The Late
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: An old man confronts mortality.
_____________________________________________________________________
I could not see my friend, because he was not there. – R.H. Barnham
Everyone is late these days. I don’t mean not on time. I mean late as in dead.
On Monday I go to see my old Army friend, Herb Balak. When I knock on his apartment door, his wife answers.
“Where’s Herb?” I ask.
“He had a heart attack last night . . . died,” mutters Mable Balak.
I start to say something, but she shuts the door in my face. Never did like Herb’s wife. Nobody did.
Herbie’s dead? No, I can’t believe it! He was overweight, but Jesus. Oh, I’ll miss you, my friend.
* * *
Tuesday I take the subway to Queens to visit my former business partner, Ira Shorstein. When I get to his house, there’s a black wreath on the door. Oh shit! Not him, too? I think. Then the door opens and there he stands. I let out the air I’ve held in.
“Hi, Misha. Thanks for coming by. Who told you?”
“Told me what?
“That Claire passed away,” Ira responds, his eyes the color of fresh lacerations.
“I’m so sorry. She was a nice lady.”
She really wasn’t so nice . . . another Mable, actually. But I’m not about to tell Ira that. He’s in rough shape.
“I’ll be moving to my son’s in Atlanta. Nothing left up here for me now,” says Ira.
Damn, he’ll soon be gone forever, too.
* * *
Wednesday is my day to meet up with Larry at IHOP. We’ve been doing this for years. It’s always a hoot. I really look forward to it. Larry makes me laugh, and I think I do the same for him. And Oy vey, do I need to laugh.
It’s 9:30, and we’re always here at 9:00. Strange. Finally, I call his house, and his daughter answers.
“Hey, Rita, where’s Larry? I’m here at IHOP, and he hasn’t arrived. ”
There’s silence at the other end of the line and then a long, anguished moan.
“Oh, Misha, Daddy is gone! He fell and hit his head in the shower.”
I don’t know what to say. Three friends dead in as many days? God, I guess that’s the way it happens at this age. I hang up after expressing my condolences. When the waitress comes around again, I order a poached egg and coffee. Larry always took his coffee black.
* * *
Thursday is my day to play mahjong with Joey Lippshitz. I’m filled with apprehension, thinking the worst. He’s the youngest of our group, though, so I expect he’ll outlive everybody. When I reach to the senior center, he’s there. Whew, thank the stars! He spots me and jumps up. As he dashes toward me with his arms spread wide––his usual way of greeting me––he suddenly falls. I figure he’s slipped on something and run to him.
“Joey, you okay?” I cry as I bend down to him.
He doesn’t respond, and a crowd begins to gather around us.
“Call 911!” I yell, watching as Joey’s face grows pale and then blue.
By the time the paramedics arrive, I know he is gone. They confirm this and cart his body away. I’m in shock. Too young, I think, too damn young. Nobody dies at 70 anymore. It’s the new 60, they say. And who dies at 60 these days?
I think about finding another partner to push around the tiles with, but my enthusiasm for the game is just not there, so I head toward home. The apartment never seemed so empty.
* * *
When Friday arrives, my spirits are at an all-time low. All I can think about is the loss of four good friends. Poor Herb, Claire, Larry, and Joey. Gone . . . all gone.
I always see Mel on Fridays. Why bother going down to Katz’s Deli? I tell myself. He won’t be there . . . probably dead, too. But, what the hell, I might as well go. Nothing else to do. Who knows, just maybe he’ll show up.
Twenty minutes late. And it’s not like him. He’s Mister Punctual. Forget it. Go home. He’s not coming. Don’t even call his house. Just more bad news. Poor Mel Simon. Shit, poor Misha Holstein!
Thank God the weekend is here. Don’t have to meet someone who’s not going to show up. Got a hearing aid appointment early Saturday morning. At least they won’t be dead.
* * *
Healthy Hearing calls Misha’s phone number. It rings and rings. Hmm, must be on his way. That’s strange. He’s never late, mulls the audiologist. Fifteen minutes pass, and he dials Misha’s number again. It rings repeatedly. Nope, not . . .
“Hello,” answers a groggy voice at the other end of the line.
“Oh! Mr. Holstein?” asks the Healthy Hearing caller.
“Yeah,” replies Misha, groping for his glasses on the night table.
“You’re late for your appointment.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: An old man confronts mortality.
_____________________________________________________________________
I could not see my friend, because he was not there. – R.H. Barnham
Everyone is late these days. I don’t mean not on time. I mean late as in dead.
On Monday I go to see my old Army friend, Herb Balak. When I knock on his apartment door, his wife answers.
“Where’s Herb?” I ask.
“He had a heart attack last night . . . died,” mutters Mable Balak.
I start to say something, but she shuts the door in my face. Never did like Herb’s wife. Nobody did.
Herbie’s dead? No, I can’t believe it! He was overweight, but Jesus. Oh, I’ll miss you, my friend.
* * *
Tuesday I take the subway to Queens to visit my former business partner, Ira Shorstein. When I get to his house, there’s a black wreath on the door. Oh shit! Not him, too? I think. Then the door opens and there he stands. I let out the air I’ve held in.
“Hi, Misha. Thanks for coming by. Who told you?”
“Told me what?
“That Claire passed away,” Ira responds, his eyes the color of fresh lacerations.
“I’m so sorry. She was a nice lady.”
She really wasn’t so nice . . . another Mable, actually. But I’m not about to tell Ira that. He’s in rough shape.
“I’ll be moving to my son’s in Atlanta. Nothing left up here for me now,” says Ira.
Damn, he’ll soon be gone forever, too.
* * *
Wednesday is my day to meet up with Larry at IHOP. We’ve been doing this for years. It’s always a hoot. I really look forward to it. Larry makes me laugh, and I think I do the same for him. And Oy vey, do I need to laugh.
It’s 9:30, and we’re always here at 9:00. Strange. Finally, I call his house, and his daughter answers.
“Hey, Rita, where’s Larry? I’m here at IHOP, and he hasn’t arrived. ”
There’s silence at the other end of the line and then a long, anguished moan.
“Oh, Misha, Daddy is gone! He fell and hit his head in the shower.”
I don’t know what to say. Three friends dead in as many days? God, I guess that’s the way it happens at this age. I hang up after expressing my condolences. When the waitress comes around again, I order a poached egg and coffee. Larry always took his coffee black.
* * *
Thursday is my day to play mahjong with Joey Lippshitz. I’m filled with apprehension, thinking the worst. He’s the youngest of our group, though, so I expect he’ll outlive everybody. When I reach to the senior center, he’s there. Whew, thank the stars! He spots me and jumps up. As he dashes toward me with his arms spread wide––his usual way of greeting me––he suddenly falls. I figure he’s slipped on something and run to him.
“Joey, you okay?” I cry as I bend down to him.
He doesn’t respond, and a crowd begins to gather around us.
“Call 911!” I yell, watching as Joey’s face grows pale and then blue.
By the time the paramedics arrive, I know he is gone. They confirm this and cart his body away. I’m in shock. Too young, I think, too damn young. Nobody dies at 70 anymore. It’s the new 60, they say. And who dies at 60 these days?
I think about finding another partner to push around the tiles with, but my enthusiasm for the game is just not there, so I head toward home. The apartment never seemed so empty.
* * *
When Friday arrives, my spirits are at an all-time low. All I can think about is the loss of four good friends. Poor Herb, Claire, Larry, and Joey. Gone . . . all gone.
I always see Mel on Fridays. Why bother going down to Katz’s Deli? I tell myself. He won’t be there . . . probably dead, too. But, what the hell, I might as well go. Nothing else to do. Who knows, just maybe he’ll show up.
Twenty minutes late. And it’s not like him. He’s Mister Punctual. Forget it. Go home. He’s not coming. Don’t even call his house. Just more bad news. Poor Mel Simon. Shit, poor Misha Holstein!
Thank God the weekend is here. Don’t have to meet someone who’s not going to show up. Got a hearing aid appointment early Saturday morning. At least they won’t be dead.
* * *
Healthy Hearing calls Misha’s phone number. It rings and rings. Hmm, must be on his way. That’s strange. He’s never late, mulls the audiologist. Fifteen minutes pass, and he dials Misha’s number again. It rings repeatedly. Nope, not . . .
“Hello,” answers a groggy voice at the other end of the line.
“Oh! Mr. Holstein?” asks the Healthy Hearing caller.
“Yeah,” replies Misha, groping for his glasses on the night table.
“You’re late for your appointment.”
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com