Peter Drops a Bomb! (Part I)
Yesterday Peter called and asked if I wanted to go for another walk on the beach.
“Silly boy,” I said. “Of course I want to go for a walk on the beach.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll be right over.”
“Give me fifteen minutes,”
“Sure. See you then.”
“Okay.”
I thought the invitation was sudden, and I wondered if anything were wrong. I had no idea what was actually about to transpire. I changed clothes to an old pair of genes I’d cut off below the knees many years ago. They are about the same length as those almost pedal-pusher length baggy pants worn down below the butt crack the “wanna-bes” wear. I swear I had no idea in the 80’s when I cut them off that the baggy painter pants would be so perfect for the year 2007 – except when I wear them I look like an 87 year old “wanna-be” 25 “wanna-be.” Such irony!
Peter knocked on my door at precisely 15 minutes, and I answered the door with trusty digital camera draped around my neck, and bottle of water in my left hand. “Let’s go,” I said as I pushed him out of the entrance, pulled the door to and locked it. “I can’t wait to see that water. It’s calm today, and the sky is so blue. It should be spectacular.” Peter grabbed my arm in order to steer me to the elevator, but I pulled away and said. “I’m feeling so good today. I want to walk down the stairs.” Peter flinched a bit, and I realized I’d been a bit abrupt. “I didn’t mean to pull away so suddenly, Peter. I’m just having one of my really good days. I feel like I’m seventy again instead of one-hundred-and-ten!”
“That’s fine. You sure you don’t want some support going down those steps.”
“No. I’m absolutely perfect.” Indeed, I practically sailed down the stairs despite bones creaking and crunching in knees, ankles, and hips. After a short walk to the car, we drove to the beach in Peter’s used BMW convertible, top down, and I felt as though I were a 20 something, just like Peter, out for a joy ride with my best friend.
O-o-o-o-ps, the doorbell ringeth. I’ll continue this next time, dear Journal.
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“Silly boy,” I said. “Of course I want to go for a walk on the beach.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll be right over.”
“Give me fifteen minutes,”
“Sure. See you then.”
“Okay.”
I thought the invitation was sudden, and I wondered if anything were wrong. I had no idea what was actually about to transpire. I changed clothes to an old pair of genes I’d cut off below the knees many years ago. They are about the same length as those almost pedal-pusher length baggy pants worn down below the butt crack the “wanna-bes” wear. I swear I had no idea in the 80’s when I cut them off that the baggy painter pants would be so perfect for the year 2007 – except when I wear them I look like an 87 year old “wanna-be” 25 “wanna-be.” Such irony!
Peter knocked on my door at precisely 15 minutes, and I answered the door with trusty digital camera draped around my neck, and bottle of water in my left hand. “Let’s go,” I said as I pushed him out of the entrance, pulled the door to and locked it. “I can’t wait to see that water. It’s calm today, and the sky is so blue. It should be spectacular.” Peter grabbed my arm in order to steer me to the elevator, but I pulled away and said. “I’m feeling so good today. I want to walk down the stairs.” Peter flinched a bit, and I realized I’d been a bit abrupt. “I didn’t mean to pull away so suddenly, Peter. I’m just having one of my really good days. I feel like I’m seventy again instead of one-hundred-and-ten!”
“That’s fine. You sure you don’t want some support going down those steps.”
“No. I’m absolutely perfect.” Indeed, I practically sailed down the stairs despite bones creaking and crunching in knees, ankles, and hips. After a short walk to the car, we drove to the beach in Peter’s used BMW convertible, top down, and I felt as though I were a 20 something, just like Peter, out for a joy ride with my best friend.
O-o-o-o-ps, the doorbell ringeth. I’ll continue this next time, dear Journal.
You can send E-mail comments to
ZacSfuts@Comcast.net
, or post them below.
posted by Isaac at 4/09/2007 08:48:00 AM
1 Comments:
Talk about leaving someone hanging...lol. I hate when someone interrupts a good story.
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