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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Contest Entry · #1763918
A time when time runs out
It ain't about being sad that makes me cry. Sad don't make me cry. lonliness maybe. Probably that... coming at a time when it's hard to afford.

Lotsa things make me cry these days, like memories, the happy ones, kids laughing. Christmas commercials. AT and T commercials. Shit like that. The happy memories, never the sad. I don't even have sad memories. Can't afford 'em.

Screw the sad ones. I'm too old. Too mean. Too talented in the art of not thinking about things I don't want to think about. I can choose to ignore almost anything. 'Cept happy memories, the ones I have now, the LATE ones in life. The time I stole a bus with Leo Gaines, picked up riders and didn't charge them. I have so many, many, many happy memories. Now, as I sit here in my VELVET recliner needing to be changed and pushing the button for the nurse who hates me, I can remember laughing. I can see so clearly myself impressing people with wit, and charm, and tailored double-breasted pinstripes. Selling Ford Motor Company common for twelve dollar a share. Selling Du Pont at its all time low. THe speeches I gave. The contacts I made. Never did a joke not go over. Never was a stand-up toast more heartfelt and poignant than when it was coming from me. Dimple in the cheek. Sparkle in the eye. Champagne glass held high. Laughter erupting as it was supposed to at the moment I envisioned...

Me now, sitting here with my legs outstretched, not much to do anymore. A life that had been lived somewhat happily, doing things I found amusing. Loving women and being bored by them, arguing with wives while patting my daughter on the head.

Winking and tickleing the little curly haired dickens. So young and so loving...

Now, champagne glass in hand, here I sit wondering why she won't even answer my calls. She airn't so young nor so curly any more. Not so loving. Yes, it makes me a little sad... A little this and a little that. I give up on ringing the buzzer. I throw it to the floor.

It's my birthday. I'm seventy-four, look ninty. Feel a thousand and two.

But God Almighty, was I fun. We had so much time. Time to make things right. Time to explaine. Time, we had it in our back pocket with the gold credit cards. A little shit in the shorts won't stop me that. No, Sir. It's my birthday. It's my BIRTHDAY.

“Happy Birthday, Bumstead,” I say out loud to my little room, though my name ain't Bumstead.

Funny name, Bumstead.

Laughter erupting in the tiny room to proove how funny the name Bumstead really is as I sit with legs outstretched, my glass held high, alone, if you want to call it that...
© Copyright 2011 Winchester Jones (ty.gregory at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1763918-Happy-Birthday-Bumstead