Ace of a man
He examined himself in the mirror. The face he saw was clearly his own, familiar yet disturbingly different. Altered by _ what? _ growth, development, maturity. Hardly. The words that stayed in his mind were time, age, defeat.
He looked again. His cheeks were flat, brown: lines had started appearing at the corners of his mouth and beneath his eyes. And the softness that embraced his middle was a permanent attachment, a mark of long years of indulgence and good living.
The youth had fled. Departed without notice. The signs had always been there to see, had he chosen to recognise the evidence. With youth had gone his dreams, his aspirations; and all that remained were an unknown number of years to be filled with transient pleasures, meaningless sensations, empty triumphs. A shiver wrenched his body and he left the glass gladly.
Abruptly, and _ it shocked him to recognise it _ for the first time in his life, he became truly aware of his own mortality, of the inexorable diminishment of his powers, his vigour, his sexuality, and his inevitable demise. Suddenly the future loomed up as a disaster zone that all sane men would wish to avoid; one which no man could escape.
A sick-making terror gripped him, fear, panic that was almost physical in its painful persistence. But it was not of age he was afraid. Nor of death. Instead it was the clear vision of waste, the waste of his own resources, his own time, of life itself.
How much of himself he had given away. Correction: thrown away. Deliberately at times, consciously. Depositing into an existential sumphole the best parts of his being. The richest lode had been exchanged in favour of passing rewards and pleasures. His love. His work. All gone, all. Looking back, it seemed to him that more than most men, he had killed what he loved.
The past was an icy pit and looking into it paralysed him and increased his fear. Somehow he had to work himself back into shape to survive. In the beginning, when he had first embarked tentatively, timidly, on a writing career, survival had been his primary motivation. What he produced had to feed and clothe and house him; and provide emotional nourishment as well. For many years, he had fantasised about doing better work, the best; when he was ready, he kept telling himself. An empty dream. Now it was vital that he return to that earlier and more sensible reality. In order to exist, he had to work.
He dressed _ jeans, a loose-fitting linen sports shirt, loafers but no socks. A vodka and a cigarette, allowing the liquor to support his strength. Withdrawal had been necessary, a chance to recoup, to rebuild the cerebral and emotional walls with which he defended his vital parts. But no more; he was looking forward to this night.
He poured another drink. Reality. Reality was the key to successful life. To perceive and comprehend what one’s life was about at a specific moment in time. Now. Now was what mattered. The past was gone, finished, best put aside; the future non-existent, until it too became new.
He ticked it off silently _ he was climbing the rocky path back from a dark, painful spell. It was a long, slow return and it required all the courage a man could muster, all his concentration and dedication. It was a mistake to try and do everything at once; wrong and impossible. A psychological build was necessary, an opportunity for his spirit to replenish itself, come back to its full self once more. Like an athlete coming off an injury too soon and trying to compensate, injuring some other portion of his body. The more highly trained a man was, the more talented, the more sensitive, the more susceptible he seemed to be to hurts of one sort or another. Intelligent nursing, careful planning, periods of rest. These were in order. Time to allow the tension to slack off, to enjoy…
And then?
And then he would try again.
And make it.
All the way back. He was convinced of it. No doubt at all. Not a single one.
One last look in the mirror. If his face was somewhat debauched, it was clearly the face of a man who had lived, experienced, a man who had taken part in his share of adventures, a man of interest to women. Many women…
And why not? His shoulders were broad, with muscular slope, his hips trim under the jeans. And under the white linen fabric, he bulged with promise. Provocative, yes. Obvious, perhaps. But then a little advertising never damaged anyone. That, he thought, laughing aloud, was the press agent in him coming out. He finished the last of the vodka and hurried out of the house. The party would be in full swing by now and he didn’t want to miss anything.