The old man

The old man walked down Lincoln Road by himself, not even Scruffy to accompany him for the late Sunday afternoon stroll. Chet wouldn’t have wanted his old dog with him, even if he hadn’t died of kidney failure two weeks earlier, even if the dog had always been man-bait in Chet’s younger years. Chet wanted to cruise the area while all the strapping Latinos in speedos and on rollerblades were out and about.

His body ached and pinched at every joint. He couldn’t blame it on the weather, beautiful even for Miami Beach’s October. Just a week ago, his orthopaedist had told him, you’ve got to have a hip replacement. And his chiropractor had shaken his head when twisting Chet into a pretzel – things just don’t stretch the way they used to, Chet told him. Mightn’t you try yoga, the young thing had said, but he didn’t know anything about bodies Chet’s age. And his internist had put Chet on Lipitor, your cholesterol’s too high, we have to be worried for the heart. The only thing that seemed to work these days was his appetite, still the same as it was when Chet was twenty-two.

Despite the padding around his stomach, Chet thanked God, he could still see his penis when he urinated. And he didn’t look all that bad in jeans and a white t-shirt, did he? That’s what he’d worn this Sunday. No, not bad at all. So then why did the prepubescent Latinos in speedos and on rollerblades look right through him when he passed by them? Even the hunky daddies who were no more than a few years younger ... or the same ... or even older ... even they looked right through him. As if he were a glass prism, but without the refraction.

Chet wished he could be twenty-two again. Hell, he wished he could be thirty again. But no one seemed to understand just how difficult life was for a man once he turned thirty-seven.