Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Everyone knows that growing older should never have to mean growing up, but what happens when advanced age descends from nowhere?

It finally happened this past week. I never really thought it would, for me at least, but apparently it has. I’ve reached that point in life where others perceive me as old.

It went down right there in the neighborhood Wal-Mart. I had stopped to pick up some milk, eggs, and bread; the three staples that constitute cliché. My new ATM Visa card was tucked away in my wallet, and I had made sure my wife had activated it before ever leaving the house. After waiting the requisite five or so minutes one typically does during peak traffic hours, my turn at the cashier had come up in the checkout lane. That’s when my whole world came crashing down around me.

The pretty young girl, probably in her late twenties, her name tag identifying her as Georgie, looked bored as she scanned, totaled, and bagged my purchase. “$9.69, sir,” she announced tiredly without ever looking away from her register. I swiped my card, which I had at the ready, and entered my PIN. Thinking back, it’s almost as if I could hear Rod Serling’s ghostly voice whispering ominously, “You have just crossed over into the Twilight Zone,” followed by the eerie theme music from the hit series. The screen asked if I wanted cash back, and was the total correct. No to the first, yes to the second, I pressed. Then the four beat wait, and the end of my being as I had known it.

“Incorrect PIN, sir,” the comely Georgie distractedly pronounced. Hmmm, I thought, that’s a first. I entered the PIN again, and once more endured the ritual, only to see Incorrect PIN appear on the screen.

The patrons behind me were beginning to stir, as if wanting to say, “C’mon, papaw, get it right and go on!” I was overcome with the sudden need to urinate, and let out an exasperated heaving sigh. I once again entered the PIN, which was my wife’s birthday, and once again was treated to Incorrect PIN. “Dammit,” I muttered, “what the hell is up with this?!?” And that was the moment Georgie brought the hammer crashing down; “Take a deep breath, sir, relax, and try to remember your PIN.”

Perhaps it was the way in which she delivered the crushing blow, her tone of voice being that one might use patiently with a very young child. Or a senile senior citizen who is clearly having the prelude to a life threatening stroke.

To say I was outraged would be a gross understatement of terms. I have in my tenure been called everything but white and the Son of God, but no one, no one in my long duration has ever intimated I was old!

“I know my PIN, young lady,” I expostulated in no uncertain terms. I angrily stabbed the buttons once more, and arrived at the juncture where the wheels fell off the cart. Incorrect PIN.

The pleasing pixie behind the counter looked at me pitifully, as if I were a severely injured animal that was divest of any other hope than to be put down. The other customers waiting in line only glared impatiently.

My turgid bladder began to creak and moan, ready at any moment to tear loose from its moorings. “I’ll be right back,” I stormed, and made my way to the ATM machine, determined to get this rectified before relieving myself.

As I passed the Photo-Stop, Santa, on hand to take pictures with the kids for the personalized family Christmas cards, looked directly into my now blood-shot eyes and cackled merrily with a hearty, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Pitching my voice to a level I knew only he would hear, I growled, “S**** you, !” His crestfallen and quizzical countenance was completely comical. Had this Scrooge really just called Santa Clause a ****? The only response he seemed able to manage was a mumbled, “Huh?”

By the time I arrived at the ATM two teen boys were finishing their transaction. As they turned, they eyed me warily for a moment, and immediately assumed a posture of quiet respect. Oh good God, I screamed in my mind. My need to void was becoming more urgent with each passing moment, and I shoved the card in the slot as hard as I dared without breaking it. As if in accusation and indictment, the screen tauntingly displayed my worst fear: Incorrect PIN.

I was beaten, feeling as though I had just rescued failure from the hungry jaws of success. I moved on dejectedly to the men’s room, hoping at least one of the stalls wasn’t occupied. In addition to needing to pee like a Russian race horse, I’d come to the realization I was also about to fart. My lower GI tract had lately taken to shenanigans, occasionally loading a live round into the breach along with the accelerant; given the downward spiral my existence had suddenly acquired, I simply couldn’t be sure. I therefore avoided the risk of further embarrassment by not ripping one out, despite my desire to punish those around me by doing otherwise.

I sat morosely considering what had just come to pass. No doubting anymore, no pretending, nor even the ability to lie by denial; I was an old man. For the love of all that’s holy, even Santa looked younger than me!

How had this happened? When had this happened? True enough, I’m not young, but I am a ‘70’s rocker, the definition of which is right there to be read in that great font of colloquial slang, UrbanDictionary.com. I’m still hip, still cool. I wear a half ounce of gold around my neck. My ear has been pierced since forever, and I have a tat as well. I own eight different pairs of shades. I listen to some of the latest music, and in fact downloaded Foster the People’s hit, Pumped Up Kicks on MP3 from Amazon only the night before.

I suddenly noticed a sign on the wall before me, something about shoplifting and the lack of tolerance for it by the establishment. Shoplifting? Ah yes, something that would assuredly bring down the wrath of the authorities, unless of course you were very young and knew no better.

Or very old, and couldn’t remember.

The epiphany was a dash of glacial water, and my instant edification was like being struck by a massive bolt from on high. If I’m looked at as some feeble old codger, I could conceivably do almost anything without people getting angry! The possibilities suddenly flooded my mind: I could get away with murder!

I see a lovely young lass in the grocery aisle, and wish to get close enough to smell her soft, alluring scent. I suddenly look confused at the selection of saltines, my voice breaking as I whine, “I don’t know which ones I’m supposed to get. He’ll get mad at me again. What should I do?” I turn and look helplessly at the babe, tentatively asking for her cooperation. How can she deny assisting this poor old man, saying to herself, “Awwww, he’s just like my granddad, bless his heart!”? Next stop, Sniff City.
Or come upon a bunch of tough-looking punks, gathered together and chuckling over some nasty joke. I look directly at them, raise my middle finger, and utter forcefully, “You can kiss my a**!” As they begin to move towards me en masse, I continue to stare intently at the empty space they’d occupied, raising my voice to a shout, shaking my fist and hollering, “That’s right, you bastard, I said kiss my a**!” Their urge to turn and look at what apparently only I am able to see will be irresistible. “What the hell?” “Who’s he screaming at?” That’s when I deliver the coup de gras; “C’mon boys, let’s take care of this guy once and for all!”

I was smug; I can turn this around, make it work for me. I exited the stall and stood before the mirror. Stoop a little, and allow the hands to tremble and shake. Yes, yes, that’s it. Good. Very good.

As I stepped through the doorway and prepared to enter the store, I lit a cigarette…