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This DISCLAIMER pertains to all stories in the A 60-YEAR-OLD-MAN WALKING section of this website. Regardless of whether the story is prefaced with "Fiction" or "Non-Fiction."
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. |
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Friday, December 18, 2020
You are killing me.
Do you care?
A creative mind without a pen or keyboard is a dying mind.
Do you win when I'm gone?
If my heart stops beating?
Stress is a killer.
That is an undeniable truth
I know you don't care, you can't, you are Money, and Money cares only about one thing: itself.
I’m broke. You want what I have left.
I can't sleep.
I'm afraid to speak.
I fear dying alone.
Do you know what it feels like when depression swallows hope?
I’m upset. I’m not allowed to be.
Money always wins.
You are killing me.
Do you care?
A creative mind without a pen or keyboard is a dying mind.
Do you win when I'm gone?
If my heart stops beating?
Stress is a killer.
That is an undeniable truth
I know you don't care, you can't, you are Money, and Money cares only about one thing: itself.
I’m broke. You want what I have left.
I can't sleep.
I'm afraid to speak.
I fear dying alone.
Do you know what it feels like when depression swallows hope?
I’m upset. I’m not allowed to be.
Money always wins.
SNATCH + RUN
Friday, October 2, 2020
For whatever reason, I have been gifted with anything but a boring life. On Tuesday, I had lifesaving emergency surgery. I know, dramatic. But maybe not, when the doctor says before the surgery, “There is a 1 in a 100 chance you will not survive.” I think DRAMATIC needs to be in ALL CAPS.
I spoke with a friend, he suggested I should have asked the doctor, “How many has it been since the last “1” in of a "100" occurred? If the good doc said 98—then the drama would increase to RUN.”
Anyway, I survived, I’m okay, the surgery was excruciating; two medical professionals restrained me by holding my arms down. I cried profusely. But, I survived, and not making light of addiction, I kicked the fentanyl out of my system after a floaty night. I repeat I am good, fully recovered, and something that had been tormenting me for years—has been removed!
Thanks for all the well wishes.
Anyway (I think I might overuse, anyway), yesterday, Friday.
I was out for a few socially distanced pops with friends. (Seriously, a closed bubble, well-spaced, in an establishment, doing an outstanding job of spacing).
My friend with 2 G’s in his name, his backpack was resting on a covered pool table. A sketchy young guy entered the establishment, grabbed the bag, and started running. 2G and I followed in hot-60-year-old pursuit. We caught him a half-block away. I like to think I flew through the air like a Superhero; in reality, I sort of hovered upright, slightly tilted forward, in the real reality, he tripped. I kept the Perp from lunging at 2G, somehow socially distancing from him, with my booming voice.
That was fun to type.
We got the backpack back, and the Perp started chanting, “I’m in trouble. I need help.”
Empathy kicked in. “What’s wrong? How can we help?”
“Money. Give me Money. Give me $20.”
“No. You are stealing things from people, and now you want Money, no. Can we call someone?”
“$19. $18. $17.”
“No.”
“I just got out of the hospital. I’m bipolar. I have issues.”
He was dripping sweat. He looked broken. I felt bad for his situation.
“$16. $15.”
“We are not going to give you Money. Beat it.”
He sprung to his feet with the utterance of "beat it" and assumed a boxer-like-pose, like those in silent movies. I tried not to chuckle.
“Look, I’m not going to fight you. Stay away from me.”
He shuffled from side-to-side on his toes, fists clenched, 10-feet away from me.
“Just beat it.”
He threatened to smash me.
I lowered my voice and boomed, I can’t remember what I roared, but it was embarrassingly loud and powerful.
Did you hear it?
About 6:40 PM yesterday. I’m sure it echoed throughout the Lower Mainland.
I wanted to get him help, but he decided he should beat it, not before counting down.
“$14. $13… $2. $1.”
“No.”
“You’re a faggot.”
I chuckled. Then I pondered: WOW it took him to $1 to yell faggot. You’d think he’d have pulled that out at $17 or $16, but no, $1, I am sarcastically offended.
The MORAL OF THE STORY
I think COVID has increased the number of desperate people roaming the streets—so—keep your belongings close at hand.
Have a great Saturday. Maybe I’ll stay away from people today.
I want my Superhero name to be BOOMER.
What do you think?
Friday, October 2, 2020
For whatever reason, I have been gifted with anything but a boring life. On Tuesday, I had lifesaving emergency surgery. I know, dramatic. But maybe not, when the doctor says before the surgery, “There is a 1 in a 100 chance you will not survive.” I think DRAMATIC needs to be in ALL CAPS.
I spoke with a friend, he suggested I should have asked the doctor, “How many has it been since the last “1” in of a "100" occurred? If the good doc said 98—then the drama would increase to RUN.”
Anyway, I survived, I’m okay, the surgery was excruciating; two medical professionals restrained me by holding my arms down. I cried profusely. But, I survived, and not making light of addiction, I kicked the fentanyl out of my system after a floaty night. I repeat I am good, fully recovered, and something that had been tormenting me for years—has been removed!
Thanks for all the well wishes.
Anyway (I think I might overuse, anyway), yesterday, Friday.
I was out for a few socially distanced pops with friends. (Seriously, a closed bubble, well-spaced, in an establishment, doing an outstanding job of spacing).
My friend with 2 G’s in his name, his backpack was resting on a covered pool table. A sketchy young guy entered the establishment, grabbed the bag, and started running. 2G and I followed in hot-60-year-old pursuit. We caught him a half-block away. I like to think I flew through the air like a Superhero; in reality, I sort of hovered upright, slightly tilted forward, in the real reality, he tripped. I kept the Perp from lunging at 2G, somehow socially distancing from him, with my booming voice.
That was fun to type.
We got the backpack back, and the Perp started chanting, “I’m in trouble. I need help.”
Empathy kicked in. “What’s wrong? How can we help?”
“Money. Give me Money. Give me $20.”
“No. You are stealing things from people, and now you want Money, no. Can we call someone?”
“$19. $18. $17.”
“No.”
“I just got out of the hospital. I’m bipolar. I have issues.”
He was dripping sweat. He looked broken. I felt bad for his situation.
“$16. $15.”
“We are not going to give you Money. Beat it.”
He sprung to his feet with the utterance of "beat it" and assumed a boxer-like-pose, like those in silent movies. I tried not to chuckle.
“Look, I’m not going to fight you. Stay away from me.”
He shuffled from side-to-side on his toes, fists clenched, 10-feet away from me.
“Just beat it.”
He threatened to smash me.
I lowered my voice and boomed, I can’t remember what I roared, but it was embarrassingly loud and powerful.
Did you hear it?
About 6:40 PM yesterday. I’m sure it echoed throughout the Lower Mainland.
I wanted to get him help, but he decided he should beat it, not before counting down.
“$14. $13… $2. $1.”
“No.”
“You’re a faggot.”
I chuckled. Then I pondered: WOW it took him to $1 to yell faggot. You’d think he’d have pulled that out at $17 or $16, but no, $1, I am sarcastically offended.
The MORAL OF THE STORY
I think COVID has increased the number of desperate people roaming the streets—so—keep your belongings close at hand.
Have a great Saturday. Maybe I’ll stay away from people today.
I want my Superhero name to be BOOMER.
What do you think?
PUNTED TO THE CURB
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su·per·vis·or
/ˈso͞opərˌvīzər/ noun
A supervisor is responsible for the productivity and actions of a small group of employees. The supervisor has several manager-like roles, responsibilities, and powers. ... As a member of management, a supervisor's main job is more concerned with orchestrating and controlling work rather than performing it directly. |
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dis·patch·er
/dəˈspaCHər/ noun
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syc·o·phant
/ˈsikəˌfant,ˈsikəfənt/ noun
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ob·se·qui·ous
/əbˈsēkwēəs/ adjective
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1
MARCH
I am not allowed to talk about this.
I am not allowed to talk about this.
2
I'm not allowed to talk about this.
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3
August
I'm not allowed to talk about this.
I'm not allowed to talk about this.
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4
September
Almost My Life
Almost My Life
I had emergency surgery—removing a benign tumour. The surgery was lifesaving, but the recovery was rapid—only two days.
5
My Health Care
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I'm not allowed to talk about this.
6
Friendships
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7
35 Pounds
I have walked more than 2,000 miles.
8
My Dear Friend Scotty (click)
This is the most important of all the things I lost this year. Infinitely.
At the age of 51, one of my best friends died.
I let my friends at the company know this. They never responded. I had also let them know of my life-saving surgery. They never responded.
Why?
I’m sure it is because of the legal issues and them trying to paint my career as only “a salesperson.”
But are we not all humans?—and I know, if any of the critical “managerial people” in the company had a life event, I, with 100% certainty, would have the bleeping decency to show I care.
“Why?”
“Because at the end of the day, we are all human.”
This is the most important of all the things I lost this year. Infinitely.
At the age of 51, one of my best friends died.
I let my friends at the company know this. They never responded. I had also let them know of my life-saving surgery. They never responded.
Why?
I’m sure it is because of the legal issues and them trying to paint my career as only “a salesperson.”
But are we not all humans?—and I know, if any of the critical “managerial people” in the company had a life event, I, with 100% certainty, would have the bleeping decency to show I care.
“Why?”
“Because at the end of the day, we are all human.”
9
I'm not allowed to talk about this.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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I'M TERRIFIED ABOUT THE MY FUTURE
DO YOU CARE?
"A STRANGE FORMAT"
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OCTOBER 30 (A PRESCRIPTION IS READY FOR PICK UP) - I CAN'T AFFORD IT
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TUMULT
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up·set·ing
/inˈsensədiv/ adjective
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A PUBLISHING DEAL IN THE NOT-TOO-DISTANT FUTURE (?)
WHICH STORY WILL BE PICKED UP FIRST (?)
WHICH STORY WILL BE PICKED UP FIRST (?)
I WANT THIS TO BE OVER
I WANT TO GET ON WITH MY LIFE
I’M RIGHTFULLY SCARED
BEING PUT ON THE SIDELINE AT MY AGE
ARGHHHH...
I WANT TO GET ON WITH MY LIFE
I’M RIGHTFULLY SCARED
BEING PUT ON THE SIDELINE AT MY AGE
ARGHHHH...
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A bird descended from the cloudless sky, swathing by the suffering man, checking to see if he was still breathing. The man was broken, but not defeated, scared, but not shattered. The bird swooped by croaking in a sideward approach to ascertain if it was time to dive in for a feast, skeptically looking off down the shrubbery and into the abyss. It seemed the sweeping swath of the bird’s flight expected to find coyotes lurking, hidden in the darkness of the looming dusk. The man lay in depression, unsure of what had just happened, questioning why a corporate juggernaut on the wings of a ravenous bird would lay him down in the deafening silence of an unknown future. Before the man could find the strength to rise, the vulture, now in the company of coyotes, ushered another man, a man with eight-years of service out the door. Masking the move under the guise of what they’re allowed to do, with little concern for the impact their decision would have on a man lacking the fortitude to fight.
The once depressed man found the fortitude to struggle to his feet; a feat made possible because of years of life experience. The vulture soared northward returning to the catacomb of decision making (Head Office), lamenting on why, and how, the man could have possibly risen + why would a beaten down man, think he had any rights at all? The vulture would occasionally, fly by afterward, suggesting, if the man only listened to its croaks, everything could be worked out, if the man only looked past the vagueness of the offer. But why would the man bite, when after all, the vulture, in metaphor, had left the man to perish, and the vulture had scripted this entire story? Why? And why would the man trust anything the vulture discussed with its nepotistic wake (including a friend (?)) in an effort to make the man vulnerable once more — when he was never fully allowed into the nest? |
AT THE END OF THE DAY
I'M THE LITTLE FISH
I'M THE LITTLE FISH
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