The Fountains of Youth

 I have a friend who is five years older than me. Well, OK. He’s 85 to be precise. An old 85 as far as I am concerned. He has a gloomy disposition. He opens his mouth and a complaint drops out. I say it’s a beautiful day, and he comes back with, “What’s beautiful about it? My prostate’s acting up again.” 

Not many people in the neighborhood can tolerate him. He is not a man to keep his aches and pains to himself. I’ve known him for fifty years. When he complains, I tell him to shut up. “Nobody cares about your suffering.”

One day, we were walking and a gloomy cloud hovered over his head. 

“What’s bothering you?” I asked. 

We sat down on the lawn in front of water fountains gushing upward to the squeals of little children drenched to the bone with the water splashing down over them. 

“When I was young,” he said,  “I wanted to be old. And I got what I wished for.”

“Yeah, but now you can wish all you want and you’ll never be young again.”

“Maybe not,” he said and after a struggle he stood up. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to lie down and die.” 

His answer reminded me of the days when he was a brash young man brimming with vim and vigor.

He trudged toward the water fountains.

“Where’re you going, old man?” I called out after him.

“Come on, you old stick in the mud. Let’s get our clothes wet.”