LatinosUSA

You are the salt of the earth. But remember that salt is useful when in association, but useless in isolation.
Israelmore Ayivor

Everything felt wrong when he woke up that morning. His neck hurt, and he had painful cramps in his legs. His vision was blurred beyond the usual condition of his eyes. His stomach growled and his heart was beating rapidly, as if he had been working out. He shifted his position so that he was sitting at the edge of the bed, wondering whether it was worthwhile to get up.

He took a big gulp of water and, as his mind cleared, he considered his options. He had no urgent matters to attend; in fact, his calendar was blank, as it had been since his wife passed away several years before. He could go back to sleep, or try to, but that was boring, and what he needed was not rest. To the contrary, he desired action, not repose. He would have some coffee and maybe a light breakfast, and then what? Now that the weather was finally good, he could go for a walk along the village – that would take at most an hour, and then what? Sit on his porch and watch the early birds dine at the feeder – maybe half an hour more, and then what? He had not even reached lunchtime and was out of things to do.

He could play games on the computer, or watch the news on TV. However, both were empty exercises and, in the case of the news, supplied distressing updates on the sad state of the world. He could go online and run through his correspondence and other messages. However, like the hero in the García Márquez tale, nobody wrote to him anymore. It would be just bills, solicitations, and advertisements.

His daughter was grown and gone. He survived most of his friends. There were no work deadlines or pending social engagements to occupy his time.

He did have a cache of audio files and videos, but he saved those for the evening, to while away the couple of hours before bedtime, and hated to waste useful time going through them. And then it hit him. He had no good uses to which his useful time could be put.

Had he been an ancient Norseman, he would have been placed on a board and cast to sea, to die of cold or starvation or become food for the sharks. Modern society was perhaps a little kinder: most people in his situation were stored away in dismal mausoleums, to rot away while waiting for the inevitable. Only the fact that he had saved some money from his work earnings allowed him the luxury of remaining at large, saved from the fate of the living dead. But, aside from preserving his independence, was he much better off?

He wondered if he had become obsolete, a relic of better times when his efforts provided measurable benefits to society. Today, nobody really needed him. When he left, he would be gone without a trace, probably forgotten by everyone five minutes after his corpse was confined to the ground.

Yet he was available to provide love, counsel, and assistance to his friends and relatives who sought his advice or needed comforting words. These benefits might be of dubious value, yet he remained willing and able to provide them.

Also, over the years, he developed the modest hobby of doing sketches and caricatures of people, animals, and things. He was far from a master in skill and artistry. The best he could accomplish was to make recognizable portraits of his subjects, which often seemed amusing to them and to others, and brought smiles to their faces. He regarded his works as, at best, glorified doodles of no intrinsic worth. But perhaps they were just a tad useful because they gave pleasure to some. His works were analogous to simple pieces of candy, like chocolate-covered nuts, enjoyable and having a modicum of nutritional value.

Then there was his thirst for knowledge, which remained unquenched after years of reading and studying.

And there was his dog, a small bit of fluff that slavishly followed him around, incessantly begged for treats, and curled at night in close, intimate contact with his body. It was, of course, animal greed, instinct without conscious emotional attachment, animal affection that would surely dissipate the moment he was gone. But, as long as he was alive, he would fill a temporary but important place in his pet’s tiny heart. To that extent, he was useful to one living being.

And there were his occasional postings on the social internet pages – his readers usually reacted positively to his commentaries, and although not making any significant contribution to the betterment of mankind, his musings might enlighten a few people.

He also made gifts to worthy charities and political donations where he felt his help could make a difference. Again, these monies might not mean much in practice, but added to coffers of entities whose work he supported. However, he was leaving nothing in his will to anyone to whom he was not related, and believed it was up to his successors to decide how any assets should be used. But as long as he lived, the choice and responsibility were his. Adding it all up, he certainly was no longer a highly contributing member of society, and perhaps provided little added value to the world. But his survival was not inconsequential. If the credits and debits in his life yielded a positive balance, no matter how small, he should not feel downcast about continuing to exist and should not be questioned by his insignificance. The true tasks ahead for him in these golden years should be trying to keep boredom manageable, exist as well as his health and resources allow, and enjoy the gift of being alive.

Previously published in “short-story.me”