I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking, “Wow, what
a glorious ride!” We’ve done
it all, seen all the sites, been
places we shouldn’t, gotten
into such delicious trouble,
some of which would be
lethal to anyone less . . .
Less what? And why are
they at me like it’s a re-
tirement party, a send-
off, a going-away, the
last leg of a rockstar’s
Alzheimer’s tour? This
is truly absurd, I could
write a memoir, I could
learn to speak Igbo, I
could read the Koran.
I could win several
Oscars, I could father
a child, I could run for
an office, perhaps one
where it’d be possible
to find a nice job. I
could cure my anxiety,
I could wind up a guest
on the hottest late night
talk show, I might even
then replace, say,
Stephen Colbert, as
late night’s hottest new
host. I could anchor the
news or become a philan-
thropist, be part of a team
of people who cure some
infamous disease. I could
run my own cult and make
it ultra-benevolent, or break
a world record, or sail out for
a week in my brand new yacht.
A few short years later, I might
have a visitor who stirs me from
my dream of revenge, the same
one I have almost ever night. It’s
been ages since anyone at all has
dropped by. I yawn as I wipe the
sleep out of my eyes and I open
the door to a pair of outstretched
arms. Here’s the hug that you
ordered, I can’t but oblige.
As the two of us are wrapped
in the warmest embrace, I
ask him who ordered this
lean back and look at his
face, which I recognize
not in the least. “Here
on my porch embracing
a perfect stranger,” I
say and sort of cackle
a bit. “Well, my dear
man, what’s say we
share a pot of good
coffee,” he doesn’t
wait for an answer,
is all but skipping
right through the
front door, “I’ve got
none but the best,
and it’s usually just
me,” I say, thinking
how absurd it is
to have such a
silly thought only
moments before.
“Retirement,” I
whisper aloud
after showing the
stranger to the
living room sofa,
then making my
way to the kitchen
to brew up some-
thing extra special.
“Just imagine the
things that I have
yet to do,” I sing,
and then head
run my own cult and make
it ultra-benevolent, or break
a world record, or sail out for
a week in my brand new yacht.
A few short years later, I might
have a visitor who stirs me from
my dream of revenge, the same
one I have almost ever night. It’s
been ages since anyone at all has
dropped by. I yawn as I wipe the
sleep out of my eyes and I open
the door to a pair of outstretched
arms. Here’s the hug that you
ordered, I can’t but oblige.
As the two of us are wrapped
in the warmest embrace, I
ask him who ordered this
lean back and look at his
face, which I recognize
not in the least. “Here
on my porch embracing
a perfect stranger,” I
say and sort of cackle
a bit. “Well, my dear
man, what’s say we
share a pot of good
coffee,” he doesn’t
wait for an answer,
is all but skipping
right through the
front door, “I’ve got
none but the best,
and it’s usually just
me,” I say, thinking
how absurd it is
to have such a
silly thought only
moments before.
“Retirement,” I
whisper aloud
after showing the
stranger to the
living room sofa,
then making my
way to the kitchen
to brew up some-
thing extra special.
“Just imagine the
things that I have
yet to do,” I sing,
and then head
back, clutching
the teapot, to
check on the
stranger who
currently exists
z
