ImPulse

ImPulse
by Eric Stauffer

***author note: I appologize for the horrible structure, but this was a nasty copy and paste experience***

Gazing out the window of his fifth floor apartment window, the old man watched a young boy feed pigeons at a small park. It was a typical November morning in Philadelphia, a thin sheet of gray clouds covering all but a few scattered flecks of blue. The milky white light was harsh on the old man’s eyes.
He took a deep breath, followed by the familiar coughing and gasping, testament to his tarred and diseased lungs. Lighting an unfiltered Pall Mall, he reflected upon his own childhood as he watched the young boy run to and fro among the pigeons.
His vision blurred, and he quickly wiped away the premature tears. Turning from the window, he walked through his sparsely furnished one bedroom apartment stopping at the liquor cabinet. After a generous shot of expensive vodka, he refilled the glass with cheap orange juice. This was his breakfast of choice for the past 4 years.
Edward Lockhardt set the empty glass down with a soft clink and glanced at the clock. 9:42 am. Every day seemed longer anymore, every day seemed less important. Reluctantly he shifted his eyes to his dusty answering machine only to find the usual digital zero glaring back at him. His son had stopped calling a few years back, yet Edward still held some vague sense of hope. Grabbing his cheap leather jacket from it’s hook he walked out the door, locking it behind him.
Once on the street, looking up at this crummy apartment complex Edward was glad he decided to go out. He walked down the sidewalk with his head down, not making eye contact with anyone. This city wasn’t what it used to be, not at all.
He stopped at a small convenience store, bells chimed to announce his entry. Filling a styrophome cup with steaming coffee that smelled stale, he looked over his shoulder. The shop appeared to be empty save himself and the clerk- a fat black woman engrossed in a celebrity tabloid.
He nearly overfilled the cup and burned his hand before he averted his attention back to it. Foolish old man.
Snapping a plastic lid over the cup, he strolled down a far aisle stopping at the refrigerated section. After a few moments of browsing, he found what he wanted. Opening the glass door, he snatched a bouquet of half a dozen roses. They looked somewhat sickly, but they’d have to do.
Approaching the counter, he put the coffee and roses down and handed the fat woman a crumpled ten dollar bill. As she counted his change, she took another glance at the roses.
“Goin’ out on a hot date this mornin, hun?” her raspy voice was laced with sarcasm. He brought up his cold gray eyes to meet her. She shuddered.
“$4.10’s your change.” She sounded distant, frightened.
Out on the street again, Edward continued his walk. A young man wearing a tattered blue windbreaker and a Phillies cap which looked comically too big for his hear cautiously approached Edward. The man looked like he hadn’t had a shower or a shave in weeks.
“Got any spare change, brotha?” a blast of liquor infested breath slapped Edward in the face. The man smiled uneasily. Whatever teeth he had left in that festering mouth were yellow and rotting. Edward handed the man two dollars.
"Go buy yourself a damn toothbrush."
"Drop dead, cheap bastard." he replied, and strolled off whistling to himself. 'What a beautiful city,' Edward thought as he continued on his way.
Deep in thought, he nearly walked right past the iron cemetary gates. With a soft push, the gate swung noiselessly inward. Edward always expected it to ominously creak open, but the groundskeepers had the area in good repair- and this wasn't the movies.
The path memorized, he walked purposefully through the around the rows of gravestones, careful not to step on the dead. Upon reaching his destination he solemnly laid the roses down on the soft earth. He caressed the engraving, eyes swimming.
"Here lies Emily Lockhardt, beloved wife and mother." Under this was a bible passage, but Edward wouldn't read it. He had given up on God years ago, as God had given up on him.
Sitting on the freshly cut grass, back resting against the cold gravestone, he was flooded with memories of his life, the life he had. The family he had once had. Edward never believed the old saying "Life is short." In his opinion, it was long. So utterly long.
A distant yet powerful voice snapped his attention back to reality. He gazed in the direction of the voice and saw a burial in progress towards the back of the cemetary. On impulse, he rose and walked in that direction, lighting a cigerette. A large group of men, women, and children made a solemn ring around the casket. A Catholic priest was reading from the bible, the onlookers heads were bowed. Slowly circling around the black clad group he got a view of the deceased man's face. He looked young. Very young. Edward guessed the man couldn't have been over 25.
Life could be so strange. Edward, an old shriveled man with no one to leave behind, wanted to die. He longed for the release that death promised. But God had taken this young man instead, with his whole life ahead of him- with his friends and family grieving.
As the grim ceremony reached it's completetion, the group began to disperse. Edward felt a soft tug on his sleeve and looked down. Shocked, he realized he was looking at the same boy he had seen earlier that day, chasing pigeons at the park. He was now wearing a black suit that looked way too big for his small frame. Edward guessed the suit had belonged to an older brother.
"Why do you look so sad, mister?" he asked, his voice filled with childhood innocence. "I'll miss Bryan too, but at least you and me are still alive. Bryan would want us to be happy, that's what mommy told me." as if on cue, the boy's mother called to him from the street.
Edward lit another Pall Mall and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Damn, the kid was right. It took a child's wisdom to open a taciturn old man's eyes.
Back at his apartment, he went right for the liquor cabinet out of sheer habit. His hand froze on the bronze knob. He heard the child's voice again, in his head. "Bryan would want us to be happy..." Reluctantly, he let his hand drop to his side. Instead, he went for the phone. Hands slightly shaking, he punched in a series of numbers. After a few moments of ringing he nearly placed the phone back down on it's cradle when a tired voice answered the line.
"Son...? Son, how are you?"

END