|
|
|
|
The Hunter The stub of his cigarette still smoldered in the ashtray when he lit the second, of what was to be a continuous chain. This accounted for his annoying cough. The vodka tonics, one after another, accounted for the little red veins, crisscrossing his nose and cheeks like secondary highways on a road atlas. Seeing Bill was a shock. It hadn’t been that long and yet he’d aged dramatically. We’re all a little older, a little greyer – but he looked like a derelict in a custom suit. The longish hair and bushy mustache once seemed ruggedly handsome, now it was just unkempt. The twinkling, mischievous look in his eyes was gone. They now appeared dull and rheumy. If he’d had a rough time, Bill’s appearance would be more easily comprehended. His life though was soft, soft as his belly and bloated face. Once an ardent sportsman, he was now a collector – a collector of fine shotguns and expensive fishing tackle. He spent hours reading about the outdoors but no hardships were to be endured. Any foray into the wilderness these days was by motorized conveyance and nighttime meant a rich meal and a soft bed at the nearest hotel. An obvious lack of exercise, along with a fatty diet, had reshaped his body. Soft and pudgy on the outside, it was easy to envision plaque-lined arteries on the inside, and a heart soon to quit. Bill allowed himself every luxury, every vice, yet when he said, ”life seemed empty,” I believed him. I paid the check, wished him the best and made my way out to the parking lot. Copyright © September 1989 Michael D. Kerrigan |
