If I Wake Before I Die

I took a walk after work today, as I usually do. While on Broad Street, one block south of Philadelphia's City Hall,¹ I was accosted by a group of homosexual prostitutes plying their trade on the crowded downtown sidewalk at 5:30 p.m. I'm not gay or otherwise interested in sex with men or the hiring of prostitutes of any gender, so I ignored their solicitations. This angered them, and they retaliated by following me for half of a city block, calling me daddy and honking slurs at me like a flock of campy geese. No harm done.

When I returned home from my constitutional, I received a text notifying me of the death of my old friend, Bob. Such a bleak future we've crafted for ourselves where one learns of the demise of friends and family via instant messengers and social media.

As teenagers, Bobby and John's² was one of the premier hangout spots for local stoners, alcoholics, punks, skinheads, metalheads, deadheads, musicians, cartoonists, and other assorted sordid misfits and ne're-do-wells. We'd drink and smoke cigarettes and do drugs and talk and argue and joke around and plot shenanigans and give one another homemade tattoos and body piercings and conspire to commit crimes and so forth. You didn't have to do all of those things, though. Everyone was free to pick and choose only the activities that appealed to them. Smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, joking around, and arguing were my vices, with the occasional shenanigans thrown in for variety.

I haven't smoked a cigarette in nineteen years, and I haven't spoken with Bob, John, or almost anyone from that scene in roughly thirty years. Thirty years! I honestly don't even know when, why, or how it is that Bobby came to be called Bob. All the same, the world seems a little bit smaller to me now.

The situation highlights for me how decades can pass in the blink of an eye, friends and lovers are easily-peasily lost to time, becoming mere shadows of a recollection, and, of course, my own mortality lurks inevitable around the corner. As if I needed reminding. The doctors have told me, as recently as yesterday, that I have a genetic variation that expresses itself in a remarkable fashion they've never seen so dramatic before. Ever. They tell me it's unlikely I'll live to an especially old age, statistically speaking. It's always nice to hear you're special. Or is it? It's fine. Really.

There's no need to get worried or morose on my account. The cardiologist assures me that I'll probably live another 20 or 30 years. Maybe. Possibly. It could happen. There are modern medications now. They're better than the old medications that used to be modern but now are not. Hopefully, my insurance will cover the cost. If not, it's only $4,000 a month for the rest of my life, if you call that living. At any rate, there's no reason to expect I'll die any time real soon. Unless I do. If that happens, tell Nik I said, "Pepper hat."