Being in the wrong place, and out of your "time."
One of the things my wife and I do is go to the mall book store to look for new releases, knife magazines and buy some substandard, over-priced coffee. Yes, I am watchful of strangers and I listen for townies getting out of control, but that's not my problem.
The problem is "me." I think it's because I'm about to turn 70 years of age.
As a boomer, I had the world by the tail for most of my life. As I entered the school system, one out of every three American citizens was a baby-boomer. Matel made toys for us that were new and exciting. Annette Funicello built a career on boomer boys. JFK was beloved despite his insatiable appetite for anything female. And just as we all turned 16 years of age, Chrysler put its 426 Hemi into cars we could afford.
Yikes, what a storybook existence! Then we turned 30 years of age. And just as we settled into that strata, we all turned 40.
Within a scant few months I will turn 70 years of age, and I still cannot believe it. Oh, I see elderly people, but most of my friends and I all look 53 years old, still flirt, ride motorcycles and throw down like it was 1968. But "time" has left us. We do not easily grasp new advances in computer technology. If we are blunt, some kid goes to find a store manager. I can understand most motorcycle magazines, but not many news renditions.
Over the last few months the coffee cafe' has gotten stranger, less hospitable and even a tad fearful. I no longer speak their language. Heck, people even sit in my seat! And finally, but slowly, I have become less important.
As I recently stated, I patched amid 40 members. Of that roll-call, only six have survived. The new CC Riders are cleaner cut, law abiding and actually ask guys like me to tell them stories of "the olden days."
I'm reminded of the old western gunslingers who when their time was up they rode into a new state, changed their look and their names, and started with a clean slate. They had no house wrapped up in a mortgage, nor was there anyone to read and decipher their fingerprints. These vagabonds left no trail.
As I came home today, I emptied my jeans' pockets and a switchblade clattered on the table. I doubt anyone born before 1960 knows that schedule. I mused that Captain Kirk was about to find me in a frozen stasis chamber, bemused by my pants made of cotton, my boots made of animal hides, and a 'cold steel' implement instead of a fully charged phaser. For in a real sense, that is exactly the person I have become.
This next birthday will be a hard one. It is when the history of my world ends and is forgotten.