He has the most gorgeous cerulean eyes, but his gaze is only part of what mesmerizes women. He is adept at drawing even the most reluctant into conversations with entertaining stories regaling his past experience with horse ranching in Colorado, his trips to Hawai’i, and his adventures in the military service.
In World War II.
He is ninety-three years old but he has game.
These conversations always take place in out-of-the-way fields of operation, spots where women would be least likely to expect an encounter, such as the immediate entrance/exit areas of restrooms (in his favorite restaurant) or a newspaper machine (on the outside of the said restaurant). He might not have a wide range of territory but this space is his and no one disputes it.
He often uses his walker to ambulate, sometimes just a cane will do, and occasionally he is seen to be sporting new bandages on his face when he has just come from the doctor’s office across the street. These don’t matter; they are just camouflage and concealment. His personality is the real draw here. A woman catches herself leaning toward him like a blind person drawn to an open window near a tree full of singing birds. And he believes that it is now his God-given right to flirt (just imagine – all he has been through!)He imagines the women falling like spent flower petals at his feet.
But any woman who finds herself becoming enamored and fascinated during these sessions would have been wholly unable to recognize his mutation into a mortal man when he eventually sets out to make his way back to his table.
A transformation of his physical self always takes place, evocative of a person in the throes of sleepwalking. His eyes become glassy and appear to lose focus, showing that his soul is stone-dead inside. Even his gait deteriorates, evidence that his body, as well as his soul, must have stopped struggling years ago. He is the poster boy for emotional castration. The other men in the restaurant avert their eyes as he makes his passage because it is like seeing the dead go by.
He made a vow fifty-two years ago that included the words, “Till death do us part.” At that time, this had indeed been a vow but now it has somehow metamorphosized into a goal. He takes heart in the fact that each day brings him closer to his freedom from the chains that restrict his movements around his own domain. (If he had only realized, years ago, that liberty was as simple as just walking out his own front door!)
The reason for this soulless existence is ensconced in a booth near the window. His tether is only long enough to be able to – just barely! – reach his alcoves of secrecy. As he steps into the vault, his juiceless, ascetic soul mate turned roommate then cellmate never even glances up but continues eating.
He always wonders: Is this behavior a trick, a ruse, or is her maneuver just bait for the booby trap that has been sprung on him so many times? If so, there surely will be combat in the car afterwards, if not right there in the restaurant. He fears this the most – the public defrocking, the grim and determined flogging comprised of verbal lacerations and racking. He can dredge up from recent memory the thump of the nails being driven into his palms and his thrashing to try and free himself. As always, Mother Superior will do her best to nail him to the cross with as much thrusting and force as possible, heedless of the horrified scrutiny of the onlookers.
With piercing shrieks emanating from her thin, caustic sapless lips, her spite would mostly ricochet off his personage, with the remainder dropping soundlessly into the yawning cavity that used to house his soul. After all these years of living a monastic life, he faces his daily guilty verdicts with the bitter revelation that if he had murdered her when they had first been married, he would have been set free at least thirty years ago. All hope for an early release in this scenario has long ago deserted him, like a slip of paper as it flutters haplessly to the floor.
Much to his utter horror and nail-biting apprehension, he observes the hostess seating his conquest from just moments ago straight across the aisle. He seeps guilt as hell yaws and gapes before him. He tries to eat but his mouth has become so dry that he almost chokes. He is almost disappointed when he doesn’t succumb to the obstruction in his throat. Better that than the imminent strangulation and suffocation that probably will be the very worst yet.
Out of his panicky peripheral vision and just before he bolts like someone left the gate open, he spots another man, much younger than he is, take a seat at the table in answer to the delighted cries of the woman. Now his spirit is torn and he feels inconsequential and old. Then his ego stiffly asserts itself, and he vilifies silently that his sultry countess has just morphed from her cocoon and appears now as a wrinkled, puckered bag of water. (Notice that if she is not an ardent admirer, she is relegated to the status of a howling shrew!) He begins to pick at his food again, unable to decide whether he is grateful to God because he is, just for now, washed of his sins and as clean-hearted as if he has just come out of confession. He thinks to himself, never again.
There is movement at the table across the aisle; he senses that the fiendish youthful paramour has decided to use the restroom. As soon as the man turns the corner, the ugly bag of water suddenly turns back into a sultana and then carelessly drops her fork. Never realizing that this move was only to attract his attention, he reflexively glances over and is surprised with a small wave and a wink as she furtively acknowledges his presence. His masculinity is immediately restored, he winks back and his eyes sparkle and gleam.
Another noise gets his attention and he slowly turns around to face his nemesis across the booth. Trembling, he feels time elongate as his spirit recognizes this as a crisis situation and frantically tries to ensure his survival. He can already feel the ropes tighten, causing his eyes to become tumescent, and in concert with his palpating heart, the shackles on his ankles snap painfully. The sight and smell of certain death hunkers and gibbers directly in front of him. Incensed and inflamed, her eyes glow red as he is assaulted by the execrable odor of sulfurous gases. Either hell does indeed yawn before him or she is about to have one of the abdominal upsets that she always blames on him. (Of course, this is certainly not his fault! Nor is anything else! Ever!)
He reluctantly follows her as she makes a mad dash that rivals the speed of any NASCAR. He believes himself to be safe for now, so he begins to flirt with the waitress as she passes by He is just beginning his war stories when the restroom door pops open and there stands the canting harpy, having heard everything. Tears stand in her eyes and she checks her makeup in the mirror. (Her reflection shows her to be a well-dressed, attractive woman in her seventies! Imagine that!)She faces off with her husband. A cold sweat breaks out on him as the waitress ducks in alarm and flees.
His public comeuppance is an item of local folklore. He is never seen again but the villagers sometimes think of him as chewing his leash in half, just walking out his front door, eluding capture in spite of the Silver Alert, and traveling back to Hawai’i to entertain the wahines. A person who has run a ranch and tamed horses after fighting in a war ought to be free. (Don’t you think?)
