a six pack of Samuel Adams beer that will keep him company in the plaid arm chair for the next few hours. Setting the bag on the counter with a muffled clank, he moves laboriously around the small kitchen, smelling a jar of mayo to see if it's gone bad before slapping it and a slice of turkey onto two pieces of wheat bread. Without cutting the sandwich he takes a large bite with a mouthful of crooked teeth and reaches one gnarled finger towards the answering machine. Beep. You have 0 new messages. The old man finishes his sandwich and shuffles towards his plaid arm chair, bringing the bag and a bottle opener with him. Its Super bowl Sunday; the Ravens didn't make the cut again this year but the Colts did. The man cracks open his beer and sinks more deeply into the chair feeling the springs creak with his weight.

Touchdown Colts.

The game is off to a good start. The quarterback this year is good. After a few moments the old man finds his eyes wandering; for the first time, football cannot hold his attention. Something is missing; he forgets a lot these days. His hand reaches in his pocket but his car keys are there for once. He turns his head towards the door but sees that he managed to shut the dead-bolt tonight when he came in. The man sets his beer down on the side table without a coaster letting the moisture build and run down the sides of the bottle onto the unprotected wood face. Groaning heavily, he heaves himself out of the chair and moves down the hall into his room. Switching on the light in the bathroom he sees that nothing is out of place, but his panic still entraps him. He walks more frantically into the bedroom and ripping through the top drawer he sees that his stash of rolled up bills is still nestled between two pairs of wool socks. The ring of the phone breaks through the cheers and the sound of the announcer blaring from the TV in the other room but the man ignores it. He checks once more around the room to see if anything looks out of place: the baseball cap he wore early is still at the end of the bed where he left it; a dark maroon guitar occupies the corner to the left of the bed-- dust coats the strings, the arthritis in the his fingers gives him too much pain to play anymore; and the glassy eyes of a fake alligator head stare down at him from the shelf above the oak dresser. The man huffs back down the hallway. The red light of the answering machine blinks. Beep. You have 1 new message.

"Hi dad," A woman's voice says tentatively. The old man's ears prick up at her voice. "You're probably watching the game... I know nothing can distract you from football but I wanted to remind you that the engagement party is this Wednesday at five. I haven't heard back from you yet but give me a call and Ben or I can come pick you up from the airport, you should have gotten your ticket yesterday.....well, go Colts!...I love you Dad. Call me back soon." Beep. End of new messages. The old man moves back from the machine and looks around at the empty walls. Back on the side table by the arm chair an envelope lays open with a white card protruding out of it next to a blue airline ticket. The man returns to his chair and pulls the card out of the envelope.

"You are cordially invited to the Engagement party of Hannah Lee Breyer to Maxwell Anthony Friss at 5 PM
on the evening of Wednesday, February 10^th, 2020. The reception will be held at The Hunting Lodge Country Club, 45 West Oak Street, Stonington, Connecticut."
Flicking the card absentmindedly between his fingers, a glint of light reflected off of something within the partially opened drawer of the side table distracts the old man's attention. Reaching over, he slides the drawer open to find the culprit to be the glass of a picture frame half buried beneath a cracked CD case, several gum wrappers and gas receipts. The man brushes the piles of clutter from the picture and sets it in his lap. His face is mirrored up at him but in the picture it is with fewer wrinkles and surrounded by five others. A little boy and girl with light blonde hair and tanned skin have their arms wrapped around one of his legs which then were not shriveled and skinny but muscular and strong. A long, lean woman is at his side and next to her a dark haired boy and girl a few years older than the other two have their arms wrapped around each other and her. The old man's eyes do not leave the picture for a moment, but then he sets it upright on the side table facing the TV. His hand reunites with the slippery glass of the beer bottle and he takes a long swig before plunking it down again on the table. The noise of the spectators grows and focusing back on the game the old man is once again immersed in its action. Blue images shine off the dusty picture on the side table next to the beer bottle and the old man once again sinks into his plaid arm chair.