Are You Ready for the Last Quarter

Well ... pointedly, speaking ... am I ready for the Last Quarter. Past week was not a horror story and, still, some weeks seem heavier (there's a baby boomerism, for ya) than others. Do we got the visceral fortitude or have our innards been partially eviscerated? "Gird your loins," the prophets said.

M has a broken wing ... tear in a bicep. H called and kvetched like me. Two couples came for dinner, B-J and M-R ... B-J seemed pretty good ... M-R was tired like the hosts M-H. Between us we had allergies to all of creation but singly we still had the teeth to carry on. That day, I had presented a very disturbing film about an autistic Belgian High Schooler who gets bullied. An 83 year old, an Overtimer, was sleeping. His maybe-a-couple-years-younger ladyfriend was trying to rouse him. It was a young audience, maybe no more than 60 on average. My youngest child who shares my office came, too. She kept the average down. Good thing her much older brothers stayed away ... Damn, they're getting Oldie and Moldie! I guess I can't change their names or send them back once they begin looking 50 in the face. Ach du lieber! Every store has its return policy.

Next night went to a meeting ... end of year social. G talked of having no memory. K about the pain of watching his lady decline. J, the host, tripped over one of his dogs and had the usual response: blaimed the pooch. Everyone of us still working. Watch out World! You think this kind of meeting is inspiration for the muses who support Zombie cinemas? The Night of the Walking-to-the-Loo?

Where am I going? Who am I tripping over? Shit! Who am I kidding! ... Well! Whom am I kidding?

On the way out, the youngster of the group (her first is just going off to college) started a conversation about some oblique reference made earlier about my having failed to graduate high school. I found myself drawn into talking about my odd early academic career, as if I was some soldier home from the Bulge. "I never took an undergraduate degree, either." ... The old soldier pulling out his sword, as if he could still swarshbuckle ... Pathetic? Laughable? Ah! It was actually fun.

I remembered Tommy Merton's prayer ... well, not the exact words but the general idea: My Lord, I have not a clue of where I'm headed. Ah, the urethral pressures and the fullness remind me each step of the way: H -- you're headed to the toilet ... don't stop ... don't slow down ... and don't pay attention to the look on GuntherDog's face that screams "Dad ... You're such an Old Schmuck." While Gunther doesn't actually talk, he clearly is concerned about HIS future, though not concerned enough to stay out of my chair. He's layed claim to both M and my chair. In the chair, he has that "You and who else look." Ever notice how Last Quarter types have smaller dogs? and smaller meals, too. I think only their bellies get bigger! I think I know where the bit of poetry I wrote for my 60th birthday is hiding. I'll find it but, for now, it ends with its main character, me, pulling out his shpritzer, gleefully peeing and proclaiming his mantra: he who pisses/never misses.

And then there are the few young people who visit my office, bemoaning their 30th or 40th or 50th or 60th birthdays, paying very little mind to my position in the front pew. Gimme a break!

Another H died last week ... like me, he was an HC, but a quarter century older ... an ancient gladiator who plied his trade till recently. Lots penned sweet things about their memories of H, especially in the first three days after hearing of his death ... or passing, as many call it. The messages are thinning, now, ... considerably thinning ...  though some may remember on the first anniversary of his death,

I think Gunther (or is it me) has to pee, again. Bye.