The Old Guy in the Park
Another Edition of Six Minute Fiction
Today is one of those spectacularly beautiful spring days you wish would never end. The soft, gentle breeze is blowing through the few strands of gray hair I have left, the trees are whispering sweet nothings, the ducks are chattering in their incomprehensible duck language, the sun is bright, warm and embracing. I am mesmerized by the interplay of the ripples on the small pond.
Being in this beautiful park on a day such as this makes one appreciate the miracle of being alive. As I have aged, sometimes gracefully, sometimes not, I have been trying to not take these days for granted. We all know our days are numbered, we just do not know what the final number is.
I am sitting on a park bench, as usual, feeding the ducks, as usual, and minding my business, as usual. I like to surreptitiously study the faces of the people passing by, some are familiar, some are not. I suppose to them I am, “The Old Guy in the Park” or “The Old Duck Guy”, and they wouldn’t be wrong. I am an old guy who is always in the park, feeding the ducks. “Them’s the facts”, as my father used to say.
I would guess that often many people are too wrapped up in their own lives to even notice me sitting here. That’s fine by me, I don’t come here to meet and strike up conversations with people, anyway. I come here to interact with the world, the big, beautiful, natural world. Nature has much to offer and I like to take it all in, when I am able.
Sometimes I will choose a passerby at random and imagine a life story for him or her. For example, many times I’ve seen the same young woman pushing a stroller with two babies in it, and a young child hanging on to her tattered sweater or jacket sleeve. I pretend she lives a life of quiet desperation. She probably had to quit school to raise up her unexpected children. She feels trapped in a loveless marriage, as her husband, having never really grown up, runs around with his high school friends as if they were still seventeen years old. She loves her children but secretly wishes she could just cut loose and have fun like she used to. Now she spends her days and nights tending to crying babies. She has a long, difficult road ahead of her and she is not sure how much more of this she can take.
Across the way, I see another regular park visitor. I imagine him to be a big-time stockbroker who made major bucks and cashed out. He has always been a high achiever, an alpha, and is having trouble filling the void in his life. He misses the thrills his successes in business used to bring.
I would judge this man to be in his fifties, but he would not admit to that. He wants to project an image of youth and vitality. He wears a baseball cap backward to look cool, I guess, but he is really hiding his thinning hair. He has kept himself reasonably trim and he often wears clothes that make him look youthful and athletic. He makes several laps around the small pond with his rather slow-moving dog, scoping out the area for women to impress. He seems surprised when they are not impressed.
I cannot believe any smart young women would fall for his blatantly transparent ways, but I guess it could work often enough for him to keep doing it.
Then, down the paved, leaf-covered trail a bit, there’s a young fellow, maybe in his twenties, who, in my mind, is either a drug dealer or is looking to score for himself. Finally I settle on that he’s a dealer. He has narrow, furtive eyes, several days growth of beard, ragged jeans, formerly white athletic shoes, and a pull-over gray hoodie. Whenever I see him interacting with someone, I wonder if a drug deal is going down. Maybe he is hanging out in the park, waiting to meet his powerful drug connection. Perhaps they need to have a parley, because business has been down and he cannot pay what he owes. I hope he gets the money somewhere and fast. Major drug players are not known for their patience, I would presume.
I’ve noticed that I get lost in this dreamy reverie more and more often. But, so what? I tell myself I’ve got nothing but time. All the time in the world. I spend my days by the pond in the park, feeding the ducks, and daydream about the people who pass by because I enjoy it.
And, to be honest, I have nothing better to do. I am retired, alone, and I’ve burned too many bridges. So, I take my pleasures where and when I can.
It’s not a bad life, really. I do what I want and do not have to answer to anybody. I’m just The Old Guy in the Park.
Suddenly, I am aware of being enveloped in a powerful, but mysterious sensation of . . . dread. In an instant, I have gone from reveling in the moment, to having an overwhelming sense of the end being very near. You know, “The End”. My end.
How could this be? Obviously, I know I am closer to the end of my life than the beginning, but why now? I am healthy, I should have more time than this. I know it was wrong to waste so much of my life on trivialities, and on being unhappy and angry. I should have treated people better. I always meant to change my ways, but never quite got around to it.
Oh my gosh, what if there really is a God? And an afterlife? I’ve spent my whole time on this planet denying the existence of a supreme being, but what if I was wrong? Should I try to reach out to an unknown God before I, uh . . . go? I don’t even know how to do that.
My mind is racing, my heart is pounding. There are so many things I haven’t done, so many places I haven’t been, so much I haven’t learned, so much love I haven’t given and received.
I wish I could change the mistakes I’ve made. But, in life, there are no do-overs. Is death is like that, too? Am I about to find out?
I don’t want to go, I’m not ready. I need more time. I can’t go, not now, I have too many regrets, too many loose ends. Why did I waste so much of my life?
But, it’s too late.
I hope it doesn’t hurt.
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