The nuisance of the monotonous wake up call coming from the side table broke through his dreams. Groggily he rolled over and slammed his fist down on the sleep button. With the back of his hand he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and yawned. Scratching his back he sat up and dangled his legs off the bed, grabbed his pack of cigarettes and his lighter from the nightstand and pulled out a paper roll of tobacco and fresh nicotine. He held the failing flame to the end of the stick until the embers glowed, and sucked a long drag into his already tar-laden lungs.

            An hour later he strolled down the street, the sun on his back, already burning his flesh through the thick black leather jacket he donned. He ambled into the liquor store to buy a fresh pack of cigarettes.

            “Morning Larry.”

            “Morning Jim! How’s it going?”

            “Same as always.” He picked up a newspaper and slid it across the counter. “Marlboro.” The black man behind the counter turned to grab the box with the red strip. He noticed Larry’s balding scalp and the silver nap that cupped the back of his head. When he turned and placed the pack on the counter, his hand shook unsteadily.

            “How’s your old man?”

            “Same as always.”

            “Tell him I said hi.”

            “Will do, see ya.” He gathered the newspaper and the pack of cigarettes and slipped out the door, the bells on the handles jingling as he left.

            He continued down the street, still somewhat empty at 8 am on a Saturday morning, and turned the corner at the light. Across the street was the market; wooden stands with a rainbow of selections of produce. He jogged across to the stands and carefully examined the day’s fruit, like a jeweler studying a diamond. He tested the skin for firmness, smelled the surface for the sweet perfume of ripeness, looked for any sign of rot. After a few series of fruits, he plucked a medium sized nectarine from a bunch and stuck it in a brown paper bag.

            “I’ll take this one Chuck.”

            “Same as always, huh Jim? How’s your dad?”

            “Same, see you tomorrow.” He turned and stepped off the curb, jogging back to the other side of the street with paper bag rolled up in his hand and the newspaper tucked under his arm. He stopped at the coffee shop, the strong aroma of pure caffeine calling to him.

            “Hey Jim! The usual?”

            “Please.” He sat at a table by the counter waiting for his tall cup of straight black Joe. His eyes scanned the front page of the paper, reading a few random tell-all headlines and not compelled to read further.

            “Here ya go Jim. Say hi to your dad.”

            “Thanks man.” He sipped the steaming hot coffee and allowed the hot fluid to

coat his throat as he felt it trailing down to the pit of his stomach, then continued on his way.

            Sitting on the bench at the bus stop, he drank his coffee and scanned the bottom half of the newspaper until the roaring box on wheels came to a halt, brakes shrieking in pain after one too many stops. He climbed the steps and dropped his coins into the slot, taking his usual seat towards the back beside the window. The steam from his cup fogged the bottom of the window. He raised a finger to the cloud of moisture, but then settled his hand back on his knee.

            The bus screeched again.

            “Forrester Street!” The driver’s deep voice boomed through the limited space of the bus. Jim stood and stepped off the bus, turning right and down the street two blocks, stopping in front of the white building with the many windows that peered down onto the street below. He took a deep breath and slowly shuffled up the walk to the entrance doors. The stench of urine, decay, and searing disinfectant burned his nose.

            “Hello James, your father’s waiting on the patio.” Though Jim knew this he allowed the nurse her ritual greeting and turned down the hall. Wheelchairs lined the walls, a quick glance to the left or right is usually greeted with a blue haired inept woman laying in a bed, risen slightly so she might swallow her food, or perhaps an old man dotted with liver spots staring hopelessly out the window for any sign of visitor, stranger or not.

            He passed the Activity Room, the TV blaring for no one in particular with Jerry Springer and his trailer trash whores pulling off shirts and chunks of badly weaved hair, waving blurred hand obscenities at the vindictive audience. Tables in the room with checker boards and puzzle pieces stayed empty, the men and women too tired to sit through a whole game of checkers or chess.

            He pushed the glass door open and stepped onto the patio. The sun burned down on him once more, and he shaded his face with an open palm to his forehead. His eyes trailed to the table he knew he’d find his father at.

            The man sat on the cement bench, arms crossed in front of him on the table as he rested his chest against them. His back curved naturally from old age, and it was a strain to sit up straight, if only for a moment. The white wisps of hair fluttered a bit in the sudden morning breeze, his eyes lowered, too tired to stay fully open. Jim took his place beside his father.

            “Morning Dad, breakfast.” He placed the nectarine in front of his father, then the newspaper beside it.

            “Morning Jimmy.” He picked up the nectarine, holding it to his mouth, then letting his teeth pierce the soft skin as beads of juice ran down the corners of his lips. He opened the paper wide and read briefly through some articles. After finishing no more than half of his fruit, he set it aside and closed the paper with a sigh.

            “What’s the matter Dad? You haven’t been the same lately.”

            “Jim, you know what I’ve realized in these last few years of my life?” Jim was silent, awaiting his answer. “Nothing, that’s what. I married your mother so young, we had you, and I worked at the same job for 47 years. Nothing changed in those years. I

never had the chance to travel. Your mother always wanted to travel. I never bought that Mercedes I always wanted, never lived for Christ’s sake!”

            “Dad you had a good life. Mom loved you, I love you. You raised a good family and took good care of us. That means a lot nowadays. That’s something to me!”

            “It was the same thing every day Jimmy. Wake up, work, come home, dinner, bed, wake up, everything over again.. Just a rut, that’s all I’ve had. I never did anything of real importance, I didn’t leave any mark on this world. When I’m gone no one will notice!”

            Jim sat silent for a minute, unsure how to answer.

            “I’m sorry, son,” he sighed. “I’m just a rundown old man with too much time on his hands to look back and regret.”

            They sat for an hour without uttering so much of a word, soaking in the sun and the fresh breeze on that beautiful summer morning. Jim studied his father, tired, withered, alone. A broken man that was once so strong. A man whose life was almost over and yet it had never even begun.

            The next morning, the call came. A heart attack. Days later Jim stood over the freshly dug and placed pile of earth, looking down upon his father’s resting place. He blinked the tears that blurred his vision away. His life had ended. Could you even call it life, if it had not been lived to the fullest? Is that not what we’re all here to do? The birds twittered in the trees above. A cold breeze swept up. The leaves rustled. He dug his toe into the dirt.

            “Love you Dad.”

            That night he laid in bed, replaying the last time he saw his dad, sitting there on the bench, worn, bent over, weak. As the sun had reached the sky above them, and Jim prepared to leave, his dad laid a hand on his knee. Jim looked up to meet his father’s stare. The deep blue eyes had not lost their luster, they sparkled softly but intently.

            “Don’t waste it Jim.” He turned over on his side, and eventually fell asleep.

            The next morning he slammed his fist on that damn clock, silencing the foul machine. He rubbed his eyes and rose, reaching for his cigarettes.

            He strolled down the street, into the liquor store.

            “Morning Larry.”

            “Morning Jim!” He left with a paper and a pack of Marlboros. He reached the market and studied the goods.

            “This one Chuck.”

            “Same as always.” He nodded and continued on down to the coffee shop.

            “The usual?”

            “The usual.” He inhaled the steam as he sipped, then sauntered down the street to catch the bus, and rode downtown.

            “Forrester!” He almost stood, but then sat back down. This was no longer his stop.

            “Rose!” He slowly got up from his seat and stumbled out of the bus.

            Walking up the grassy hills, dodging each smooth glassy plate in the dirt, he

searched for his dad. Finally he spotted him and shuffled over to the stone.

            “Morning Dad, breakfast.” He sat the nectarine down on the headstone next to the name etched in the smooth marble: James.