His hand trembled a little, as it usually did, as he raised the cup to his lips.
"Here, let me get you a straw."
"No, it's OK. I'll be fine."
"I'll get you one anyway, just in--"
"No, thank you," he replied, rather firmly. "I'm fine."
Today was Walt's 123rd birthday.
"One hundred and twenty-three years," he muttered to himself.
"That's right, Gobby!" exclaimed Lucy. "Gobby" was what she called him ever since she was barely a toddler. She sputtered out the word the first time she tried to call him "great-grandpa." The family found it charming and affectionately adopted it as his nickname. Walt was already closing in on a hundred years of age at that point and found the new moniker a little annoying. He was fond of his great-granddaughter--she had grown into a smart, charming young woman, though she had a habit of asserting opinions on things that she appeared to know very little about--but he still winced inside every time she called him that.
"And now that you're one hundred and twenty-three years old, do you know what that means?"
"I don't know, what?" asked Walt.
"It means that, as of today, you are the oldest person in the entire world who has ever lived, Gobby!"
"Oh, right. Of course." It suddenly returned to Walt's mind that Lucy had arranged for a reporter or journalist of some kind to come talk to him, a lady reporter about Lucy's age. She would probably have a photographer with her to snap some photos of the world's oldest human being.
"That record had previously been held by a lady in France. She lived for one hundred and twenty-two years, Gobby! Well, one hundred and twenty-two years and one hundred and sixty-four days, to be exact, so technically you already broke her record several months ago, but I just think it's better to celebrate your new world's record on the day of your birthday, it just feels more fitting. Anyway, she died a long time ago, way back in the 1990s--which means that she was born all the way back in the 1870s, Gobby! I mean, ohmygosh! That also means she was, like, a young woman of about twenty years old at the time you were born! Just a little younger than I am now! And we're part French!"
She smiled at him as though she had just shared the greatest discovery with him. "You know what else, Gobby? I just found out online that not only are you the confirmed oldest human being who has ever lived, but of the entire list of the world's twenty oldest living people, you are the only man! All the rest are women! Isn't that something?"
He just looked at her for a moment. He took in her face through the thick lenses of his spectacles, studied it. A quick slideshow of hundreds of photographs played in his mind. It stopped on the image of his mother, which he then superimposed onto Lucy's face. It fit almost perfectly. She had always reminded Walt of his younger sister, Catherine, who was the spitting image of his mother. Catherine had died young, killed by the Spanish flu that swept across the globe and killed hundreds of millions in 1918. It was the first great heartbreak of his life. But at this very moment, Lucy looked much more like his mother than his sister. It dawned on him that it was the shape of the eyes, and just the way her smile curved across her face. He decided that those details were much closer to his mother's face than Catherine's, reversing a previous assessment he had made some years before. Perhaps he would change his mind again.
"What the hell are you doing?" asked Walt.
He saw the smile on Lucy's face slowly fade away. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
"I, um...I just...," she finally began to mutter.
"What are you doing with your life, Lucy?"
She just stared back at him, dumbstruck.
"I don't give a single goddam how many years I've lived, why should anyone else? What the hell does it matter how many years I've been alive? How many years a person's lived matters about as much as a pile of cow dung. Never mind about me, what are you doing with yourself these days? I know you've gone back to school so many times I've lost count. You graduated with one degree, and you've been going back over and over ever since. I guess that's why they call it 'graduate school.' It's a school for people who graduate college once but then they never want to leave it. Maybe it's high time you stay the hell out of school and get out in the world more. I've lived one hundred and twenty-three years now, and there's a hell of a lot I never tried my hand at, and now I never can because even if I lived another hundred and twenty-three years this body is just too damn old and shopworn to give those things a try."
His bespectacled eyes focused intently on hers as he leaned into her face. "Lucy, I'm going to tell you right now, the only thing that could be worse for you than dying in the next five minutes is to live to be my age--to live for more than a hundred and twenty years--and have it dawn on you after all that time that you ain't done jack shit with yourself, not really."
He saw the gears behind her eyes begin to grind, and her face began to change, almost transform, after he uttered those last words. Then her eyes darted from his. Her posture changed. Her mouth parted as if to admit some new spirit or soul to take up residence in her body. She rose slowly from the kitchen table and walked over to the window. She gazed outside, quietly meditating.
The doorbell rang. She looked back at Walt.
"Oh, oh...that's them! The reporters!" She quickly darted out of the kitchen. Walt then heard her answer the door, her voice chipper and excited, followed by a muffle of strange voices.
Walt took another sip of his tea and braced himself.
"One hundred and twenty-three years," he muttered to himself.
"That's right, Gobby!" exclaimed Lucy. "Gobby" was what she called him ever since she was barely a toddler. She sputtered out the word the first time she tried to call him "great-grandpa." The family found it charming and affectionately adopted it as his nickname. Walt was already closing in on a hundred years of age at that point and found the new moniker a little annoying. He was fond of his great-granddaughter--she had grown into a smart, charming young woman, though she had a habit of asserting opinions on things that she appeared to know very little about--but he still winced inside every time she called him that.
"And now that you're one hundred and twenty-three years old, do you know what that means?"
"I don't know, what?" asked Walt.
"It means that, as of today, you are the oldest person in the entire world who has ever lived, Gobby!"
"Oh, right. Of course." It suddenly returned to Walt's mind that Lucy had arranged for a reporter or journalist of some kind to come talk to him, a lady reporter about Lucy's age. She would probably have a photographer with her to snap some photos of the world's oldest human being.
"That record had previously been held by a lady in France. She lived for one hundred and twenty-two years, Gobby! Well, one hundred and twenty-two years and one hundred and sixty-four days, to be exact, so technically you already broke her record several months ago, but I just think it's better to celebrate your new world's record on the day of your birthday, it just feels more fitting. Anyway, she died a long time ago, way back in the 1990s--which means that she was born all the way back in the 1870s, Gobby! I mean, ohmygosh! That also means she was, like, a young woman of about twenty years old at the time you were born! Just a little younger than I am now! And we're part French!"
She smiled at him as though she had just shared the greatest discovery with him. "You know what else, Gobby? I just found out online that not only are you the confirmed oldest human being who has ever lived, but of the entire list of the world's twenty oldest living people, you are the only man! All the rest are women! Isn't that something?"
He just looked at her for a moment. He took in her face through the thick lenses of his spectacles, studied it. A quick slideshow of hundreds of photographs played in his mind. It stopped on the image of his mother, which he then superimposed onto Lucy's face. It fit almost perfectly. She had always reminded Walt of his younger sister, Catherine, who was the spitting image of his mother. Catherine had died young, killed by the Spanish flu that swept across the globe and killed hundreds of millions in 1918. It was the first great heartbreak of his life. But at this very moment, Lucy looked much more like his mother than his sister. It dawned on him that it was the shape of the eyes, and just the way her smile curved across her face. He decided that those details were much closer to his mother's face than Catherine's, reversing a previous assessment he had made some years before. Perhaps he would change his mind again.
"What the hell are you doing?" asked Walt.
He saw the smile on Lucy's face slowly fade away. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
"I, um...I just...," she finally began to mutter.
"What are you doing with your life, Lucy?"
She just stared back at him, dumbstruck.
"I don't give a single goddam how many years I've lived, why should anyone else? What the hell does it matter how many years I've been alive? How many years a person's lived matters about as much as a pile of cow dung. Never mind about me, what are you doing with yourself these days? I know you've gone back to school so many times I've lost count. You graduated with one degree, and you've been going back over and over ever since. I guess that's why they call it 'graduate school.' It's a school for people who graduate college once but then they never want to leave it. Maybe it's high time you stay the hell out of school and get out in the world more. I've lived one hundred and twenty-three years now, and there's a hell of a lot I never tried my hand at, and now I never can because even if I lived another hundred and twenty-three years this body is just too damn old and shopworn to give those things a try."
His bespectacled eyes focused intently on hers as he leaned into her face. "Lucy, I'm going to tell you right now, the only thing that could be worse for you than dying in the next five minutes is to live to be my age--to live for more than a hundred and twenty years--and have it dawn on you after all that time that you ain't done jack shit with yourself, not really."
He saw the gears behind her eyes begin to grind, and her face began to change, almost transform, after he uttered those last words. Then her eyes darted from his. Her posture changed. Her mouth parted as if to admit some new spirit or soul to take up residence in her body. She rose slowly from the kitchen table and walked over to the window. She gazed outside, quietly meditating.
The doorbell rang. She looked back at Walt.
"Oh, oh...that's them! The reporters!" She quickly darted out of the kitchen. Walt then heard her answer the door, her voice chipper and excited, followed by a muffle of strange voices.
Walt took another sip of his tea and braced himself.
