Shifting Tracks
The porch stretches forward, sticking out beyond the neighboring houses by two and a half yards, reaching for the edge of the sidewalk like an old man reaching for his toes. An extended roof shades most of the wooden floorboards from what the townsfolk refer to as the “Tears of God.” The rain pounds on the misaligned house, as if trying to tear it down for being different, out of line—more than ordinary.
The proud porch supports the rocking of an antique chair, occupied by a veteran just as dilapidated and frail. The veteran’s drooping eyes gently close as he brings the remains of a cheap cigar to the edge of his shriveled mouth. He inhales slowly, flings the stub into a ceramic pot, and engages in a terrible coughing fit, drown out by the rain and heard only within the rectangular prism of the porch.
“You should really give that a rest,” says Peter while leaning against the front rails of the deck, staring out across the filmy street. His dark hair gleams with fresh droplets of heavy rain.
“Never,” says Barry after finally conquering his hacking reflex. “They’re the only things that make this damn life worth living.” He pauses, as if contemplating, and adds: “That and golf.”
The chair reestablishes its tempo, rocking back and forth, perpendicular to the lines of the planked flooring. Peter turns around and faces the gray-haired veteran, who, compared to two decades ago, appears dwarfed in his rocking chair. The tips of Barry’s sandals barely graze the floor and his shoulders stoop well below the head of the chair.
“You remember, Barry?” says Peter. His clear blue eyes drift towards the veteran’s new sandals. “You remember way back, on this very porch, when you convinced me to marry her?”
Barry nods. “Yeah, I remember.”
“And you brought up some crap about God lending good looks, and how personality is the most important thing about a person. That personality is something that can’t be taken away from you, and how it’s something that will always be yours 'til the end of time. And you told me—you were sitting right there and I was standing exactly right here—and you told me to marry her because she has a great personality, a certain kind of understanding.”
“And I wasn’t wrong, was I?” The rocking slows to a halt. “You and Jenny were the happiest young couple that I’ve ever seen.”
Peter quickly turns around, slapping one hand on a wooden beam with the other buried in his pocket. Barry reaches for a small box, embroidered with meticulous carvings of elks and trees. He procures a cigarette and a cigar, sticking the latter in his mouth while holding out the cigarette in his relaxed hand.
“How about a smoke, son?”
Peter returns his gaze on the street. “I quit, Barry, remember?”
“Yeah, I guess you did,” Barry says, fumbling with his cigar cutter.
After several failed attempts, he eventually snips the cigar to his satisfaction and lights it. A green sedan drives by, splashing water collected in the holes on the street. Peter flinches and retreats a couple of steps.
“I’m sorry about what happened between you and my Jenny,” says Barry. He attempts to get up from his seat, thinks better of it, and slides back into what many believe will be his final resting position. He draws deep from his cigar. “But ain’t that the gamble you took when you married her? That’s the gamble everyone takes in that chapter of their lives. As time goes on, people change. Not drastically, but just a lil’ bit. You can feel it more than you can see it, really. What they want in life. What they want in a partner. What they can’t put up with anymore. Their priorities, their goals and dreams. You can’t ignore it, it’s a damn given.
“Only the lucky ones shift together, like two metal rails of a single train track, diverging while also staying steady on the same path; the wooden boards keeping’em together and balancing out the tolls of their marriage.” He breaks off to puff his cigar and continues.
"But for most of us, for everyone else, our tracks split apart, the boards aren’t strong enough to dampen the tremors, and an inevitable train wreck awaits.”
Barry runs his cigar past the embroidered box and crashes it into a speckled ashtray, killing the embers within. Thin, black smoke escapes from the wreckage. Peter shakes the water out of his hair with his hands and turns back around.
“You know what, old man,” he says with a weak smile, “I think I’m starting to get what you’re talking about.”
The eighty-five-year-old veteran salvages his cigar with a flick of his wrist and a spark from his lighter.
“Well, it’s about damn time, Peter. ‘Bout damn time.”