Old Guyz

Old Guyz

unfinished

15 June 1997

26 years old

The door opened and Trevor squinted against the sunlight that leaked around (silhouetted) the (entering) figure. A large figure it was, once of a tall, broad-shouldered man, strapping in his youth, burly in his middle years, and now fading to gaunt… his once-broad shoulders now stooping forward, the strong stride of his younger years given way to a gait that verged on a shuffle.

The door closed and Trevor recognized the newcomer, now a t the desk giving his name to the receptionist, “Ripley. Charles Ripley.” He sighed and rolled his eyes away, suppressing the groan that threatened to escape his throat. That’s a Monday for you, for sure. Hadn’t been able to piss for a week, fought with Madeline about making the appointment (finally giving in when she threatened to ___), and now this—being forced to sit in the same waiting room with CHUCK?! The last thing he needed was a reminder of his youth. And an unpleasant one, at that.

Oh, the years had been good enough, he’d give him that much. He’d met and married Madeline, after all, had kids, grandkids, a good job, now retired and living on a healthy pension (even if his prostate was not). But to forgive and forget? Nope. Never. Call him a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.

Chuck sat in the chair across from him, reached for a magazine without looking at the title. “Mornin’,”

“Mornin’,” Trevor muttered, picking at a nubbin of material on his jeans. It would be a scorcher that day, he knew. He could smell the early heat coming off of Chuck’s clothes. Old bastard must’ve walked here, Trevor thought.