"It's on about now," he continues, "that you find yourself kind of alone, not lonely, mind you, just sort of in a deficit of familiar faces. As a veteran of the world; I mean fifty-six is gettin' on. I'm pretty well established, but I've noticed that the trusted comrades, all those folks who knew me when and well, have started to shuffle off or just, maybe drift. Nothing can be done. This is the way of the world. We ebb and flow, you know?"
His question, low-rent rhetorical, of course, goes unanswered. Sebastian Tindelbaugh shifts uncomfortably in the momentary silence. His big-box brand sneakers squeak quietly under the strain. He is all too aware that his athletic socks are digging into his shins. He clears his throat, mindlessly scratching the paunch drooping over his waistband like a Quebecois fur-trapper's trophy of pelts.
"We're all on our own adventure, you see," Tindelbaugh states. "Sometimes you have traveling companions, but then, I don't know. There's a fork in the old road or something. You go one way, everybody else chooses their own path. Maybe they're lost. Maybe you are, but not for long, right? Anyway, you find the forest is unfamiliar and populated with new folks, different, though not unfriendly, but they're on their own adventure too, so, like, you're speaking different languages. Everyone is a stranger. It's hard." He sighs. Looks around. No one seems particularly interested.
"You do anything long enough," he presses on. "And you become an oddity, maybe. They. Younger folks is who I mean, no offense, mind you. They look at you as sort of pleasantly out of touch or maybe, uninformed, like I haven't lived on the Earth for some time." The word pathetic pops into his mind, but he refuses to utter such a thing. Sebastian Tindelbaugh absolutely refuses to attend pity-parties, even his own.
"Pay attention, now," he says. "This is important," he nods knowingly, but doesn't wait for any response. "There's a difference between being stubborn and knowledgeable, sort of, uh, well-versed, you know? I mean, I'm not over-the-hill, I still got a lot left in the tank. I got some things to share, but too often, I get treated like some kind of dinosaur. I'm not, you know? A dinosaur. I'm-"
"Like I said, your order is all ready, sir," the kid says, interrupting. The kid sets Sebastian's sandwiches on the counter and turns to help the next customers without another thought.
"Thanks," Sebastian says, blinking back the, what is it? Tears? No, never! The isolation? "No one listens anymore," he says quietly.
Out in the car, his daughter opens her sandwich, shakes her head.
"I said no cheese!" she complains.
"Must'a forgot," Sebastian replies.
"No one listens anymore," she mocks, though it's pretty clear she has someone in mind.
10-18-19
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