Some small parks tend towards reflective stillness and others towards an unusual vitality; the small patch of green hidden behind the large seafood restaurant belongs to the latter. Its thin body running parallel with the mouth of the river and its other sides hemmed in by the restaurant and its large parking lot, the diminutive park stands defiant. Its visitors are surprisingly lively as well, for they consist of mostly elderly expatriates. The hunched bocce playing Italians, the wandering well-postured Brits, and the relaxed picnicking Poles all seem to coexist comfortably and peacefully together when they converge on the small piece of green.
There are two reasons that can account for the park’s lack of visiting youths: it’s too small for budding explorers, and the grass and trees cannot compete with the colourful bushes and flowers of its neighbouring parks where the girls and boys holding hands go. Yet, it is this appearance of dullness and expiring virility that make the park unique, unlike its peacock cousins. Its trees are sparse, and yet it retains an arboreal atmosphere: the thin whining pines, the placating elms, and the burly birches from which even the most penetrating winds cannot divest their secrets.
To the left of a bench hidden behind a particularly large birch, there stands a small plaque on a pole:
THIS PARK IS DEDICATED
BY THE CITIZENS OF GRANDIS
TO THE MEMORY OF
JOHN J. PLAUS
WHO SELFLESSLY GAVE HIS LIFE FOR ANOTHER
1930 TO 2005
SEPTEMBER 12, 2006
***
It is mid-morning, and the whistling old man entering the optometry building is confronted by a stern-eyed woman sitting behind the reception desk. He pays her no attention and finishes whistling his song, for he is a sturdy old man with a set of oxygen-healthy lungs. Upon finishing, he gives her a grin. “Good morning, Miss. John J. Plaus here for m’yearly check-up.”
“Mornin’, Mr. Plaus. Dontcha think it’s a tad early for song?”
He waves her off. “Oh come now, what’s more beautiful than song? What else can move you t’such emotional heights?”
“Plenty more m’sure.” The annoyed young receptionist adjusts her plunging V-neck sweater, perhaps a habit out of annoyance, something to give her a more haughty air.
He continues, “That doesn’t sound too-” He stops as he notices her cleavage through her freshly adjusted sweater, “uh, too convincing.”
The woman chooses to ignore him. She isn’t in the mood for conversation, especially with a white-haired old man with the beginnings of a stooped back and a penchant, it seems, for provocation.
But John doesn’t notice her obvious dismissal of him; he just stares at her cleavage and feels a stirring he has not felt for years. Indeed, he is lucky to be ignored; otherwise she would notice two beady eyes staring at her slightly exposed chest. John’s mind forgets all about the beauty of song and instead focuses on the beauty of young women.
Why had he forgotten about women, and the pleasures he used to chase? He cannot remember. It seems to him, it just ebbed from his interests as the years went by, as he passed sixty and then reached seventy, and yet now at seventy-five, John feels the stirrings of reinvigoration. Now, with white hair and a gently stooped back, he wants to feel again. Perhaps, he could just reach out and touch her breasts and blame it on dementia or old age. No, he’ll be a tactful and charming gentleman and approach this rediscovered passion as he did so successfully long ago. And so it comes to be, that John J. Plaus, still single, and fancying himself the Don Juan of his youth, finds himself on the prowl.
He decides to test himself out on the receptionist, who, he is sure, showed some interest in him-he sees no other reason for her generous lowering of the neckline. “S’cuse me, Miss. Lost m’train of thought for a sec there. We was talkin’ bout m’whistlin’ and the beauty a’song. You like whistlin’?”
She looks up at him, this old man with a dry, rasping voice. “No, I don’t like whistlin’, and-,” she sees the doctor approach them. “Oh, seems it’s time for your appointment.”
The doctor leads him into his office. “Hi John-take a seat. How are ya?”
“I’m alright doc. Same old. Can’t complain.
“That’s good.”
John looks at the doctor’s desk and sees a picture of his family, and notices his attractive daughter. “That’s a nice picture. How old’s your daughter?”
The doctor chuckles. “She’s too young for an old feller like you, John.”
“Oh, didn’t mean t’give you that impression.”
“No, that’s okay. Juss teasin’, that’s all.”
The doctor goes through the usual procedures and by the time he finishes, he laughs. “John J. Plaus, ain’t no one like you with your age and such good vision. If you don’t mind me askin’, how old are you again?”
“Seventy-five.”
The doctor whistles. “Hooboy. Johnny-boy, you’re somethin’ special.”
“I’m beginnin’ t’recognise it.”
As he walks out, he notices a cute woman paying the receptionist. Unable to catch the receptionist’s eye, his eyes roam the newcomer. As they move down, first to her breasts and then to her plump posterior, he sees an infant-laden stroller at her side. He decides to give her a try. Walking by loudly, he catches her eye and detects a faint smile. Encouraged, he stands outside the building, waiting for her to finish her transaction and leave. As she pushes her stroller towards the glass door, he opens it.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He gives her a piercing gaze. “Miss, mayhaps you’d like a cup a’coffee?”
She looks at him and knows. “I sure know it ain’t no cup a’coffee you want.”
He looks down at his well-worn loafers. “Yes, ma’am, you’re right.”
“Well, what you think you’re doin’ anyways? Ain’t you got somethin’ better t’do, like lookin’ after granchillren?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess I better be off then.”
“I’d say you’re right.” She walks away, pushing the stroller towards the forest-green minivan across the lot. White-haired Don Juan watches this curvaceous woman ease her child into the vehicle and drive off. Dejected, he trudges down the sidewalk towards the diner where his friends and breakfast are waiting.
The local fish-and-chips that John and his friends accost every morning is a homely little shack-of-a-place called Fishy Al’s, not terribly original, but then, neither was the owner. Wisely, John had made friends with Al, and as a result was able to accrue a large tab without much hassling. As the sun began its ascent, he would enter the cosy confines of the diner and his gang of elderly friends would already be seated at their table by the window that overlooked the mouth of the river that led into the vast lake. Mildly intoxicated from their morning pints, “John J. Plaus,” one of them would always say good-naturedly, “y’old son-of-a-bitch, how the hell are ya?” And he always had a clever reply.
But, this morning, feeling down about his failure thus far with women, John walks towards the table where his three friends are seated. Jim, wearing his usual faded-red trucker cap from before they were fashionable, initiates the conversation. “John J. Plaus, y’old son-of-a-bitch, how the hell are ya?”
“Not so good boys. We’re gettin’ too old.”
“Y’juss noticed?”
“N’how are you fellas? Good?”
Ed, wearing a nauseating plaid shirt of orange, brown and white, answers. “Yup. Juss like last mornin’, and the morn fore that one, and the one afore that one too.”
Tom, already sporting a red face and an empty stein, continues, “And the one afore that one too, Ed.”
John cuts in. “Okay. I get it.” He takes his seat beside Jim, and Al comes to the table with John’s pint.
“Mornin’, John.”
“Mornin’, Al. Thanks.”
“Things good with you, John?”
Before he can answer with a tirade against old age and young women, the chimes of the entrance door grab Al’s attention, and he hurries back behind his counter. John sips his beer.
“So why’s ol’ age got you in such a bum mood?”
“Well, Tom, we’re gettin’ older and the world’s gettin’ younger.”
“What n’the hell y’mean, John J.? World’s older n’you are.”
“No, Tom. Ain’t what I mean. What I mean’s people. People gettin’ younger while we’s gettin’ older, talkin’ bout younger days. We gotta catch up with them younger days.”
Tom picks up the cane cradled between his legs and waves it in front of him. “How can we catch up with these here canes?”
“God damn it! I don’t got a cane, so I gotta have a chance! Can’t y’see, guys, we meet here in the mornin’ cause we don’t got no one else t’wake to. I wanna woman with some god damn life n’her, someone who’ll make me ‘fraid I’ll get a heart attack from exhaustion in bed.”
Jim tries to talk sense into him. “Woah, Johnny-boy. Take it easy n’drink y’beer. Let’s juss have breakfast n’drink, a’right?”
John gulps down his entire beer and, feeling rebellious, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in a wide gesture. “I’ll see you boys later.” He gets up and swaggers to the door, giving Al a curt nod before exiting. Jim, Tom and Ed watch him leave, smiling and shaking their heads.
“What’d y’think, Jim?”
“I reckon he’s gonna end up in prison as a perv or molester, fore the day’s done. Or die tryin’.” They all laugh good-naturedly and drink their beer.
Walking out of the diner, John decides to head towards the pier that juts into the lake a few metres high, where he knows there will be people milling about this early in the day. He finds a bench near the edge of the water and looks around. Slim, spandex clad joggers go by him, as do frumpy, over-dressed middle-aged women walking their dogs. Casting his eyes about, his attention finally lands on a lonely passerby, who judging by her looks, is perhaps in her mid to late twenties. Possibly aware of eyes upon her, she sashays along the edge of the pier, and John smiles.
He imagines himself with this statuesque brunette, his fingers tracing a line on her skin, soft and warm as he remembers. His breathing quickens and becomes shallow as he imagines hearing her sharp intakes of breath as he revisits his youth on her bed.
Then she topples over. The joggers stop jogging, the middle-aged women pull the leashes on their dogs, and John bolts up and looks over the pier. There she is, floundering in the cold autumn lake, her fall coat pulling her down, and her heels and tight jeans making it awkward for her to scissor in the water to stay afloat. Everyone just stares. The pier is too high, the water too cold, and the shore too far.
John mulls over the future possibilities if he were to save her. She would at least have to oblige him for dinner, and he knows where dinner leads. But, the water is cold and it’s a long swim. No one expects a septuagenarian to jump into a freezing lake. Someone else can do it.
She screams for help and everyone stares.
But maybe this is his only opportunity. It may be a sign-he imagines God looking down and saying, “John if y’want sex, now’s yer chance.” Well, god damn it, if this is what he has to do, he’ll do it.
Her arms are flailing and her head falls below the surface.
Looking up towards the clouds, John J. Plaus unbuttons his shirt, revealing the sagging, mortal flesh below. He pulls off his shoes and dives into the water.
The water is cold and he feels his insides jump at the sudden change. The coldness makes his breathing harder, yet in several strokes he is by her side. Her arms stop flailing once she feels his strong grip on her waist, and with his one free arm, John begins the long swim to shore. She helps him swim by kicking as well as she can in the water, but still, the exertion makes his breathing become hoarse and he begins coughing. Her teeth are chattering, but she manages to whisper roughly, “Thank-k-k y-you.” John’s neck begins shivering violently but he grits his teeth and keeps swimming, his mind transfixed on the future goal of her bedroom. It’s all that stops him from letting go and allowing himself to just float away. He can see her room through a long dark corridor, the walls painted a very light, baby-blue. Her white bed looks soft and inviting
He begins to lose feeling in his hands and feet and the numbness continues to climb. His strokes become slower and require more force of will. He can hear her saying, almost distantly, “Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” But he wants to stop, and yet he wants her too, and so he keeps moving, his hand still gripping her waist, but not as tight as before. As he gets closer to shore, John feels his chest constrict and his body becomes enveloped in a scorching pain. His grip slackens, and then lets go. The woman drags herself onto the muddy bank, and a man approaches, wrapping his arms around her to keep her warm. She just stares at the water’s ebb and the half-naked elderly man floating face down is all she sees.