portraits of the dead part 2

Mac tried to be humble when I asked about the room of golf trophies at the back of the house.

"Awe, I just had good partners, is all" he barked.

The only bragging he wanted to do last night was about his family--his daughter out in Vegas, his son in Kentucky. He told me of the university he attended many years ago. He confided in me that it was really a university for poor people. "Tuition free" he said as he made a swiping motion in the air to nail home his point. He did that kind of thing alot.

A few loud gunshots exploded somewhere in the near-distance outside the window behind him. Mac didn't even jump--not even a twitch of recognition from the tattered armchair. I guess all his nerves were gone. He was 76 and looked every day of 110. I'd bet he had smoked a pack a day for at least 60 years. And what's a pack of cigarettes without a suitcase of beer?

I sat up in my seat and listened as he rambled on about days and people gone by. I wasn't pretending to be interested. I really was. I had realized at some point during the night that Mac was the oldest person I had spoken with in some time. My grandparents were dead and my parents were still another 20 years and a million truckloads of vices away from reaching Mac's time.

I knew I was making an old man's night. I didn't mind obliging. I know my days of reciting old stories in a dusty old house will be here sooner than later.