Borrowed Time

The squeaking of the old wooden rocking chair churning rhythmically against the creaky wood planks of the front porch had always had a soothing effect on Harry. The sound coupled with the subtle bumps caused by the imperfect arches of the chair consistently reminded him of the same stretch of highway he used to drive almost everyday. The poorly-paved roads offered a plethora of different opportunities to jolt you into alertness, making it impossible to drift off... unless you've driven the road enough to know what to expect. By then, the repetition lulls you into a state of dull relaxation. On more than one occasion had Harry fallen asleep behind the wheel, fortunate that the blares of horns caused by panicked drivers had done their job in snapping him back into reality before disaster struck. Lady luck had been on his side far too many times for a man most of the townfolk assert that he's living on “borrowed time”.

It's been over 15 years since Harry last drove his dinged-up reliable Chevy up and down the quarter-mile stretch. Years of mistreatment of his body slowly broke him down and forced him to succumb to the inevitability of fragility... namely diabetes. Eventually, his eyes surrendered to condition forcing him to hang up his trucker's hat... and essentially the only life he'd ever known up until then. Most of his life was spent behind the wheel of some vehicle or another, and now he was forced to concede into only driving short distance where rarely ever did other cars cross his path. Despite his efforts to alter his habits, the eyes continued to diminish to the point where just being able to decipher between the R for reverse and the D for drive would have been impossible if his hands weren't already pre-programmed to know where they were on the gearbox.

And now the rusted vehicle sat idly in the garage, collecting as much dust as it did memories. There were enough cobwebs, debris and decaying rodents underneath the truck to require a shovel should anyone be interested in taking the ol' girl for a spin. Harry thought about it from time to time and, as much as he yearned for the old days, he thought better of it and left fate and luck to the younger folk and those who haven't cheated death already. Instead, the classic Chevy C/K was put into permanent retirement and buried alive, replaced by the less risky rocking chair. The smooth wooden steering wheel that his hands spent so much time manipulating have become two unfinished armrests, while the rigidness of the unfinished roads became a smooth journey of about a foot.

Contentedly, Harry looks out over the horizon where the sun currently makes its final decent. The brightness is blinding, even for Harry's deteriorating eyes. He is forced to squint, further blurring the homogenous sights of the unblemished nature in which he had surrounded himself with. The sounds of swaying leaves and branches reminds him how much he loves the outdoors; the musky, humid smell of the summer heat and the fertile soil filling his nostrils, intoxicating him. He'll always miss the smell of cheap gasoline and the droning sound of the motor as it chugged to where it had to go, but these are the things Harry truly loves.

The swaying of the chair gradually slows down as Harry peacefully closes his eyes and drifts off.

And then he crapped his pants.

Apparently Harry can't control his bowel movements.