Creative works by author Dan Foley.

Happy Birthday AARP Boy

I was cleaning up my hard drive last night and I found a file I didn’t recognize, so I opened it to see what it was before deleting it. It was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure what to do with it. Take a look. What do you think?

 

June 14, 2006:

I’m writing this down because I know damn well I’m going to forget it. It all happened yesterday, on my 60th birthday.

How do I know I’m going to forget it? Well, the little shit told me I would and he was right about everything else. Anyway, it started like this, with him yelling in my ear.

          “Dude, wake up.

          Dude, WAKE UP!”

The last one did it and I damn near fell out of bed. I’m not used to waking up with someone else in bed with me unless I got lucky the night before and I haven’t been that kind of lucky in weeks – alright, make that months. And even with my eyes closed, I could tell that the whiskey soaked voice attached to this someone was not female. God, I hoped I hadn’t been that drunk or desperate last night.

When I opened my eyes, it was worse, perched on the end of my bed was a pint-sized, balding, cigar chomping, Danny Devito look alike sporting a really bad five-o’clock shadow.

“Hey sport, welcome to the rest of your life. You ready for the big changes.”

“What changes?” I demanded. “Wait, who the hell are you, and what are you talking about?” And how the hell did you get in here?

“Well, AARP boy, I’m your 60th Birthday Fairy and I flew in,” he said, turning so I could see the battered pair of wings attached to his back.

I must have been really floored, because I actually answered him. What do you mean A.A.R.P boy, I never joined A.A.R.P, that’s for old farts.”

“Not THAT A.A.R.P, AARP – Another Aging Rolley Polley, AARP, and pal, that’s you if there ever was one.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” I shot back; looking at the serious pot I was starting to develop. “I can get rid of this easy.”

“Right… those days are over AARP boy,” he laughed.

“Wait,” I said, this is ridiculous. “What the hell am I doing talking to a figment of my imagination.”

“Sport, accept it, I’m your birthday fairy and I’m here to deliver your birthday presents.”

I didn’t like the emphasis he put on the word presents, or how he laughed when he said it.

“If you’re really my birthday fairy, how come I’ve never seen you before this?” I demanded.

“Well sport, you don’t get a birthday fairy every year, just the special years. You remember that hot chick you scored on your 21st?  She had to be your best.”

Oh, I remembered that chick, and she was definitely the best. “Okay,” I admitted, maybe you’re for real. So what am I getting?”

“Well…, to start with,” he said, “how about a hemorrhoid?

“A what?”

“A hemorrhoid. You know what a hemorrhoid is, right?

“Of course I know what a hemorrhoid is, but I don’t have a hemorrhoid.”

“Really, you don’t feel that little itch starting back there?

I don’t know if it was the power of suggestion or what, but damned if I didn’t.

“There you go,” he said, “you do feel it don’t you? Good, now, while we’re down there, why don’t we just grow that prostate a little bit? Ah, what the hell, let’s really give it shot, how about something the size of a walnut?

“Hey, stop fucking around,” I said, and climbed out of bed, suddenly fighting the need to piss. “This isn’t funny, I told him”

“Not for you, maybe,” he agreed, “but that sure is,” he said, pointing to a brown streak on my otherwise white sheets.

“What the hell?” I blurted out, “not believing what I was seeing.

“It’s a skidder,” he laughed.

“A what,” I demanded?” even though I had a sick feeling I already knew what it was.

“A skidder, a skid mark, a brownie. Better forget about sleeping “au natural”,” AARP boy. “Shorts are a lot easier to change than sheets are Dude.”

“You’re a sick fucker, you know that?” I told him.

“Me…me? You’re the sick fucker. Look at these,” his said, showing me his tattered wings. If you took care of yourself these babies would gorgeous. But no, you stuff everything you can see into that big mouth of yours, never exercise, and then what, expect to waltz into sixty like Charles Atlas. Well forget it AARP boy. You screwed us both. So enjoy your birthday, you earned it.

Oh, and by the way, you know all those books you never got around to reading, get rid of them.”

“What do you mean get rid of them, why should I get rid of them?

“Because they’re all small print, you’re going to have to trade them in for the large print versions.”

“Ah, come on,” I whined, “that’s too much.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” and besides, what would I have to give you next year.”

Ah, shit, I’ve got to take a piss, I’ll finish this as I get back.

 

That was it, nothing else. That was seven years ago and I still don’t remember writing it. But I still have the damn hemorrhoid, the walnut sized prostate, and as you can see the little fucker must have come back because now I have to do everything in a size 14 font.