AGE IS JUST A NUMBER

The young woman coming down the aisle of the plane is listening to something on her headphones, or at the very least has her headphones on and is pretending to listen to something, eyes looking out into middle distance, head bobbing in time. She pauses at Franc’s row, reaches up to knock out one bud. “Excuse me,” she says. “I’m in here.” Franc pulls himself to his feet, steps out into the aisle, lets her pass. She’s in the middle seat. No one’s in the window. Maybe someone will be, but Franc doesn’t think so, since most of the passengers have filed in, and the flight’s not full by any means. The young woman sits and unloads her possessions into the various spaces at her disposal. Her shoulder bag goes under the seat in front of her. Her purse goes under her seat. Her phone goes into the seat pocket in front of her. The cord stretches from it into her ear, still only one ear. The other bud dangles off the cord. Franc gets back to his book, a history of subversive subcultures in American cities in the twentieth century. He has no intention of talks to the young woman. It would be too forward. That’s why he’s not immediately responsive when she talks to him. “That book you’re reading,” she says. He turns the cover so it faces her. “It’s a very interesting…” he starts to say, but she interrupts. “I know it,” she says. “My father wrote it.” Franc laughs. “Really?” he says. “That’s not just something you say when you see someone reading it?” She shakes her head. “Of course not,” she says. “I’m telling the truth. I remember when he was working on it. I was little then. It’s dedicated to me.” Franc turns to the front. To Lily, it says. “What’s your name?” he says. This is just a joke, but her face starts to crumble, and he realizes that he’s offended her. “I’m fooling,” he says. “It’s very nice to meet you, Lily.” She smiles now, for the first time, and shakes his hand as he extends it. And that is how Franc spends the morning of his hundredth birthday. Odds are that it will be his last one, but he beats the odds, not just the next year but for a half-dozen years after that. 

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas