Retrospect

Miranda is talking at me a mile a minute, but all I notice is her hair.

It's something to behold, really. A helmet-like coiffure of violently blonde straw, hairsprayed into place with startling precision. The light breeze skimming over the murky green waves is causing her overdone Versace dress to ruffle and sway, but her hair stands firmly in place.

My son sure knows how to pick a trophy wife. What is this one? Number three? They're like clones of one another. They all just come together in a blur. I don't even know if her name is really Miranda, or if that was the last one. I just don't know.

Her bleached teeth flash against her red lipstick as she talks about weather, charity balls, pollution, or whatever topic flits across the barren wastelands of her mind.

My son, Allen, saunters over to us with one hand in his pocket and a glass of Pinot Noir in the other. I wonder how this balding, swaggering alcoholic masquerading as a wine connoisseur could possibly be my son. I recall the scant memories of the pudgy infant, the howling toddler, and all too soon the moody teenager that I once considered my child. He was an idea to me then. A picture on my desk and an answer to the questions about my family. I was away much too often to know him, to really know him, but I still think this man in front of me is nothing less than alien. An alien with a combover and biscotti crumbs on his suit jacket.

I know that when he's looking at me and making small talk that he's waiting for me to die. I wonder if he knows what I am thinking about him?

I'm old. Far older than rich men with impatient relatives are supposed to be. It is my 88th birthday today. I am surrounded by my three, middle-aged children, their awkward spouses, and their screaming, sulking children. It's been seven years since Margaret died, but I'm still expecting her to snap at me for something or other.

To be honest, I didn't like her much, either.

It is my birthday, and I am surrounded by people that I don't know. The radio is playing Sinatra. I don't even like Sinatra. I guess they just assume I like it because I'm old.

The deck on the yacht is decorated with little lights and fake, leafy plants that feel like canvas when you touch them just to make sure they're fake. On the lower deck, they've set up a banquet hall with elegant tables and mirrors on the ceiling. There's a brilliantly lavish table full of turkeys, hams, salads, shrimps, lobsters, crabs, soups, and a tantalizing selection of antipasto. In the middle of it all stands a majestic, three-tiered cake, all fluffy white icing and delicate flowers. It says, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL", but it has no candles.

I'm too old to be blowing out candles.

I'm startled when Vanessa starts wheeling me into the banquet hall. Is it time already? I see the crowd of aging adults and sticky-faced children, all watching me as I sag in my chair. All listening to the gentle, rhythmic exhalation of my breathing tube. They're waiting for me to die, even the young ones, all waiting for their share of 80 million dollars.

There's a terrible din when they all start singing "Happy Birthday". The annoyingly unfunny rake that my daughter is currently dating sings, "How old are you now?" and is received with a few polite titters.

I think I might hate him the most.

Cake is being cut and handed out and devoured with delicate greed, and for some reason, my throat clogs as I observe them all.

I'm old and tired, and for a long time now, I've realized that I have accomplished nothing. I set up my business. It will be torn down by incompetent sons and in-laws with expensive tastes. I married a beautiful woman. I won't kid myself into believing that I loved her, or that she loved me, or that there was anything holding the seams of our marriage together. I begot two sons and a daughter. They are no longer children, but are eternally watching and waiting, anxious to drop me in the ground and squeeze every penny from my shriveled corpse.

I loved a woman once, but I let her go.

For the longest time I've wanted to seek revenge upon these people. To watch from on high with wicked glee as the will was read, only to see the shock on their faces when they realize I've left it all to charity or entrusted it to my dog.

But now, at this moment, I realize that these people don't deserve revenge. Everything that they are, everything that they do, is because of me.

They are of my creation.

Someone spots the tears in my eyes and assumes I am moved by the celebration. I am showered with insincere affection for the longest time, until the party is over and it is time for me to be bundled home, like a tired infant after a long day.

The nursemaid puts me to bed. She lays me down in the cool, crisp sheets and rests my head comfortably on the pillow. My breathing tubes are hooked up at my bedside. She walks out and turns off the light, leaving me in the bluish hue of my bedroom at night.

I stare at the canopy for a long time.

Suddenly, everything seems to slow down. There's a quiet pause in the passage of time, only a moment. Somehow I know that this is it. I am dying. I close my eyes and I see her in the pink sundress with the sunlight on her brown hair, giving me that wide smile. I don't feel weak or old or tired, just calm. As the calmness seeps through me, I'm vaguely aware of how the room is gently fading away.

What a waste.

Staff Note: Pink Ink's Storytelling Contest can be found here.