fiction by Jason Edwards
Just a walk in the park. Not a metaphor. High cholesterol. I’m 53. Too young to die; too old to start something new. Still. Wife likes the time to herself. At least it’s a nice day. Stupid sodium.
Trash on the path. Piece of cardboard. And this is supposed to be the nice part of town. My doctor says “When I walk, I pick up trash. Stretches the back. Sitting is the new smoking.” Fine. My good deed. Earn an extra helping of couscous. What the hell is couscous.
“Anything helps.” That’s what the cardboard says. One of those homeless signs. They stand by the highway. A good reason to turn up the radio. But the nearest off ramp’s two miles from here. Like I said, the nice part of town.
And what’s that smell. That’s marker smell. This sign is fresh. But why is it here. Somebody wrote this only an hour ago. I’m like CSI right now with my deductions skills.
Maybe he sleeps in the park. And he makes a sign. And he walks to the highway. And then what. Does he buy a frozen burrito from the 7-11? One of those sodium bombs? Does he have high cholesterol?
Is he 53 like me? Is he too old to die, too young for hospice? My kid, he’s 23, he says, when you’re old enough to know you’re going to be dead someday, the rest of life is chasing distraction. Existential discomfort. Everything else is hospice.
I could go to 7-11. I could buy a burrito. I could find this guy. I could give it to him. Cinco de Mayo, I could say. That’s a good walk, four miles. Earn me more than couscous. Seriously, what the hell is it.
But he doesn’t have his sign. So how can he be at the highway. I’ll never find him.
There’s a trash can. Next to a park bench. I could leave the sign for him. But what if some other old geezer who doesn’t watch CSI finds it.
I guess the park is a little cleaner now. Still the nice part of town. I’ll sit on the new bench. If sitting is the new smoking, it’s time for a smoke break. More hospice. My kid’s kind of an asshole.