DANIEL J BENTLETT

Contrary to popular fiction, life for a 100-year old was a repetitive and lonesome one. Climbing from windows and disappearing seemed a foolish pursuit that could cause irreparable damage. So it was the last thing Stanly Gilks contemplated, on this, his one-hundredth birthday, unless contemplating suicide, which, at his age, seemed meaningless. One thing they fail to tell you about aging: Your body will do it upmost to humiliate you. Dependent on which side was functioning the best Stanly’s rout from bed to bath changed daily. Quick dashes become near impossible when most your limbs threatened to crumble with every step. Because of this Timing’s essential; too soon and you’ll end up with latrine leg, a common ailment, forcing one to sit for hours; numb from waist down, until ‘the help’ arrives to drag you off and sponge you down. Too late, well Stanley had a plentiful stock of carpet cleaner for such occasions, but with 15 years of practice had little need for it anymore.

The obligatory letter from the queen hung like the slack tongue of a stroke victim from the letterbox. It read:

          ‘I am pleased to know you are celebrating your one-hundredth birthday. I send my congratulations and best wishes to you on such a very special occasion.’

How insensitive, thought Stanly gently placing the letter back in the envelope and filing it to the bin. How foolish of her to assume he’d be celebrating when all he really wanted was commiserations and permission to die. In most other countries the older generation is revered, their unbound knowledge and wisdom brings (as it should) respect some are even decorated as shamans. But our Stanly was no witchdoctor, his fingers where so gout ridden he’d struggle to take the back off a plaster. In this country reach a certain age and your basically classed as ‘walking dead.’ Unloved, unwanted left abandoned to a world you no longer understand, that no longer understands you. So a condescending letter from the queen certainly wasn’t going to make Stanly feel better about the impending rickets. Queenie meant as little to him as he did to her. If she really wanted to award him for a painfully long existence she’d send him on a one-way trip to ‘Euthanasia Island’ where drugs are free, alcohol’s on tap and the highlight real of his life plays on a loop. It was Monday; habit ensured Stanly withdrew his government pension, a miniscule amount hardly worth the trip. Being a proud old man, instead of waiting for the carer (who normally collected it for him) he decided to make the quarter of a mile journey to the post office alone and on foot. It was his birthday after all, maybe he could claw back a little dignity. The idea had barely taken hold in the old mans head, before he opened the front door of his ground floor flat and stepped out. Over the years Stanly had grown fearful of the outside world and developed agoraphobia, exacerbated by hours spent watching the BBC news channel. This all-consuming world had been poisoned with war, violence, hatred, ignorance and greed and it seemed everyone had been infected. Stanly hesitated, checking his inside pocket (a most underused pocket) for house keys that where gladly present along with a thin leather wallet, which bar two ten pound notes, a bus pass and out of date drivers license seemed barely worth having. Even with that small amount of money on his person Stanly felt a little uneasy taking his first fear filled steps forward, which were so slow he actually took two steps back. Before he had time to realize, his aching limbs had carried him back into his poky flat, put the kettle on and sat him down in front of the snooker (the only thing on TV he could keep up with.) It was clear now what Stanly had to do before the inevitably dry cake arrived, a congratulatory ‘fuck you’ from the same maniacal god that saw his beautiful wife buried before him. That afternoon Stanly passed away, late as usual!

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