Peaceful Still Sucks

Visited a job that included a 50’ walk up a scaffold stair. I ran into the job supervisor and he was walking behind me as I made the climb. We were chatting a bit on the way up.

“Hold up a sec,” he said. “I’m getting old.”

I stopped as he caught his breath. “How the hell old are you?” He asked.

“Fifty-six,” I said. “Feel all right today. Some days I need to stop.”

“Now I feel bad,” he said. “I’m 54 and 56 is my magic age.”

“Doesn’t feel magical,” I said. 

“If I make it to 56 I will pass the age when my Dad died.”

“Ah man,” I said. “That ain’t right. Besides, now you’re making me nervous.”

“He died in his sleep,” he said. “Came home from work, sat in his chair a little while after dinner and went to bed cause he was feeling a little beat. When Mom went to wake him the next morning he was gone. Peacefully dying still sucks.”

I felt badly for the guy. I’d never met him before and he needed to talk.

“Tell me about your Dad,” I said.

He did. He’d worked all his life for a utility as a service guy. He didn’t eat very well, but he was a good Dad who got his ass out of bed every day. He liked the Bills and the Yankees.

It was all hitting fairly close to home.

“They figure out how he died?” I asked.

“His heart gave out. Was all we needed to know. We didn’t want to do an autopsy. What did it matter?”

“He sounded like a good man.”

“He was. Thanks for listening.”

The trip down was easier.

(This one goes out to my buddy, Tom Rybak, who told me that he wouldn’t make it past 32. He’s 56 today. Glad he was wrong. He used to sing, “Hope I die before I get old.” He didn’t! He’s gonna’ get good and old).