I am no longer fifty, which means I am in my fifties, and I can’t believe much less completely fathom that, but I understand math and numbers, so I know it is true. All too true. In my mind, I can still do things, like play soccer and run for miles. I can remember when I hit a thru ball to Bloomstine running in the corner; he did a step over, spun around, and then crossed the ball towards a heavily marked Hampson, who did a dummy, and since I continued my run, there I was slotting the ball in the far corner and racing to the sidelines, sliding into our team bench because I had just scored the goal that advanced us to the next round. Victory over George Fox. Thirty or so years ago. I will never forget that moment. Look at me now. I can’t do those things anymore. I can’t do anything remotely remarkable anymore. Look at me now.
I stand in line at St Bread with my walking partner. In front of us, a cute college co-ed in baby blue yoga pants laughs into her phone, no doubt, capturing the experience for her followers. Behind us, a young kid types furiously into his device, while a man in his thirties with earbuds concentrates on a popular podcast. They don’t see me. Not at all. I am invisible. I do not exist, and not because I am old per se, though that is part of it, but because they are lost in their digital selves.
When they are next in line to order, they pause, look over the menu, and try to decide, but they can’t, at least, not right away. My walking partner and I always wonder, but we know, they may have had all the time in the world to decide, but they live in the present, not the future, or even the past. Like us. They wait until they get to the counter before looking at the menu.
After an eternity, the college co-ed orders her twenty-dollar breakfast sandwich and latte combo. What must it be like? I am a bit envious of her and the guy behind me because they are young, and they have three decades to live to get where I am, which is so much time to dream and redream, time to edit, cut, and revise their lives. And sure, we all do, and we all can, but at this age, my age, it is not the same. For one, in my twenties, I wasn’t about to spend that much on breakfast. On a CD, sure, back then I would gladly hand over a twenty for a little silvery disc from a favorite band and get a few dollars back. Never mind that is as much now as the average streaming package. Go figure. Sign of the times. Some things go up, and some go down. I don’t know if things are better or worse. It’s often too simplistic to generalize. It’s not an either/or. This isn’t Philosophy Class. I am not teaching Kierkegard. Although, there was a time when I wanted to be a college professor. And a professional soccer player. And a private detective like Magnum PI.
When I was in college, though, I wanted to be a writer. What do they want to do and be? Rich and Famous? Influencers? I wanted to write books. And I did write them; I wrote them all. But I never wrote the kind of thing just anyone would read. That was the problem. I am not marketable. And I knew that, and it’s okay. Most of the time. Because I know things, I make references to them, but they are obscure and lost, and off the beaten track, like an instrumental Pink Floyd Song that is known by one name and then another, depending on the album. And I like these little games I play in my head. Maybe that’s the difference. We used to imagine things, and now we let the world imagine them for us.
I am driving in my car, my girl in the passenger seat, the desert highway stretches out ahead of us like a dream, this rich, languid landscape waiting to be discovered, but in the rear-view mirror, there is a car behind us. It is still a bit far away, but I know it is getting closer, gradually nearer, and when we go around a bend it disappears, then reappears on those long, straight sections. It is late afternoon, the sultry sun starts to strip its vibrant yellow, teasing an orange as it drops, and the cerulean blue sky droops in rapid pursuit. And there we are, just driving, still chasing the next great show, be it here or there, or in Columbus, Ohio.
But that trailing car remains on my mind. I know I can’t outrun it, though there was a time I thought I could, but ten years got behind me, behind us, and now it is gone, though we keep on keeping on, playing the radio song. I glance at the exit number as if it means something, but it is just a number, right? 51.
Come in number 51…your time is up.
