George

reached his sixty-fourth birthday seven years ago. He realized, as older men do, that there were many, many places he had never been. His nurse Edna had left (not died, but left) seven years before George’s fateful birthday, after having endured his constant and bothersome complaining about his age for over four decades.

“I shall never be a teen-ager again,” he said regularly. “You see, Edna, neither of us will ever be able to say that we’re teen agers. Ever, ever again. I will never be twenty. It’s just…gone, Edna. Twenty is gone forever. Thirty…”

“For Christ’s sake, George, shut up. Here.” Edna handed George a small cup filled with his gold colored medicine. He drank it mechanically, as he had on so many mornings before. But afterwards, George did not shut up. He walked through his house mumbling to himself, becoming more bitter, more upset.

“When I was twelve, Edna,” he would repeated, “I never did the things that twelve year olds did. I never threw rocks at cars. Isn’t that a piss? I never had a tree fort. My God Edna, I was never part of a gang…”

“George! Please, please stop. Who cares! It’s too late!”

“I KNOW!” George screamed with his hands over his ears. “I know it’s too late, you miserable shrew! Don’t say that to me! You don’t understand. There’s no time left. I’ve wasted my time. I was given my time and I’ve lost it now.” His lament choked his voice as he struggled to catch his breath. He turned to his nurse. “You have, too. You’ve lost your time too and you don’t even know it. We sit in this house, every day, and we watch things. We watch television. We read books. And worse, we look out the window. We look at people who are moving out there. People who belong out there.” George began to cry. “Edna, I want to belong out there. Do you see them? Those young people? That boy, there. My God, he’s running, Edna. I don’t remember running. Can you imagine? I can’t remember running.” George paused a moment, and when he continued, his voice was nearly a whisper. “What if I never ran. I guess that’s possible, isn’t it? I bet that I never, ever ran in my life. And now, now it’s too late. Oh, oh no. I will die, and never have had the chance to run.”

“If you don’t shut up, and I mean right now, I will leave, George. I am not kidding. I can find another position just like that,” and Edna snapped her fingers.

“That little boy,” continued George without listening. “That wretched little boy, right outside,” George clenched his jaw to fight back an overpowering anger. His fury made him pound on the window as he considered the boy. “What is he thinking? Right now, what do you suppose he is thinking, Edna? Running and not knowing about me. Why am I watching him? Why am I watching?” George suddenly turned to his nurse. “He can do anything he wants, Edna, do you know that? He can do whatever the hell he wants. And I never did any of it. He is doing everything. He is living, Edna. That tittle bastard, thirteen years old is living, and I was never, never allowed to.”

“You are getting yourself all worked up again. And I can’t take it. I’ve had it, George. I can’t take this. I won’t let myself sit here next to you and listen anymore. You are ridiculous, George. Do you hear me? Absolutely ridiculous!” Edna’s volume had risen considerably, but George did not respond to her.

"Why must this watching go on, Edna? Why could I not just live? Just do things...like everybody else?” George hesitated but did not notice that Edna had left the room. “l thought that I was special,” George nodded at his own admission. “I thought that I was somehow different. I thought that I was being saved for something more. I didn’t do what everyone else was doing. I didn't live like everybody else, even though I wanted it so, so badly. But I did nothing. I sat back, and I watched and waited for something more and now, now I have done nothing!”

“That’s right, George. Now you have nothing.” Edna was at the front door. She was wearing her white nurse’s outfit that she hadn’t donned in years, and she was carrying a small bag. “George, for forty two years, I have listened to how sorry your life has been. I am so tired of it, George. You’ve regretting your life away. How am I expected to help you? I tried very hard, but nothing could make you change your mind. Sometimes I think that you are happier just being unhappy, George. I don’t have to live like this anymore. I won’t. And lately, you’ve begun to scare me. So, I am going somewhere else to live. That’s right George. Live. You are looking at someone who is about to 1ive. For the first time in forty two years!” And with that, Edna stepped outside, and slammed the door behind her.

"Oh, Edna, Edna. You can’t live. Not now. You’re too old,” George said, gratified.

During the seven years that followed the departure of his nurse, George had little else that gratified him. He did not acknowledge his next six birthdays. He continued to watch television, read books, and grow bitter. And he continued to watch children play outside his window.

“Damn them. Damn them! The poor fools. They could fall and be killed at any moment. They are risking everything by playing out there, dangerous like that. Those little brats are playing so dangerously. Unfair. They are so unfair!” George Winston also slept a great deal during those seven years. He would wake after a ten hour slumber to find his body protesting against movement. Through a great effort of will, effort he repeated every morning for seven years, he rose, showered, dressed, and ate a modest meal. After this, he took a nap. He found that his body and mind were simply happier when he was asleep, so he obliged them. During these several hours of sleep, he dreamt many things. On his sixty-fourth birthday, he dreamt about places.

He is late for a plane. He runs, with Edna, to catch it but he knows that he is too late. “Run, Edna! We must run to make it before we miss it!” They run together, to the ticket booth. “I’m sorry, Mr. Winston. The plane has already left.” “No! Are you certain? Can you check?” “Our departure board clearly shows a takeoff,” says the dream-ticket-agent at the dream-flight-counter. “Check! Damn it, please check,” insists George. “All right,” sighs the dream-agent as he calls the boarding gate. “Really? How many seats are available? I see!” The nameless, faceless man turns to George. “Mr. Winston, there is one seat available. I guess I was wrong and you were right! Isn't that a piss? But you must run to catch it. I do mean run.” “Come on, Edna. If there is one seat we can get two.” And the couple runs. “George, I can’t make it. It’s just too far,” Edna says. She slows to a lumbering jog. “You make it, George. You can make the flight. It’s so important that you get on board.” “No. Don’t be silly, Edna. Why on Earth would I want to go alone? You know how I hate being alone.” George grabs his nurse’s dream-hand and they dream-run with renewed strength. They run down corridor after corridor of dream-airport-terminal, all of them very white. They do not pass another person in what seems like miles of hal1way. Above, the girders, also white, connect to huge windows that allow an enormous amount of 1ight in. Together, they reach a double, white swinging door and crash through to the outside where a large plane is just firing its engines. The ladder to its front door is being removed. “Wait! We’re here. You can’t take that away, we’re here!” yells George. The man who is withdrawing the ladder, replaces it and allows Mr. Winston and his nurse of forty two years to board. When they are inside, they are issued seats next to each other. “Where are we going, George?” Edna asks him, excited, nervous.

George’s sleep was disturbed, and he awoke. “Where was I going?” he asked himself. “Who knows? I'm getting older, that’s for sure.” George was quite aware that this day was not like the others that preceded it. This day, George turned sixty four and his life took a drastic turn.

It began like the others (apart from his vivid recollection of a dream he had had) with his internal debate about getting out of bed. Finally, he gathered his resolve and stood up. After his morning ritual, he sat at his table to eat. As he poured the milk over his cereal, George sneezed. The sneeze took his attention away from the pouring milk which spilt over the table and onto the floor. George cursed mildly under his breath and began mopping the liquid with a dish rag. After tidying the table, he got down on his hands and knees to reach the milk, still dripping onto the floor from above. He sat on the floor, finished cleaning, and looked around the room from his new perspective.

“The kitchen looks so very different from down here,” he muttered to himself. “Why, I don't believe that in my fifty years living in this house I ever saw this place before…isn’t that a piss?” And as George began to stand, a very odd thought entered his mind. “My God. Fifty years in this house, and I had never been there. In my own house! How many, many places have I never been!” The thought was so overwhelming, he found he needed to sit again, and looked under the table once more. “Well, now I’ve been down there, at least.” As George sat in his breakfast chair, more satisfied than he’d felt in a long time, he considered. “In a few years, I shall be dead. And when I am dead, I won’t be living in this house any longer, will I? I suppose they will put me in a box and just cast me away forever. What proof do I have that I ever lived? All my years. All those things I’ve not seen. All that infernal waiting!”

With each of these words, George grew more and more angry. “Well, to hell with waiting. I’ve waited too long already. I’ve been cheated out of my life. I was promised something great, and now, even if I do get it (which I doubt) I won’t have any time to enjoy it. Waiting in the house, as if someone was just going to come to the door, ring the bell, and give me the reward I have earned! I’ve been forced to wait for a special delivery here, worried that I might miss it if I went away! Blast it all!” George was on his feet now, although he could not say for sure when or how that had happened. “I'll cheat them right back. They tried to make sure I would not live! They kept me here, right here, not doing anything, not living! I’ve hardly moved my whole life, and soon, I will never, ever move again. And there is so much. Was so much. Hell with it, hell with them. I will go places, even if I do miss my delivery and I will be damned if I don’t make sure that I was there!”

And on this, George Winston’s sixty-fourth birthday, he made a vow.

George again went down on his hands and knees and took a good, long look at the place that inspired his conversion. Then, he inspected the nail on his right index finger and carefully peeled the end of the nail back. He meticulously shunted his ripped finger nail under the table leg. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “Now, for a very long time, I will be here. And I will make sure that I am in many, many places. I’ll show them. They’ll see. They almost won, but I have time. Of course, I have to hurry.”

George did not bother to return the milk into the refrigerator, nor did he put his bowl in the sink as he had on so many, previous mornings. Instead, he hurried to his bedroom and put on his shoes, pausing only long enough to place more of the nail from his right index finger under the wardrobe. George barely noticed that the tip of his finger ached and bled slightly. He rushed to the closet, removed his coat (and a third fingernail bit, this one from his left middle finger, which he gently placed in the back corner of the closet) and left his home. George stood on the front porch and had himself a good look around, as if for the first time.

“So much,” he muttered. He walked from tree to tree, placing small bits of his fingernails into the dirt at their roots. When his fingertips each began to bleed, he pulled out strands his hair. “Trees,” he addressed them. “You trees will live a long, long time. I used to think that I was like you, big fella,” George patted a huge trunk. “l was hardy and old, and I never moved. But you’re no different than that little sapling, right over there. Neither of you moves. Neither of you will ever become something else.” George paused. “But he,” George glared at the little tree. “He will live longer. He will be around for a very long time!” And with this last word, George found himself standing with the sapling in his hands, its roots dangling, heavy with dirt. “Oh, dear,” he said, and for the first time, George Winston questioned his behavior. “I…I don’t remember doing this. Why am I outside? Oh, dear, oh dear…I am losing my mind…”

George turned to the large tree behind him and followed the trunk to the top of the leaves. He felt no breeze, yet the crown of the dear old tree was most certainly moving. Its leaves shimmied in the sun, almost merrily. It seemed to be waving at George. And this made George smile. George’s gaze returned to the ground, where he still stood, the sapling unearthed in his hands. The young tree was dead. He had ended the life of a thing that would have outlived him. And George Winston believed at that moment that the huge, old tree thanked him. He saw again that the leaves of his old friend rustled with satisfaction, and the corners of his mouth tugged themselves up into an even bigger smile. “You’re welcome.”

George went back inside his house to wash the dirt and sap from his hands. As he passed his bedroom, his bed beckoned. George thought briefly about his dirty hands, knew that they would keep for the moment and decided to take a quick nap. He approached the bed and saw the subtle undulations of the mattress beneath the covers. “So like water. Solid, comfortable, warm water. Like taking a cruise. A little trip I so enjoy taking to pass the time…” George stopped his ode to his bed and looked at the floor, trying to think.

Suddenly, he raised his head, enlightened. He lowered his gaze slightly, still focusing his full attention on the bed. His anger flared. “You. You evil, evil betrayer. My little friend, weren’t you. I should have known! I should have known!” George savagely fell to his knees and began flinging the sheets and pillows around the room. His fingers, raw and sore from his early work, protested against the battle, but George refused to concede to them. He continued dismantling his bed. “Ahh,” said George after completing the destruction. “The spell is finally broken. Free of you and your hold on me. All along, part of the conspiracy! Well, while you lay there scattered, I will live, and run, and be again.”

George slapped his hands together and did a curious thing: his feet did a half shuffle, and he jumped into the air. An observer would have said it was a clumsy attempt at a jig, but George was not aware of anything unusual. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands. “Tomorrow I will become George again,” he said to his reflection. “My, I am handsome.”

George took a long look at himself. He pu1led down the soft skin beneath his right eye and inspected the bright redness he saw there. He felt the end of his nose and discovered a cleft hidden under the skin. He stuck out his tongue and saw a filmy, white paste layering the back of it. “My, my, my…Every time I come into this room, I see myself, right here. But when I leave, I am gone from the mirror, too. I wish I could always be here, and not leave the mirror when I leave the room.” George thought for a moment and his eyes took on a faraway look. He stuck out his tongue again and, with his sore right index finger removed a sizable portion of the white-ish film. George carefully judged where he typically stood and wiped the film on the mirror where his tongue appeared when he had inspected it. He drew his tongue back into his mouth, waited a moment, and stuck it out again. With a great deal of satisfaction, a sensation he had now felt multiple times in a relatively short period, he noted that the tongue-film perfectly coincided with the reflection of his tongue. “There. I am in the mirror now, whether or not I am in this room!” Contented, George retired to the living room and lay down on the couch to sleep. When he woke, George was surprised to note that the sun had not yet risen.

“My, I am up before the sun. Isn’t that a piss?” He found himself perfectly fit for activity. “Well, well. Where shall I be today? Perhaps the lake. Perhaps the street. Perhaps one of the neighbors’ houses? Perhaps I ought to just follow my new instinct. My living instinct,” George reminded himself. He stood, did his half jig, grabbed an old newspaper, then went into the bathroom to prepare.

George took his razor and began to remove the whiskers from his face carefully, not allowing any of the tiny hairs to escape the newspaper he had spread over the sink. After shaving his face, George looked at himself, sticking his tongue out, lining up the dried tongue coating on the mirror. Satisfied, he took the scissors from the drawer. With his left hand, he savagely grabbed a large lock of hair and slowly, painfully, sawed it off with the scissors he wielded with his right. He allowed the hair to fall in with the whiskers, and he grabbed another lock, then another. Soon his head was a collection of bald spots, and a great deal of clipped hair piled before him. He then edged very close to the mirror and found two long nose hairs that he plucked and added to his stockpile. George then dropped his pants. He sat on the edge of his bathtub and scrapped his dry legs with the razor, ignoring the gouges it created there, and he paused only briefly to wipe away the blood from the razor. He stopped and examined the mound, and found it sorely lacking. “No, no. I’ve got to do better than that! I have a lot of ground to cover today.” George stood and dropped his underwear to the floor and began to cut away the pubic hair that grew there. At last, George was convinced he had enough. He re-dressed himself and meticulously scooped stray hairs onto the newspaper, which he folded into a tight package. “There! That ought to do it,” George announced to no one. He grabbed an old golf cap and tenderly put it on his raw, patched head. George left his house by the front door and wandered down the street, guarding his package carefully.

He noticed people furtively looking from their windows and he observed more than a few with video cameras documenting his passage. He inwardly smiled and allowed a few hairs to fall in front of their houses. When he reached the end of his street, he considered his next move. The strong wind, at that moment snatched George’s hat from his head and took it down the street.

“My hat!” screamed George, and he darted after it, as fast as he could (which was not terribly fast at all). Soon he realized that he would never catch it, and he lost sight of it. As he shielded his eyes from the sun, he blinked quickly several times before knowing precisely what to do. A queer smile twitched on his lips as George set out for Bottle Rock.

Bottle Rock was a large series of rocks which, when seen from a distance, looked just like an enormous bottle. It was well known as a place where adolescent children partook in illicit sin. Even in George’s time Bottle Rock was notorious for the activities that went on there, yet in George’s sixty-four years in this town, he had never been there personally. “Well, now,” George said to himself, quaking with anticipation, “I will! I will mount Bottle Rock at long last!” But not immediately. George first found his way to the edge of the butte and settled down into a clump of bushes. And there he sat for six hours, barely moving, until the sun began to set. He had watched the children drive up the well-traveled dirt road out of sight, leaving only a thick trail of dust as proof.

Finally, George stood, removed a few hairs from his bundle and buried them beside the shrubbery that had been his hiding spot, and penetrated the dust-like fog. The path narrowed a bit towards the top, and George had been forced more than once to stop his climb to gather his breath. This had annoyed him at first, but the ascent helped him slowly and coherently to accept what was clear: George was quite old. “Yes, yes, old” he said, “but not out.” George returned to his climb, feeling the sting of the dust that bit his eyes.

He came to the first car parked on the edge of the cliff. George knew what he would see if he peered inside, and the thought disgusted him. “They are completely frivolous.” He quietly approached the car and looked into one of its windows that had begun to steam. The young woman inside had drawn a perverse looking heart onto the window with her finger and had written a rather obscene sentence beneath it. Now, she was looking upwards, laughing. She shook her hair, and George could see her male companion tickling her, his hands massaging her hips with one hand and her breasts with the other. As she was caressed, the girl stopped laughing and looked ridiculously serious. The boy leaned forward and kissed her, his hand now lifting her blouse to continue the massage, skin against skin. George winced at that, and the stinging from the dust blurred his vision. The girl’s hand was caressing the boy’s hair and slowly traveled down his face, his chest. As she unzipped his pants, they stopped kissing, separated, stared at each other for a moment, and she sank down into his lap. George was astonished. His mouth fell open in surprise, and the boy inside reached for the roof and grabbed at the internal light, rolling his head back. George took a very large rock and smashed the window.

“You in there! Yoo-hoo! Oh, don’t let me stop you. Just a little present for you!” and George throw a pinch of hair at them. He reached his head through the broken window. “You want more of it? Take some more!” and his gleeful scream was covered by the panicked scream of the girl. George withdrew his head and jigged around a few of the other cars, sprinkling them sparsely with hair. He danced to the edge of the cliff and looked out over the lighted town.

“Helllllo!” George’s voice was already rough from screaming. “Ready or not! Here I come!” and George f lung the remaining hair into the night breeze and watched it as it travelled down onto the city. Car horns and lights were blaring and flashing behind him, and angry teen-aged boys were shouting. George did not acknowledge the commotion or the cars that drove madly toward town; many tried to frighten him by coming very close to hitting him. George was too absorbed in the sensation of gratification that had washed over him. He saw his hair settling on the well-trimmed lawns and roofs of the bourgeoisie, on busses bound for distant towns, and, best of all, he saw the bits of himself drifting toward the town reservoir where he imagined it would decompose into the drinking water of the entire town.

George did a half skip and dropped the newspaper on the ground. “Ahh! What a piss!” Then, he simply turned around and started his descent back home. The next morning, George looked at himself in the mirror. Getting very close to himself, he said “…won’t be long until I catch up with everyone…finally. “But,” George admitted, “last night was a success, but today…today I’ve really got to make sure. I must see it for myself.” He did not know how to assure himself that he had accomplished what he needed to, but George felt confident that such assurance would come.

George went through his morning ritual, whistling a bit. He dressed and felt the urge to leave his house. On his way down his driveway, George stopped and observed the activities of the children who played in the street. “At any moment,” George permitted himself to mutter aloud, “some crazed driver may swerve around that corner and end those little things’ lives. Wouldn’t that be a piss!" He watched for a few moments, breathlessly expecting that his whispers would take hold in reality, but he shook his head and continued walking. As he reached the bottom of his driveway, George felt that something had hit his foot. He looked down and noticed a bright pink and yellow plastic ball.

“Hey mister! That’s our ball,” said one of the boys in the street. “Hmm. So it is. Come over here, little one.” The other boys laughed at the endearment, and the owner of the ball cautiously approached the old man who held. “Can I have it, mister?” “Why, sure you can. You know,” George lied wistfully, “when I was a boy your age I often played ball. Just like you!” “Great.” George stared down at the boy. “You aren’t interested?” “Not really,” said the 1ittle boy and ran back to his friends. Before his annoyance with the boy had a chance to turn into fury, George Winston felt something else by his foot. “I’m interested,” said a young girl. “That’s my brother. He’s stupid.” “Yes...yes he is.” George looked back at the little girl’s brother across the street and a thought crossed his mind; a thought so unrestrained that he actually shook his head to break its hold on him. He returned his attention to the girl.

George put on his best, most friendly smile. “Would you like something to drink?” “No. . .I’m not thirsty.” “Oh, please? It would mean so much to me. And after your brother was so mean. Just come inside real quick and have a nice, little drink." George extended his hand and his smile, and led his tiny neighbor into his house.

“You can just sit at that table, and I will be right back. Oh, and do ignore the mess.” George went into the bathroom to urinate. After checking that he tongue-film in the mirror was still properly positioned, he captured a tiny portion of his urine in a Dixie cup. When he had finished, he admired the cup’s warm content. “That awful smelling stuff was once inside me," George mused softly. “It was a part of me. Isn't that a piss?' George barked at his own little joke, but the sound of his hysterics only vaguely approximated his natural laughter.

“Are you o.k., mister?” George composed himself, wiped tears from his eyes (which he smeared across the wall of his bathroom), and responded. “Yes, I’m fine…just fine!” He came out of the bathroom with the small cup behind him. When he arrived in the kitchen, he noticed that the bowl of cereal he had prepared for himself on his birthday was not on the table. Another quick scan of the kitchen revealed that the milk which had been sitting out for days and was most likely spoiled, had been poured down the sink and the carton was in the garbage. He placed his own cup on the counter by the refrigerator.

“The milk was smelly,” the little girl said, and wrinkled her nose to illustrate. “Why, thank you. Aren’t you thoughtful? Now, to get you that juice!” George opened the refrigerator door and retrieved the lemonade. He lifted the lid and smelled it for the girl to see. “This isn’t smelly! We’ll both have some, shall we? It’s only fair…” George spun around and dumped the contents of the Dixie cup into the larger container, grabbed a long wooden spoon, and began to mix. He poured two tall glasses and put one in front of the girl.

“Drink up!” he said and watched as she put the glass to her lips and drank. After a big gulp, she put the glass down. “It tastes funny.” “Oh? Then why aren’t you laughing?" George let out another wild yowl. “You’re weird,” said the little girl, and she hopped down from her chair and started for the door. “You mean we’re weird, don’t you, my lady? After all , I’m in you now! And I will enter the cells of your body, and I will be with you for a long, long time. What a coup! What a piss!”

But as George turned, he saw that she was not in the room, and he dashed to the window. After a few frantic moments of scanning the street, he saw her skipping down the sidewalk. “Skipping! Do you see that? My little dear is skipping, bless her.” George interlocked his fingers before him and felt that he could cry at any moment. “I wonder if she’ll run today,” he said hopefully. “Another chance. I have finally been given another chance.” George thought about her growing and maturing, naturally. He thought of her developing through adolescence and discovering boys, marrying, having children. Those children would continue the legacy, and George would be saved. “God, I will be a part of it all. It’s about time.”