I pulled next to the tire air machine at a gas station one day last week, but not close enough. I was blocking this guy’s way but didn’t realize it.
Once I did, I decided it would have taken just as long to rectify the mistake. I kept going, first the right front, then the left. The hose stretched to its limit. I did it as fast as I could.
When I finished, the frowning man leaned his head out of his car. “You know, you could’ve parked right next to that thing,” he told me.
The younger, more hotheaded me would’ve shot the guy back some remark. Not now. I’ve never been a fighter, and the guy wanted trouble of some sort or was at least flirting with it. He wasn’t going to get it from me.
I didn’t say a word. I did shrug. Not sure what that meant.
“A good man always knows his limitations,” Clint Eastwood once gritted through his teeth at Hal Holbrook in “Magnum Force.” Holbrook’s character turned out to be not so good, so Clint got to say it again, to no one, at the end of the movie as he watched the car Holbrook’s character was driving away in blow up. Except, this time, he left the “good” out.
The jury’s out on how good of a man I am. I’ve made mistakes. Not proud of them, but I did.
Regardless, I wanted no physical altercation with this man. I’ve endured one beating trying to break up a fight. It wasn’t much fun.
Age makes us cautious. Better to be bold when you’re young, not with physical violence, but with life in general. You don’t know enough to be scared. When 60 isn’t so far away, you start wanting to hold onto what you have, little or great.
From the tone of this so far, you’d think I’d be part of some old man’s breakfast club somewhere. Maybe they talk about this kind of thing. Or maybe it’s all Microsoft Teams by now. Geezers on gadgets.
As the years pile on, you don’t feel awful but you don’t feel great either. Arthritic toe joints hurt. It’s harder to get up from the floor. Sciatica isn’t some vague condition you’ve heard about.
People call you “Sir” and “Mr.” all the time. At the West Side Tudor’s it’s aways “Mr. Stone.” Makes me feel like a former teacher. Those ladies are wonderful, though.
Then I look at myself, in my horn-rim glasses and old-school hats. The latter accessory is to keep sun off my face and head. Precancerous skin spots are another enemy. Every so often, I put something called Effudex on my head, which eats away the bad spots. Boy does it. Some have it much worse, I fully realize.
One plus in treating my head this time around is the appearance of minuscule, renegade hair growth. It’s fascinating to watch any hair grow on your head when you haven’t had any in years. I keep reaching up and rubbing it, willing whatever it is to keep working.
You raise your children to be self-sufficient, and they are. They’re no longer the little girls who believe wholeheartedly everything you say. They have their lives.
In your 50s, you change gears a little. Nothing seems as clear to you. You see a lot more gray than black or white. The longer you live, the less you know.
But maybe the fire to write those short stories is still smoldering. Or another creative endeavor of some sort.
I have a granddaughter to get to know and old football games on YouTube to watch.
Larry Csonka was the man. At his age, and with all the pounding he took, he too probably knows his limitations.
