The Rebirth of Clayton Powell - Part 1

     Clayton Powell had decided to die. He hadn't all the details together yet, but the seed had been planted and he decided it wasn't an altogether frivolous idea, given the circumstances. Friday's issue of the local newspaper lay splayed out on the table beside a tepid mug of Nabob.

     “Gem with a changing luster...seven letters”.

     He bounced the pencil on the table, eraser side down, bidding his frontal lobe to the agility and speed it once knew. C-a-t-s-e-y-e. It fit. It rather fit his life, too. Mark and Andrea, grown and gone; his job long acquiesced to a younger version of himself. And now Rhonda, his long-time consort, dance partner and travel mate gone too. His luster had moved beyond “changing” to dulled and opaque.

     He wasn't sore at her for leaving. Given the gene pool she'd been swimming in she really didn't stand much of a chance. Other than a younger brother who drowned as a child, every one of her family had succumbed to the cancer piranha with which the family pool was infested. Clayton was past mourning, grief moving on to where grief goes when it's done with you.

     He stirred at the buzz of his cell phone.

     “Hello.”

     “Hey dad. Mark here. What are you up to?”

     “Oh, living the dream, Son. Got up this morning and clipped my toe nails, made myself a big plate of scrambled rubber; you're mother left a ton of that egg replacement stuff in the pantry.”

     “Jeez, sounds like a regular Mardi Gras going on over there.”

     “Yeah, well, my golf games been a bit off these days so I thought I'd pursue some other excitements, like seeing how much smoke it takes to set off the kitchen fire alarm.”

     “Guess Mom should have taught you to cook. Actually, the reason I'm calling is cause Lizzie and I want to invite you to spend the month of August with us. You and I can swing a few holes. The kids need to see more of you, you know?”

     “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate you looking out for me but I've gotta learn to fend for myself around here. It's been almost six months, you know. Besides, I've got that trip to D.C scheduled in August, remember?”

     “Dad, you didn't cancel that?”

     “Hey, you're mother may be gone, but I'm still alive. I've gotta do something other than give myself pedicures and watch Charlie's Angels reruns.”

     Mark chuckled. He knew Clayton hated Charlie's Angels.

     “I just thought...well...you and Mom planned that trip together. It was her dream to stand on the National Mall and get a glimpse of the Great American Bird.”

     It was Clayton's turn to laugh. He remembered how they'd sat around the dining table, Washington brochures laid out like jigsaw puzzle pieces. She joked about the Washington Monument; it looked like a giant middle finger, built to monolithic proportions so the Russian satellites would pick it up as they passed over American skies.

     The truth is, Clayton had almost cancelled the flights, twice. Right now, it was an easy out. He loathed the idea of spending too much time with Mark and Lizzie. They were busy and his extended visits were suffocating, making him feel more vacant than the house he'd left behind.

     “Well, I guess I'll have to go and salute it myself; for her. Don't worry, Mark, I'm all right. I've got to learn to fly solo sometime.”

     “O.k. Take care, Dad. Will we see you at Christmas, then?”

     “Sure...Christmas. I'll call you before I fly out.”

     Clayton shuffled the slippers off of his sweaty feet and turned his attention back to the crossword. He tried to focus but the black and white squares stared blankly back at him. A game of Snakes and Ladders, and he kept sliding down the snakes back to start position. Coaxing his reading glasses from his ears he rubbed tired eyes, leaning back in his chair.

     Championship For Lonely Seemers. 

     The headline jumped out from the page, opposite the crossword, a muddled mix of nonsense. Clayton dropped his glasses back onto his nose and leaned in. Companionship For Lonely Seniors. He chuckled; isn't that what crosswords were for? He read on. Seniors dating service – looking to fill that emptiness - non-threatening environment– plenty of other lonely seniors waiting to meet you.

     Clayton glanced up, a bead of sweat pilling on his forehead. Rhonda watched him from atop the mantle, a curl of salt and pepper hair sweeping across her brow. He stood, drew up to the mantle and flipped the photograph onto its face, paused, lifted it up again and turned her to face the brick facade.

     He sat down to the paper and scanned through the ad again. A short interview – a photo taken for your personal companionship file – a professional match-maker to ensure your match is ideal for you.

     Who was he kidding? Yesterday he'd decided to end it, hand in his resignation to the Great CEO. Today he's checking out the personal ads like a teenager looking for a quick shake in the sack. My gosh, is this what it had come to?

     Pencil back in hand he doodled around the perimeter of the ad, happy faces, frowny faces, curly-cues. He scrawled into the margins – old man – lived your life – let it go. The pencil point moved to the emboldened phone number at the bottom of the ad and drew a bold bubble around it. Clayton closed the paper, folded it and carried it to the recycle bin, listening as it slapped to the bottom.

Continued...