Roy at Ninety-Three

Having read some Roy stories and following a conversation about the lifetime odds of having a serious, maiming, accident, Copilot A.I. wrote the following flash fiction. (Image by ImageFX)

Roy at Ninety-Three

Roy had never liked hospitals. The smell of antiseptic, the soft tyranny of beeping machines, the way everything was padded and beige, like the world had been muffled. But he came anyway, every Thursday, to see Harold.

Harold had been his friend since Eisenhower. They’d played stickball in the Bronx, smoked their first cigarettes behind the A&P, married women who tolerated their jokes, and outlived most of their enemies. Harold had been hit by a drunk driver at seventy-two. The accident left him with a fused spine, a twisted hand, and a permanent residence in the long-term care wing of St. Agnes.

Roy walked slowly now, cane tapping like a metronome. His knees were shot, his hearing was selective, and his heart had a murmur that sounded like a jazz riff. But he was still vertical, still lucid, still Roy.

Harold was propped up in bed, watching a muted baseball game. His face lit up when Roy entered.

“Still ugly,” Harold said.

“Still breathing,” Roy replied. “One of us is winning.”

They talked about the Mets, about the nurse who flirted with Harold when she thought he was asleep, about the new mayor and the old deli that had finally closed. Roy brought Harold a pastrami sandwich, which Harold couldn’t chew but liked to smell.

After a lull, Harold said, “You ever think about how long we’ve lasted?”

Roy shrugged. “I think about how many people didn’t.”

Harold turned his head, slowly. “I used to wish I’d lived forever. Thought it was romantic. Now I think it’s cruel.”

Roy didn’t answer right away. He looked at Harold’s hand, curled like a question mark. He looked at the IV, the catheter bag, the way Harold’s body had become a negotiation.

“I used to think dying was the worst thing,” Roy said. “Now I think it’s the deal we make to avoid worse.”

Harold nodded. “Like what?”

“Like watching everyone you love disappear. Like your body turning into a museum exhibit. Like waking up every day and wondering what part of you won’t work.”

They sat in silence. The baseball game ended. The nurse came in and adjusted Harold’s pillows. Roy stood, slowly.

“I’ll be back next Thursday,” he said.

“You always say that,” Harold replied.

Roy leaned on his cane. “And one day I won’t. That’s the mercy of it.”

As he walked out, Roy passed a mirror in the hallway. He saw a man with white hair, a crooked spine, and eyes that still sparked. He thought about all the things he’d survived—wars, recessions, heartbreaks, Harold’s driving. He thought about how lucky he was to still be able to walk out of a hospital under his own power.

And he thought: maybe the point isn’t that mortality should be feared. It’s really immortality that should be feared. Because, if you live long enough, you will eventually become a Harold.