THE GO-KART

The old man removed his pocket watch from its tattered cradle which was his vest pocket.  Two twenty-two.  Henry would be arriving soon, he thought, carefully replacing the gold heirloom once owned by his grandfather. It was Thursday, and like every Thursday for the past twelve years, with only four exceptions that he could remember, he and his friend Henry would get together for their weekly game of cribbage. It had become for both of them that singular event which gave at least a pretext of meaning to their otherwise uneventful and forlorn existences. How cruel the aging process. Often times, especially in the late evening hours when sleep was elusive, he would sit and stare out the solitary window in his small living room and seriously contemplate ending his own life, and take his chances at what lay ahead-if anything. And each time, just as he almost mustered up enough courage (or was it cowardice?) to make this one final decision a reality, something strange and quite remarkable would happen. A queer feeling resembling in some respects a physical warmth would come over him, often commencing with the icy arthritic joints of his once nimble fingers and then flowing gracefully but energetically throughout his entire nervous and circulatory systems, until, at last, he would experience a sensation of renewed purpose and inner strength. Sleep would then come, and when he awoke, still sitting in his Morris chair several hours later; he would smile to himself-chiding himself for being a silly old man for thinking such ugly thoughts. Self pity be hanged---my mission here is not yet complete, he would say. Maybe there is still something more for me to learn--something more to be accomplished. I'll wait just a little longer and see.



It was still early. Henry was not expected for at least another hour, but the old man began preparing a tray of snacks that would also serve as supper for the two as they continued their playing into the early evening hours. They always played in the old man's apartment, not because it was any more cheerful or in any way more inviting than Henry's, but because Henry could still drive a car. In fact, the old man lived in a part of the city that had, like himself, fallen victim to the outrages of time and progress.



It had once been a fashionable neighborhood that boasted quaint single-story tourist shops and thriving businesses, and where stately Victorian Guest-Homes provided summer visitors with an 'eagle-eye' view of the narrow street's ever-changing mood. A place where trendy, intimate cafes beckoned shoppers into their recesses to enjoy deliciously prepared ethnic lunches and while away the long afternoon hours drinking French wine and sampling fine confectioneries. But all that was before the interstate began robbing the neighborhood of its libido--sucking out, like a giant vampire made of steel and concrete, its very life's blood. Where there was once beauty and vitality there remained now only decay and memories of a time long gone. Alsace Street, where the old man lived, was now an anachronism. Superfluous. An eye-sore. The apartment buildings were no longer maintained, the fashionable cafes had all been reduced to empty shells whose only clientele were drug dealers, cocaine addicts, and an occasional policeman. The narrow street that had once laughed so gaily now wept with tears of cheap wine and coughed up the phlegm of poverty and despair.



Henry had on a number of occasions suggested to the old man that he leave the neighborhood and move in with him. There was plenty of room where Henry lived. The two could live together but independently. They could care for one another, offering the companionship and camaraderie so necessary to make life's declining years at least palatable. But the old man would not hear of it. Time after time the old man would reject his friend's proposal, stating for his reason that moving would be for him like digging up a much weathered oak tree and transplanting it into foreign soil, only to watch it die. No amount of fertilizer and nurturing would save the tree once its roots were disturbed. No-the old man would stay where he was-Thank you. Besides, Henry was growing deaf; a fact that he refused to admit and which annoyed the old man to no end. He did not want to spend half his time repeating things over and over again, or talking in a near scream just so Henry, the vain old codger that he was, could barely make out what he was saying. No-he dealt with that problem on Thursdays, always being accused of mumbling, and that was quite enough-thank you very much.



As he placed some crackers and cheese on a plate along with some freshly cut fruit, arranging them as attractively as he could, the old man heard a sound that was unfamiliar to him. It sounded a little bit like an outboard motor and a Mix-Master combined. "Strange," he said aloud, half expecting to get an explanation from some unknown source. He cocked his head a little to the side as if analyzing the peculiar disturbance. There it was again-a little closer this time. "Certainly can't be Henry's car-it's still too early." The old man's hearing was, unlike Henry's, amazingly acute. He had for twenty-eight years been a professional violinist, twelve of which were spent as 'first chair' with the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra, and throughout his long career had been blessed with near perfect pitch. The unfamiliar sound was definitely getting closer and he decided to satisfy his curiosity by looking out the living room window.



He pulled back the brownish-yellow shears that served as drapes and looked down at the narrow street below. It was misting outside and the street looked more inhospitable and dismal than usual. He looked to the right and saw nothing unusual. The sound came back, but this time it was farther away. He craned his neck, pressing his forehead hard against the window, and looked to the left. Down at the corner where Alsace meets Waters he saw the object of his concern. There, darting from curb to curb was a young boy, about thirteen or fourteen years old, driving a motor-driven vehicle that looked something like a miniature race car. He couldn't see all that well because the boy kept circling around the intersection, alternately coming in and out of view. It was as though he was testing his vehicle before heading down the straight-away in front of the old man's apartment. Yep, thought the old man, he's going to race that thing down the street. He'd better be careful; the road's awfully slick. Wonder where he lives? Never saw him before. Not too many kids play in this neighborhood; not any more.



The old man continued to watch as the boy tested his machine. Then, finally, he headed the thing straight down Alsace Street. He was going to make a run for it. Faster and faster, the boy appeared to be in ecstasy as he sped by the old man's apartment. The old man watched in amazement as the young driver whipped past him and skillfully negotiated the unbanked curve at the other end of Alsace Street where it meets Union. What great fun that must be, thought the old man. Just look at him, proud as a peacock...his first car. Never had things like that when I was a boy.



Once again, gathering ever increasing momentum, the young boy, gaining more and more confidence in the terrain, sped by again and again. Each time a little faster and more boldly than the last. The old man was exhilarated and at the same time saddened. He felt envious of the young lad. Look at his youth. Look at his carefree attitude. Oh, what I wouldn't give to have my life before me, as he has. I would give anything for just one day of that young man's long life.



The old man recalled his own childhood, when he too was carefree and full of life. What wonderful times they were. Naturally, the old man did not have such a wonderful toy as the Go-Kart that his unexpected visitor wielded so skillfully, but he did have an orange crate nailed onto a two by four with roller-skate wheels, and tin cans for headlights. He thought back many years ago when he too used to race around some unfamiliar neighborhood, pushing himself, scooter-fashion on his homemade, boy-powered Go-cart.

As he watched the boy gain more confidence in his ability to drive the machine; he also perceived a certain recklessness in his maneuvers. The boy began swerving from one lane to other, carelessly, foolishly. Taking chances that no older more intelligent person would even consider. The old man was becoming agitated, angry almost, at the boy's total disregard for his own safety.

"You stupid little child!" he called out through the closed window. But the boy of course could not hear him; even if the window were open, the roar of the small engine was drowning out every sound except its own din.

The boy passed one more time, at frightening speed, down his private race-track to Union Street. The old man listened carefully as the straining engine revved up in the distance in preparation for its grand finale. The old man listened hard. He became aware of each modulation in tone of the engine's straining. It was loud, even at so great a distance.

And then the acute ears of the master violinist detected a sound that was not unfamiliar to him. A sound that the boy in all his merriment and delirium could not possibly hear. It was the sound of Henry's car making its way down Waters Street, not far from the intersection. Old, nearly deaf Henry, oblivious to all except the cribbage game, chugging along on wet pavement and poor visibility, hurrying so as not to be late.  And then, almost simultaneously, the old man heard the clutch engage on the boy's Go-Kart; the whirring of the engine proclaiming a premature victory as it sped triumphantly, arrogantly, foolishly up Alsace Street, heading straight for Waters.

Seized with panic, the old man tried to open the window and warn the boy of the imminent danger. The window was stuck; it wouldn't budge. The ancient paint around the frame and sill had dried like cement, unmovable, permanent. The old man thought quickly and picked up a small brass replica of 'The Thinker' from the coffee table. With all his might, he smashed the window and screamed out to the doomed, foolish youth.

His warning went unheard; drowned out by the blare of the small racing engine and the thunder of Henry's approaching car.

The impact was deadly. Decisive. Final. Mercifully quick.

The old man watched with horror through tear-filled eyes. "Why him? Why not me?" he screamed pathetically through the broken window.

Below, the narrow street seemed to cry lugubriously as it hemorrhaged violently with the blood of youth, and writhed with the convulsive pain of needless death.

END