Fifty

Derek paused at the men’s store window and frowned at his reflection.  Two women strolled past him, nodding their approval at his tailored suit, well-chosen tie, perfectly coiffed hair, and smart shoes. Catching their reflection beside his own, Derek stiffened, tightened his stomach and pulled back his shoulders.  His frown deepened, accentuating the faint lines around his mouth and across his forehead.

He checked his watch and took a sharp inhale. His mouth slid to the side into a smirk as he turned away from the window and across the sidewalk toward the subway entrance.  His nose wrinkled subtly at the air wafting up from the heat of the underground. He took a quick, shallow breath and descended the stairs.

Derek looked around as he exhaled slowly.  Standing well behind the other passengers, he silently judged them.  This one homeless; that one out all night in the same clothes she’s wearing now; the other taking a break from a 3-day stint on the couch playing video games.  The train screeched its arrival.  Derek chose a seat between two empty ones, grateful for the buffer space around him.  He leaned his head back and sighed deeply.  His thoughts went to the phone conversation with his sister that morning.

“Big brother! Hey!  Your special day is coming up.  Do you have plans?  Can Mark and I take you out?  Throw you a party?  Call 100 of your closets friends?”

“Hi, Jenny… No, not interested. Can we celebrate your birthday instead?  Maybe, say, 13 months from now?”

“Ha, ha, such a drama king,” she scoffed. “You look great for 50!”

“Almost 50,” he corrected her. He paused.  He did not attempt to fill the silence.

“Yes, yes,” she continued, “almost 50.  But just two more days!  Certainly, you have plans…?  Come on; let me in on them.  We want to celebrate your big decade-day with you.  Mark says he’s happy to go wherever you want.”

Derek continued his silent contemplation. “Derek?” she prompted.  “You OK?”

“Yes.  I’m good.  Sorry about that.  I’m fine.  And, actually yes, I have plans.  Girlfriend’s taking me out.  Drinks, dinner, dancing, friends … good times ahead.   No need to drag yourself out of the house or get a babysitter.  I’m booked.”

“OK then… if you say so.  But please let us know if we can join you.  We want to toast the new decade with you.”

Derek took a deep breath, picked up his head and looked around.  His eyes paused on the woman in the seat across from him.  She looked weather-beaten and weary-- the soles of her shoes worn down and her jacket out-of-date. He tuned her out as she chatted happily with the child in the seat next to her. His gaze shifted to the boy. Cute kid—fresh-faced and innocent.  Blissfully ignorant to the ways of the world and all the misery and suffering ahead of him.  Derek closed his eyes again and lowered his head toward his chest.  He felt tired.  So very tired.

The train’s automated voice announced his stop. Just as the doors began to open, he pushed forward onto the platform, anxious to be out of the stuffy air of the train.  It was even worse in the station.  He silently cursed the old, homeless people who peed in the stairwells—the pitiful drug addicts, aging before their time, too resigned to their miserable fates to do anything about it.  They just gave up, he thought, and he scowled as he headed upstairs to the street level.

Taking the last few steps quicker, Derek breathed deeply of the fresh air and turned to face west.  “Let’s get this over with,” he told himself.

He had walked this route literally countless times.  He resented it.  He resented that his mom had never moved on and out of the house after his dad died.  He resented walking the same route he had walked as a kid—from home to the subway to school and back.  He resented that she never replaced the carpet, never switched out the furniture, and clung to the curtains and knick-knacks they’d collected when he was a kid.

He passed a brownstone undergoing remodeling and paused to admire the facelift. The smooth, clean bricks and green-tinted, energy-saving windows on the timeless building made the home next door look shabby by comparison. He almost smiled, but squared his shoulders and pushed on along the sidewalk, a grim look of determination settling on his otherwise middle-aged good looks.

Middle age.  Ugh, he thought.  Fifty.  I just can’t bear it. He glanced at his watch again.  It was beautiful—a gift from girlfriend number eight. He was going to have to answer to his mother for that—the question that never fully left her thoughts—“When are you going to settle down, Derek honey?”  Never, he thought.  Not going to fall into that trap. Not going to link his cursed life to another’s. His mother, at 80, had spent the last 30 years of her life alone and stagnant—stuck in time at the year his dad’s sedentary life got the better of him—his heart attack leaving her a widow.

Suddenly he stopped and turned to face a squat, neglected one-story brick house.  Its once-white bricks had long ago taken on the dingy hue of dry, long-dead leaves.  The shutters and trim, formerly black, also looked grey and hopeless. Two sagging steps led up to the front door—the same windowless door that often stuck to its frame when he was a kid.  It now creaked on its ancient hinges as he used his key to let himself in.

Everything in the house had aged along with the house itself.  The yellowing walls cast a sickly pall over everything: the buckled floors, the sagging couch, the not-old-enough-to-be antique lampshades. Derek stood in the doorway and slumped. He suddenly felt defeated, the very life sucked out of him and into the musty, 30-year old air of his childhood home. He quietly closed the door behind him and stood, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Honey, is that you?” his mother called out.  He heard her house slippers on the linoleum as she shuffled around the corner from the kitchen. “How wonderful to see you, sweetie! Come here and give your old mom a hug.  Come into the kitchen; I have a cake for you.  This is a big year!”

Derek pressed his back into the door, his hand tightening its grip on the knob. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.  The stale odor and heavily curtained room closed him in, suffocated him.

“Honey are you OK?  Come, sit at the kitchen table with me.  Have some cake, you’ll feel better.  Was the walk over very hot?” His mother shuffled toward him and gently placed her soft, wrinkled hand on his forehead. “Come” she repeated.  “Come sit with me. Let’s talk about your plans for celebrating.”

Derek felt dizzy. The room seemed to blur and tilt a little.  He mustered a deep breath, blinked his eyes hard, and slowly pushed himself off the front door. In a daze, he stepped into the kitchen. His eyes rested on the cake, his name emblazoned across it in blue, cursive script, but his feet moved past the table. He placed his hand hesitantly on his mother’s frail shoulder as he walked beyond her, his eyes staring out ahead of him. He turned into the bathroom and softly closed the door behind him.

Looking into the mirror, he stared, unblinking at his face.  He seemed unable to recognize his own features—the creases around his eyes, the tired way his jaw sagged, the grey at his temples.  He leaned toward the mirror, looking between the cracks and ragged black edges marring its surface. A sudden sharp focus came into his gaze. He leaned back, his shoulders rising as his arm reached forward.  He grasped a corner of the mirror where a shard had fallen out. Holding the left side of the mirror steady with his other hand, he pulled the broken edge of the mirror toward him, cracking off a jagged piece, and slit his wrists.

WHY I WROTE THIS STORY:

A month or two ago, a friend told me about a conversation he had with his neighbor.  The neighbor was dressed formally, preparing to attend a funeral for someone who had committed suicide.  The person had killed himself just shy of his 50th birthday. Those are the only details I found out.  I knew I had to write a story to create an explanation for it.