Better Days

“Well, well, well,”

“What?”

“After fifteen years, you’re back? Just like that?”

“Why are you so angry?”

“Why am I angry? For fifteen years you left me forgotten in a folder with the rest of your feverish brain’s outpourings. And now all of a sudden you’re rereading me? And don’t think I don’t know why!”

“Okay. I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because you’re dry. The old creative juices aren’t flowing lately, are they? So you thought you’d come back here to me, sort of like stealing diamonds and gold from a wreck at the bottom of the sea, except in your case, it’s more like costume jewelry.

But we’ll put that aside for now. Let’s catch up. You were all depressed back then,  mumbling about the end of the road, curves ahead, uncertainty of life…yet you’re still here aren’t you? Still here and now you’re poaching from me.”

“Yes. I’m still here, and you’re me so I can’t poach from myself, can I? I just want to refresh my memory, is all. ”

“I’m only you up to a point. But never mind the attempted logic. Did you realize that you are now considerably older than the people you wrote about, including me?

“I know how old I am. You don’t have to remind me.”

“Maybe not, but apparently I do have to remind you about your angst, since you’re the one who came looking here. Consider it a sort of trigger warning for you. You called the piece you wrote back then, Better Days. Remember?”

“Of course I remember; it began with, ‘These aren’t the best days of my life.’”

“I’m impressed. You’re a decade and a half older but the old brain neurons seem to be firing pretty well.”

“So kind of you. You going to read or what?

“Right! Sit back and listen to me…or yourself, whichever. But actually, a decade and a half on, there should be some changes in you. This old voice isn’t yourself now. Or it shouldn’t be, or what the heck have you been up to all this time? But I digress. Here we were, you and me, back in the day, as they say. And notice how with so few words I force you to confront your issues. I was quite proud of that. Ready? A deep breath and…

“These aren’t exactly the best days of my life.”

“Because?”

“Because I’ve had better days. Happy days. Days that glittered and shimmered.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s T.S. Elliot’s smoke filled late afternoons…

“And how’s that going for you?”

“It can be lived with. Up to a point. No one was ever promised eternal happiness. When things were going good for me, I knew that somewhere, some other guy was down. So now it’s my turn. Fair enough. Only …”

“Only?”

“Only you need a little relief sometimes, you know. To catch your breath. To coast a bit before the next onslaught. When you don’t get that it gets really tough.”

“What do you do? To get through?”

“I used to focus beyond the present. Look down the road and ‘round the next bend. Try to see what might be up ahead. Something good maybe. Bit of reversal of fortune, maybe. A better relationship. Maybe a new one. Kids doing okay after all the growing up angst. You know what I mean? Just to catch a break or two. A warm breeze, a good sun. Blue lake, maybe. Something for the eyes, something for the heart.”

“You used to? And now?”

“Now? Funny thing. You listen to people talking. You hear about some guy, maybe 55,  Maybe younger, dies of cancer. Brain tumor. Massive heart attack. The guy next to you says he’s 73. Complains about his constant ache, that he seems to walk a little slower every day. Says his wife died last summer and now he’s a little lost…maybe a lot lost. Says he’s developed an allergy to his house. Kind of a funny line, but you don’t laugh. Maybe a knowing head nod. It can be sad getting old. ‘Thank God,’ you think, ‘that you have time on your side.’”

“And then one day it hits you. Never mind hits - it gobsmacks you. You’re maybe sixty five. People call you sir and hold doors for you. You belong with the old crowd. That guy 55 died of cancer? It could’ve been you. You could be dead now, going on eight, ten years. And now you’re closing in on George’s 73. So then you finally come to realize the very worst thing about old age. It’s not the health issues, not losing your hair, not your teeth, not the always achy back...”

“It’s…?”

“ It’s that you’re running out of time. Patience is great, and maybe you’ve been patient your whole life: You used to say, if not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after that. But now you realize there’s a limited supply of days after that. You’re closing in on that bend in the road, and you still can’t tell if there’s anything good when you round it. You don’t know if the road even continues. Could be a dead end; rockslide; highway under construction; pay toll! Maybe before life resurrects you, you run out of road.

In the meantime your brain kicks in and you start thinking about what you had that you might never have again. Or worse, what you never had, and maybe you never will. I’m not being greedy here. I’m not talking about a luxo cabin cruiser. I’m talking about small pleasures: knowing the kids are good and want to call you; having a few friends to share a beer with; picnic on a sunny day, a swim in the ocean... but when nothing like that happens…”

“It can be tough; I get it. But there’s still hope, no?”

“Is there? You see an attractive woman: you think maybe you’ll chat her up. She calls you sir. So maybe you won’t ever again experience the feeling of a woman wrapping you in her arms. Now that makes old age a tough sell. Even if you’re guaranteed another fifteen, twenty years, what if you can’t fill them up with something soft, something tender? What if you don’t have a little companionship? Someone close-by on a grey day, a cold, dark night? You used to say it’ll come. If not today, tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. But suddenly, you realize it’s been a long time since you knew that feeling. It’s been a long time and it didn’t come ’round. And now there’s that curve up ahead and you’re clocking 65. Then you get it: you suddenly, really understand that maybe it won’t ever come again. It doesn’t make for good days.”

“I guess it doesn’t. So what now?”

“Now? I don’t know, to be truthful. Just keep going I guess.”

“Just keep going? That’s it? You know that time has passed don’t you? That you’re way past 55 or 65 or even George’s seventy three. And that’s it! Really?”    

“I know how old I am, thanks. I hate that the number so I say, ‘I’m turning fourscore.’”

“What? Like in Lincoln’s Gettysburg address: ‘Fourscore and seven years ago?’”

“Exactly. Fourscore and trying to negotiate the additional seven.”

“Well, the good part is that the road didn’t collapse under you and you navigated the bends so you had to have learned something. C’mon, think. What are you going to write?”

“I don’t know. But anyway, you’re me, or part of me, so I don’t have to tell you. You’ll know.”

“Actually, you’re wrong. Your thoughts are just a bunch of neurons and chemicals jangling together. They have no substance; they don’t exist until you write them down. Then I’ll know. And if you don’t write them down, you die and they’re gone forever. Woosh. Atomized. So you need to write. What were you looking for when you came snooping, my little, self- plagiarizer? Think! Feel! What were these past years for you? What do you need or want going into the home stretch – so to speak. Free associate: twenty five words max.”

“A decade plus in twenty five words or less? Okay! Remember that Dickens wrote, ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times?’ Some of those years have been the worst of times; I’m not sure any of them would be the best of times, but there have been some good times too. ”

“You learn anything from that?”

“That instead of thinking of life being the roadblock, maybe sometimes life helps you to get around the roadblock? That as long as you’re traveling, try not to focus on the final destination. It’s coming at you anyway, so live the ride? Maybe to be kind to the people you meet along the way. They’re your fellow travelers. Make someone smile and the reward is the smile you get on your own face? How’m I doing?

“Guess you’ve decided it’s time to be positive; that’s a new voice for you for sure. Just watch that you don’t start sounding like Chicken Soup for the Soul. Keep writing, and when you’re done, don’t just dump it back in the folder never again to see the light of day. Take it out from time to time. Read it, change it. Live it. Finally, send it out into the world.”