Naked in a Coat of Armor

I opened my eyes wearily, felt a cold breath drift across the room and noticed the curtains ripple ever so slightly.  I turned my head and there, in the corner, stood Rigor Mortis.

“Do you always barge into people’s rooms unannounced?” I asked.  Mortis didn’t answer; he just coughed and his skeleton rattled like a clay wind chime.  Stomping his feet and brushing the weather off his shoulders, he pulled his black cloak tighter around his frame and pinned it in place with three knuckles of a bony finger.  What ever for? I thought; he has nothing left to keep warm. Looking out the window along the garden path just past the woodshed, I saw Lora struggling with a bundle of firewood.  She stopped to catch her breath, and looked up at the bare stems of the climber rose, clinging desperately to its trellis; she was probably remembering how beautiful it was just a few weeks ago.

My wife looked pretty, bundled up in her down jacket, with a wool cap pulled over her ears.  Little silver ringlets framed her face, and her cheeks were burnished like red apples by the spiteful wind.  She puckered her lips and I knew she was whistling.  We kidded her about it, but I hoped she’d never quit. 

Lora picked up her bundle again irritated at having to stop to rest, and bent into the storm with determination.  We old timers are like that, determined to defy Mortis and his deadline.  We fly off in all directions, like sparks off the blacksmith’s anvil-not long-lasting but positive in direction.  We volunteer for more committees than we have time for, take more courses than we can cope with, attend too many lectures and reviews, baby-sit, travel, and entertain.  We’re resolved to somehow hold back time, because there are some things we forgot to do and don’t want to admit that we can no longer do them.

Often when retiring from one rat race we create another.  I remember that when I retired I wanted to slow down and sit on the sidelines and contemplate the stampeding herd going by.  I planned to cut the telephone wires and throw all the clocks away.  Of course I never mustered the courage to do so.  Are we running scared and whistling in the dark?

I sank back into the white cloud of pillows and wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead.  “You know, Mort,” I said, When life’s express slows down at its destination, the blurred landscape of memory comes into focus.”

“So, all is terminal, and some lives are diseased,” Mortis said, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Look, I’ve made no profound mark on my biography, no earth-jarring accomplishments, but I’ve had a good life.  I did what society brainwashed me into thinking was right.  And even with all its complications, there’s little I’d care to change.”

Rigor answered me as though he heard my thoughts.  “Let me tell you something, Burt,” he said, waving a bony finger at me.  “You think you’re so important, saturated with wisdom, constipated with brag, boast and bologna.  You think you’re justified to purge yourself to the world, when in fact you’re nothing more than a pebble in the driveway.”

Mortis, gliding across the room, moved closer to my bed.  “When you’re dead and on the compost,” he went on, looking down into my face, “there’ll be no more playing ‘Can you top this?’  Friends and relatives will gather around the pit and your loved ones will say, ‘We loved him so.’  And your wife will mourn the loss of you as her best friend.  One will say, ‘He was my best friend; he was a good man.’  The clergy will announce in exaggerated eulogy and pray that the Almighty will carry you to your blessed reward.  Some will think, ‘Too bad they didn’t bury the son of a bitch sooner.’  After a while, a concave spot will appear on the perpetual care lawn to remind all that you, too, are biodegradable.  People will say, “Burt.  Burt who?’  The world will have felt no weight loss, nor will there be the slightest skip in its rotation.”

I could see that Mortis was getting impatient, as time was running out.

“What I’m telling you, Burt, is that you won’t be missed for long.  You had your ‘three score and ten,’ and you’re lucky.  You beat the odds.  You’ve been on overtime.”

“Thanks a lot.  You’re so kind, you old crepe hanger.  You made my day,” I gasped.  “That is, my last day.  You win, but you must admit I stayed in there and competed with the rats.  After all, a race this far is a pretty long haul.”

“So what are you trying to tell me?” Mortis asked gloomily.

“Look, Mort, I’m ready to pack up and pack it in.  Give me a little time to say my good-byes, and I’11 tell you a story when I get back.