Entropy

He grumbled when he got out of bed. He grumbled while he made his coffee. He grumbled when he went to get his paper.

He grumbled in the shower, he grumbled on his walk to the corner store to pick up fresh bread. He grumbled on his way to Marge’s house and he grumbled on the way back again.

He grumbled as he changed into his pajamas and night robe and he grumbled as he got into bed.

He, quite probably, grumbled in his dreams.

—————

On Sundays a young woman came to Marge’s house to help keep things in order. An abysmally cheerful type of woman who felt the need to point out the good in everything. Who cared if the sun was out today? Rain was always coming.

She was working in the kitchen when he stopped in to spend the afternoon. She said, “Every week, I come here and every week there’s you two together, bickering away.” She dried the dishes with a soft cloth and carefully put them away while she talked. “Why didn’t the two of you ever get married?”

He grunted and for some reason he couldn’t readily identify, he answered her. “Because she’s a good person.”

“And you aren’t?”

“No way.” He held a hand over his heart and added dramatically, “What’s the fun in that?”

“Excuse me for saying, sir, but fun doesn’t seem high on your list of things that are important in life.”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated. “Well, you do complain quite a bit.”

“Of course I do. It’s fun. An intellectual challenge, if you will.” He pointed his cane at her and nodded his head, to enunciate his point.

“If you say so.” She smiled and shook her head. “You better go on in. Marge is waiting on you. Special day, she says.”

On his way into the living room he almost tripped three times. Once on the door frame, once on an ottoman and once on a large orange tabby cat that he believed was named Edgar.

Marge was deep into a cupboard in her living room, searching for a game or for some cards. She had gotten smaller with age, rail thin.

“You have too many cats,” he grunted.

“What? Did you say I have two cats?” She pulled her arms out of the cupboard and turned to look about herself. “Well, what happened to the rest of them, then?”

He raised his voice, “No! You daft, old bat!” He paused between words to make his point and because shouting took energy. “I said . . . that you have . . . too many . . . cats!”

“Oh,” She turned back to her cupboard.

“One is too many,” he muttered to himself. He picked up a gray one that had taken up residence in what he thought of as his chair. “Yes,” he said. “I am talking to you. You and your whole stinking race.”

“Quiet, you. I can hear the grumbling and you can’t pretend with me. In ten minutes you’ll have two cuddled on your lap. And you’ll be careful not to disturb them no matter your own discomfort.”

“Bald faced lies!” he retorted. They both knew that he was the one that was lying.

—————

She emerged from the cupboard triumphant holding up a battered classic edition of Yahtzee!

“I want to play this!” she declared.

Suddenly he remembered what day it was. She wanted to play this game exactly once a year, on the anniversary of her husband’s death. Today marked 20 years.

He grumbled but still he helped her set it up.

—————

He had loved Marge since before the war. He had intended to come back and tell her, but by that time, he was a different man. Unsure of himself, his place in the world, unsure even of his ability to love.

And she had been married, to a quiet college professor that treated her well. It didn’t occur to him to try to get in the way of that. And when the professor died, Marge had said that she wouldn’t ever remarry. So he had stayed her friend.

After coming back from war and trying desperately to find the good in the world, he’d watched another bad thing happen to a good person and he remembers clearly the moment that he gave up. It was while he was at the funeral and had been studying the sadness on Marge’s face. There was no fairness or justice in this world. Entropy, he thought, everything will eventually fall into chaos. The only thing was, the world never left chaos, no matter how people liked to pretend.

And Yahtzee, she always chose this game to play. There wasn’t any real reason for it. Except that it was totally dependent on the roll of the dice. Chaos chooses who wins this game. But the thing of it is, even though they had played every year for 20 years, he had never once won a game against her.

She knew it too, the manic gleam in her eyes, the gleeful way she rubbed her hands together as they sat down to play. “You ready to lose, old man?”

He grumbled, “Always, Marge. Always."


{dropnote="Prompt"} Tomorrow, January 29, is Curmudgeons Day. This observance celebrates the birthday of noted curmudgeon and comedian W.C. Fields (more details at that link). Write a story or poem about someone who became a curmudgeon exactly 20 years ago. What was the incident that changed them? Do they have any desire to stop being a curmudgeon? In honor of W.C. Fields, one required genre for your item is: Comedy.