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Waiting

John Farquhar Young

    Late on a sunny morning in May, Jim Davis, a lifelong bachelor now in his early 80s, sits in the small front porch of his cottage waiting for the arrival of the Council minibus (or is it an ambulance?) which will take him to the Community Center for his lunch.
    Once again, a Monday, he reflects. The beginning of a new week! The same week as last week and identical to the week before that - and all weeks preceding. My life, he ruefully accepts, just like trundling around a circular railway line, stopping at always-predictable stations.
    That’s my job now! he thinks, frowning. Just waiting!
    The minibus is white with the green horizontal green line painted under the windows. There is a special door at the rear for the wheelchair bound elderly. He does not need to board the bus through the special door – not yet anyway.
    The care assistant, a jolly, plumpish young lady named Sonia will bustle up the short path leading to the porch where he sits.
    One day I may not be waiting. He imagines the scene. Sonia (or someone similar) will go to the back door, try the handle, knock frequently, anxiously gaze through windows, and fret. In his mind’s eye he sees her using her mobile phone. “I think that there may be something wrong with Mr. Davis,” he imagines her saying. The keyholder, Mrs. Smith from down the road, will be contacted. The front door will be opened. “Mr. Davis, are you alright,” she will call from the foot of the stairs. “Oh dear!” she might exclaim when she discovers his body.
    For a reason he cannot properly determine, he is always amused by the imagined scene. “No more, ‘once agains’,” he chuckles. The train will have come off the track. Crashed! No more waiting.
    He thinks now about life after death as he often does at other times. The big hereafter! Will his consciousness still run on railway lines moving from stop to stop? Will there be a stream of predictable events – stops on a celestial railway line looped throughout all eternity? Depressing! Or, will novelty be a part of what is on offer in the hereafter? Will predictability be banished forever? But existence without predictability? That’s a big question.
    His mind drifts on.
    In the community center he will sit with other old people at long tables, row upon row. He will be given copious quantities of factory cooked fare. He can almost predict the menu. Not in detail. Details don’t matter.
    Tomato soup, I shouldn’t wonder, today, he thinks.
    And what to follow? The main course: mince, potatoes plus one veg. Mince has not been served for a couple of weeks. Mince... probably. And to follow? Something with custard - inevitably.
    Now he reminds himself that he would love to bite into a large, juicy, bacon cheeseburger with French fries. That sort of food was not considered to be good for old people and would not be on offer at the center. Clogs their arteries, someone will have decided.
    A bacon cheeseburger accompanied by copious qualities of French fries! He would relish that. Plus, mayonnaise, of course. Or tomato sauce. But not today. Today there would be something healthy placed in front of him. Mince probably and something with custard.
    On entering the ‘feeding station’ as he likes to call the community center, he will again try to spot - and try to avoid - Mrs. Henderson who usually arrives slightly earlier, on a different bus.
    “Do you know,” she always begins, “you strongly remind me of Frank, my late husband.”
    It is always good to avoid Mrs. Henderson. Without being too obvious, of course.
    Care assistants will hover, being jolly while discreetly observing people. He imagines that mental notes will be made about states of cleanliness, self-care, the ability to convey food from plates to mouths, and any signs of mental distance and detachment from reality. Social service records would be updated in due course and immediate action taken if needed.
    He riffles through the morning paper, starting with the sports pages and the TV schedule. “Rubbish” he mutters. Political goings-on and accounts of disasters are depressing and do not detain him for more than a few moments. Life can sometimes be so wearisome, he reminds himself.
    A mischievous thought nudges its way into his consciousness.
    The bus arrives.
    “You can skip past me today. I must meet someone.”
    Sonia looks anxious.
     “Don’t worry, I’ll be OK,” he repeats. “I haven’t seen the lady for some time.” True in small part - and not exactly a lie, he thinks. In the café there will be female staff.
    As intended, the hint that he is about to meet a woman produces a smile on Sonia’s face. He makes a guess at what she’s thinking. “There’s life in the old dog yet.” Indications that there are still sparks of life in the near-decrepit are looked on favorably by caring professionals.
    He watches the bus leave then shuffles to the telephone table, consults an ancient address book and orders a taxi.
    The cheeseburger towers on the plate in front of him. He has requested a few rashers of bacon. French fries are there in abundance.
    “God, this might kill me,” he mutters, at the same time resolved to eat as much as he can. As he munches away, relishing the strong flavors, he comes to a decision. “Well sort of a decision,” he murmurs, then looks around to see if anyone is looking at him, observing an old man talking to himself.
    He must blend the inevitable business of waiting for events with... with the unexpected, with challenges! His week must include challenges.
    Later: in the accident and emergency unit the nurse’s hazel blue eyes sparkle mischievously above her mask. “Think you may have overdone things Mr. Davis. I guess that you may know that.” She pauses. “We were all worried about a heart problem but as it turns out, it was just bad indigestion. We’ll have you home in no time.”
    The following Monday morning he waits, as usual, for the white council bus with the green stripe and the special door at the rear for the decrepit. He no longer desires a bacon cheeseburger but...the idea of challenges? That has taken root. The accomplishment of the previous week? He made scrambled eggs, not very good scrambled eggs, he admits, but good enough. And his scrambled eggs will improve in quality, he is sure of that. New modest cooking ventures and other small challenges lie ahead. He plans to have one or two raised beds installed in his garden and he has been thinking about what he will plant.
    He will watch his vegetables and flowers grow. Waiting for developments in the garden and dealing with challenges - that will be interesting, he thinks.

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