The Old Man
I wrote this down as an outline about two years ago, while living in Dalton. I thought Rippy could play the title character, an older man who loved too passionately. After telling the story to a friend I realized that it sounded like The Old Man and the Sea, which I’ve never read, but with a rug instead of a fish, or water, or whatever. Maybe I mean to say it’s more like Moby Dick?
Anyway, it starts the Old Man walking down the sidewalk of a busy four-lane road, the sort of thoroughfare you exit onto from the interstate. He goes into a Burger King, orders a meal, and asks Rosalita, the middle-aged Hispanic woman at the register, to join him. She tells him to wait a few minutes. He sits down, starts to eat. Rosalita comes and sits with him on her break. He’s been doing this every night for two weeks, since first arriving in this town. Something about Rosalita calls out to him, maybe the patchwork of creases on her dry face, or the coarse hands that suggest her hardscrabble life. Anyway, it’s obvious that he’s in love.
As they talk, the Old Man tells Rosalita about his previous jobs, each one an example of how he loves too passionately. In the 1970’s he was a roadie for Emerson Lake and Palmer, specifically Greg Lake’s rug roadie. Lake had a $6000 rug that he stood on every night during his bass solos, and he kept the Old Man on staff to insure the rug got taken care of. At first just another job, the Old Man quickly came to love this rug, passionately and resolutely. The rug became the main focus of his existence. He’d never leave the rug’s side, except for the three hours or so a night that Lake and the rug were on-stage. He’d load it off the bus and clutch it tightly to his chest until time came to lay it upon the stage. When the concert ended, the Old Man was the first roadie out, rolling up that rug and drawing it deep against his bosom. He gave up drinking and drugging with the other roadies, eschewed residual groupie action and the crazed excesses of the late ‘70’s arena-rock life. He stopped riding in the body of the bus, preferring to sleep in the cargo hold with the rug. The rug consumed his entire being. As the tour wound down, he began to realize that he and the rug would be separated, perhaps forever. One night he tried to abscond from the tour, with his precious rug in tow; he was found out, however, and an unsympathetic Lake fired him. Lake didn’t even let the Old Man say goodbye to the rug. A part of the Old Man died that day, perhaps the greatest part.
Before his roadie job he was a soldier in World War II, a carnival wrestler in Blackpool, and, at 13, the youngest member of Parliament.
I have no idea what happens at that Burger King. He probably wins a free Whopper, or breakfast sandwich, or something.
Anyway, it starts the Old Man walking down the sidewalk of a busy four-lane road, the sort of thoroughfare you exit onto from the interstate. He goes into a Burger King, orders a meal, and asks Rosalita, the middle-aged Hispanic woman at the register, to join him. She tells him to wait a few minutes. He sits down, starts to eat. Rosalita comes and sits with him on her break. He’s been doing this every night for two weeks, since first arriving in this town. Something about Rosalita calls out to him, maybe the patchwork of creases on her dry face, or the coarse hands that suggest her hardscrabble life. Anyway, it’s obvious that he’s in love.
As they talk, the Old Man tells Rosalita about his previous jobs, each one an example of how he loves too passionately. In the 1970’s he was a roadie for Emerson Lake and Palmer, specifically Greg Lake’s rug roadie. Lake had a $6000 rug that he stood on every night during his bass solos, and he kept the Old Man on staff to insure the rug got taken care of. At first just another job, the Old Man quickly came to love this rug, passionately and resolutely. The rug became the main focus of his existence. He’d never leave the rug’s side, except for the three hours or so a night that Lake and the rug were on-stage. He’d load it off the bus and clutch it tightly to his chest until time came to lay it upon the stage. When the concert ended, the Old Man was the first roadie out, rolling up that rug and drawing it deep against his bosom. He gave up drinking and drugging with the other roadies, eschewed residual groupie action and the crazed excesses of the late ‘70’s arena-rock life. He stopped riding in the body of the bus, preferring to sleep in the cargo hold with the rug. The rug consumed his entire being. As the tour wound down, he began to realize that he and the rug would be separated, perhaps forever. One night he tried to abscond from the tour, with his precious rug in tow; he was found out, however, and an unsympathetic Lake fired him. Lake didn’t even let the Old Man say goodbye to the rug. A part of the Old Man died that day, perhaps the greatest part.
Before his roadie job he was a soldier in World War II, a carnival wrestler in Blackpool, and, at 13, the youngest member of Parliament.
I have no idea what happens at that Burger King. He probably wins a free Whopper, or breakfast sandwich, or something.
posted by darkness @ 6:23 AM
1 Comments:
At 3:29 PM,
ice said…
The woman is brought to tears from the man's stories. She tells him that he has lived a wonderful life and not to let his pains stop him from loving anymore. She gets up and goes back towards the freezer. In there is the world's greatest whopper, which she has slowly been working on for the last couple of months after work. Earlier that day she came to the conclusion that she had finally come upon the secret recipe for the world's greatest burger. She was saving it to eat after work, but instead brings it to the man. He takes a bite and a tear rolls down his face.
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