John pulled up to his house and parked just outside the front door. Killed the engine and dragged himself out of the car. As he walked towards the door he stopped and looked back. A fucking Hyundai. Silver. Five years old. 50,000 miles.
He wished he was driving a Lincoln. He really wanted one. His Uncle Carmen was a Lincoln man and John loved and respected his uncle. But it was more than that. He wanted the luxury a Lincoln implies and delivers. Pimps drive Cadillacs. Classy guys drive Lincolns.
But he was having strange thoughts about the Hyundai lately. It was reliable, and he put very few miles on it. Fucking thing will probably last ten more years. Reality was shouldering its way into his reasoning against his will, and he simultaneously loathed it and considered it.
It was cold. November. He hated winter. John took two quick steps to the door, unlocked it, and blew into the house.
Both cats came running. They always did. So much energy, so much enthusiasm. Their greeting meant everything to him, along with the welcoming warmth the house had to offer. They were so happy to see him, they made him feel so good. Feeling good is a feeling he chased all his life.
He draped his coat over the nearest chair even though his wife hated that. He'd move it before she got home. He hit the head, then poured himself a generous whiskey, and slumped into his recliner.
It had been a shitty day.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the whiskey, giving it an artistic glow, so he put the glass on the shelf unit his Dad had made, to get a better angle. It turned his whiskey into a painting. A focal point of warmth, beauty, and reflection. As fatigue set in, he stared at it and slipped into reverie.
His thoughts turned to things that happened in his life that shouldn't have, and things that didn't happen that should have. Strangely, he wasn't feeling despair or panic, feelings his seventy one years tended to inspire.
He was feeling a strange mix of melancholy and gratefulness. A little bit of hope for redemption. Unusual for him. Again, reality shouldering its way into his thoughts.
He thought that maybe wisdom made its way into your heart when you weren't even looking.
He looked towards the whiskey with unfocused eyes, and saw his kids, jobs, laughter, tears, broken dreams, decades...................so many glasses of whiskey, so much life lived, celebrated, appreciated, regretted, and mourned. No different than anybody else.
The path he had taken made no sense to him, and the place where he was at was anathema to his dreams, but still, he had created a life and there was a lot of good there, a lot of love, a lot of comfort.
That counts for something.
He told his shrink that if he died today, the only fitting epitaph would be "He pissed his life away." His shrink physically recoiled at that comment, which caught John off guard. Did Dr. Feelgood actually believe John's life made sense? That it was worthwhile?
It gave him something to think about, and he was doing that now.
He felt good, he felt peaceful. He knew he still had to do something with his life, at the very least to prove his worth to himself, but it seemed he had scaled back his thinking from apocalyptic to somewhat reasonable. Maybe
It wasn't perfect but it was good enough. For now.
He heard the door open, and he heard "You couldn't hang up your coat?"
He sighed and took a sip of whiskey. Admired the beautiful, warm, color enhanced by the setting sun.
He smiled.
