| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Ben Segal is a writer, graduate student, and co-founder of the Leisure Class Records label www.leisureclassrecords.com. He is currently studying media philosophy at the European Graduate School in Saas Fee, Switzerland. His fiction and essays have appeared in various publications including Reinventing the World, Word Riot, and Ambergris Magazine. |
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| © 2007 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| The Old Man |
| by Ben Segal |
| The old man sat stroking his beard. His beard, thin but nearly a yard long, had been through a lot. The old man didn’t always have a beard, he started growing one on his 50th birthday. His hands were getting dried out by stroking at his beard for so long. He went to the pharmacy and purchased a container of moisturizer.
“My goal is to recall all of the times my father beat me as a child.” “He beat me with a wooden ruler once on the temple after I skipped choir practice to go fly-fishing.” “He beat me often with a hand-cut switch made from birch. 34 times to be exact, and always for improper grammar.” “He rapped my knuckles with a knife-sharpener the time I stole Larissa’s panties.” The clerk yawned and rang up the moisturizer. She was so very sleepy. “$4.65, please.” “My goal is to recall all the times I narrowly escaped shaving since my 50th birthday.” The clerk looked at her watch and watched the line grow behind the old man. “How many times in all?” “12, I think. Though some escapes were narrower than others.” He handed her the $4.65. “My name is Elizabeth.” said the clerk. The old man was stroking his beard so he couldn’t pick up the moisturizer. “The first time was at a barber’s. The second through fifth times were requests from very persuasive women.” “If you let me shave your beard, I’ll carry your moisturizer.” said Elizabeth. “But then I won’t have a need for the moisturizer.” The line for her register now reached back to the pet food aisle. “The 6th time was again in the chair of a barber.” “Why did you keep going to that barber then?” “It was a different barber each time. A third barber gave me scare number Nine. Seven and Eight I blame on my grandchildren.” Elizabeth turned off her register and walked outside with the old man’s moisturizer. He followed, of course. “The tenth time was my own fault, I drank too much and almost shaved on a whim. The eleventh was because of a bet, but my horse won, thank God.” “And the last?” asked Elizabeth. They were standing in the parking lot. The line for her register now reached the cheese aisle. The old man thought for a few minutes. Elizabeth nearly fell asleep right there. The old man stroked and stroked at his beard, maybe 115 times. “I’m not sure I remember. Which is a shame, I so nearly achieved my goal.” “Well then,” said Elizabeth, “I can’t stand here all afternoon waiting. I’ll place your moisturizer in your car, and then I really must get myself back to work. My register has a line all the way to the milk aisle, and it’s made a right angle turn and continued over to the pediatric meds.” Elizabeth realized that the old man did not have a car, so she placed the moisturizer in his pocket. She turned and walked back to her register. “My goal is to recall all of the postcards I’ve been sent from travelers in Europe.” “Natalie sent me two from Italy with pictures of broken statues and words that recalled our failed affair.” “Steven sent me four post cards every day for a month when he was in Ireland. They were all photographs of James Joyce.” |
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| Aug. 2007 |
| 94 |