Teddy's Gift

I’ve walked this road every day, well almost every day, for about the past decade. ‘Bout the only thing that changes is the species or degree of decomposition of the roadkill. Today’s offering is leftovers. A raccoon didn’t make it home after foraging through my neighbor’s trash. Looks like maybe one of the bigger vehicles got him. Not much left but mush and fuzz the day it was hit, but now there’s flies buzzing and maggots squirming, having themselves quite a lunch at the Roadside All-You-Can-Eat Buffet. I cross to the other side, giving wide berth to the raccoon, to avoid the stench. I got a whiff anyway. Some things just can’t be avoided, like old age, considering we’re fortunate enough to get that far. From that perspective, I’m a very fortunate person, yes I am.

I retired when I was 65. After 45 years of doing the same thing, day in and day out, I had to leave. The company wouldn’t allow me to work another day. That’s when I started taking my walks. I just wander through the neighborhood picking up cans for a little spending money and making sure all is in order. If I notice Mrs. McMahon’s paper hasn’t been taken in, I check on her to make sure she’s okay. Since she doesn’t have any family anymore and she’s getting on in years, I just feel better about things if I know she’s not laying on the floor suffering or passed on and beginning to fester. Today her paper has been picked up. I smile and turn the corner to Pondview.

Going ‘round the corner, I hear Mike’s dog, Teddy, barking. Mike’s a busy man and isn’t home much. I kinda keep an eye on his house and dog, making sure nothing’s outta place and Teddy is alright. If the weather’s nice, not too hot or cold, Ted is out in the yard. He’s got a nice fenced-in place to call his own, but today there is an intruder. Looks like a stray cat has decided to challenge Teddy’s boundary, and Teddy is letting him know who’s boss. The orange cat jumped over the cedar gate as I approached. Teddy yapped a coupla more times for good measure. I crouched down, my knees sounding just like chicken legs when Meg twists them apart for frying. I don’t remember when they started sounding like that, but I know they been aching for what seems forever. Teddy’s digging at something peeking up through the dirt. ‘Fraid it might be glass, I dig it out.

Turns out it’s a little bottle like the kind you get whiskey in on the airplane. It’s clear and has a label of some kind on it. I have to stand up and put on my reading glasses to make out what it says. I raise an eyebrow after reading:

Youth Serum

Batch 10282009-11

The bottle is full of a clear liquid. Could be water—or vodka—for all I know. Certain it’s not what it says it is, I tuck it in my breast pocket, planning to throw it away when I get home. I give Ted a biscuit, he gets one every day, pat his head and go on back home. It’s gettin’ to be lunch time and I’m looking forward to a cold meatloaf sandwich, heavy on the mayo.

When I got in, I took the bottle out of my pocket and put it on the windowsill over the kitchen sink, right between that frog that holds the steel wool and the dish soap. I made my sandwich, grabbed a soda, and ate standing at the counter, staring at that bottle. The search for youth potion probably began not long after Eve bit into the apple in search of knowledge. I hadn’t heard of anyone finding it, but here in my kitchen, in this 2-or 3-inch high bottle with a black plastic cap, is supposed to be youth potion. Maybe it’s a stage prop? A practical joke? More’n likely it’s a gag gift purchased for someone’s 50th birthday and tastes like rotten eggs or hog snot and gives the ingester a bad case of the trots. I pick up the bottle and look at it and put it back in my breast pocket feeling a little silly.

After lunch, I usually sit and read a book for a while. In the summer, I read on the patio; in the winter, I read by the fire. Since it’s fall, I have to check the weather before I sit down to be sure I’m in the right spot. Today is a warm autumn day with the sun shining brightly and showing off the leaves still left on the trees. The orange and yellow remind me of candy corn and I make a note to myself to pick some up tomorrow morning when I’m out on my walk. I sit on the patio and open my book. Before I even complete the first sentence, I find myself rubbing the bottle through my flannel pocket. I take out the bottle and look at it again. I open it and take a hesitant sniff. The liquid has no smell. I put a little of it on my finger and smell again, this time closer to my nose and still, no smell. Dare I lick it? Remembering it may cause the trots, I take mental stock and assure myself I have enough toilet paper to see me through if this should occur, and I lick my finger. It tastes like a combination of vanilla, wet dog and sex. The sex part might be wishful thinking, but it definitely tastes like wet dog.

Since I am still alive, and got nothing to lose, I drink it down in one gulp. I am now committed. I sit and wait. I get up and look in the mirror. I wait some more. Well, if youth is measured by arousal, this stuff works. Things are definitely looking up. 



Word Count: 1000 