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This is a piece I recently submitted to a writing contest, responding to the picture of the old man.

“Mornin’, Paulie!” Doris says, mug and coffee pot in hand. “The usual?”

“Yeah, like I got a friggin’ choice!” I grunt.

She pours the mug too full, and moments later, plunks a bowl of grayish oatmeal on the table.

If I had my friggin’ teeth, I wouldn’t be eatin’ slop like this!

“Where’s the raisins?” I complain.

“Underneath. Gotta dig for ‘em.”

I’m by the window of the cafe, my reg’lar booth lookin’ over the courtyard, waitin’ on my daughter. Ain’t seen her in years and I ain’t sure she’s comin’.

Never does. I only left that voicemail today on account of it’s my friggin’ birthday. But that won’t make no difference. Janice hates me. Got good reason, I guess.

The friggin’ bells over the door jangle and I turn to look, but it’s just a jug-eared kid with a stupid cowlick, looks to be maybe ten, and he plants his bony ass in the booth across from me. The bells jangle again, but this time it’s a fat guy, and when he waddles by, he bumps the cane I got leanin’ against my table, knockin’ it to the floor.

“Hey!” I bark, but it’s more a yip. No bite. Not no more. And the friggin’ slob just keeps goin’.

“I got it!” the kid says, slidin’ in opposite me, layin’ the cane on the table.

“Thanks, boyo, but I ain’t lookin’ for comp’ny. No offence.”

He ignores me. “Who you waitin’ for?”

“Why you think I’m waitin’ on anybody?”

“Every time them bells clatter, you turn to look. Who’s comin’?”

“Nobody!”

This little peckerhead’s sharp. Sorta reminds me of somebody.

“Happy birthday!” he says, tuckin’ into a bowl of cereal. His chin’s almost touchin’ the table when he spoons the crap into his mouth, and I feel like tellin’ him to get his elbows off the friggin’ table.

“How’d you know it’s my birthday?” I ask, scratchin’ my beard, wonderin’ where the cereal came from.

He shrugs. “You’re eighty-eight, right?”

“None of your friggin’ business!” But curiosity wins. “How d’you know how old I am?”

Before he can answer, the bells jangle again. When I twist around, it’s still not Janice. Just some greasy-lookin’ guy with a beat-up briefcase.

She ain’t comin’! Prob’ly didn’t even get my message.

“Want another bowl?” Doris asks at my elbow. She pays no never-mind to the kid still stuffin’ his face, almost like he ain’t there.

“No, I’m done. But gimme another cuppa.”

With a full mug in front of me, I turn back to the kid. “How come you ain’t in school?”

He looks at me like I’m dee-mented or somethin’. Which I surely ain’t!

“It’s Saturday.”

“So what’re you doin’ here? Why ain’t you out playin’ somewheres?”

“You oughta clean them glasses,” he says, ignorin’ me again. “They’re all smeared. Use a napkin.”

I grab one from the dispenser on the table, yank off my specs, blow stale coffee breath on the lenses. But wipin’ at ‘em only makes ‘em worse.

This kid is drivin’ me nuts! Who’s he remind me of?

And then I know. He looks like me when I was that age, a sorry lifetime ago. A lot like me! The memories flood in, and my friggin’ heart starts in to skippin’ crazy-like.

“What’s your name, boyo?”

“Paulie. Same as yours.”

There’s real pain in my chest now. “Okay, boyo, I gotta go,” I gasp.

This ain’t good!

“Yeah, it’s your time,” he says. “I came for you.”

It feels like I’m floatin’ to the front door. And just as we get close, the bells jangle, and Janice is there, lookin’ past me, searchin’ the café. She’s older’n I remember, way older, but beautiful like her mama was.

I open my arms, hardly believin’ she came, but it’s like she passes right through me. I reach after her, but she stops dead in her tracks, starin’ at the booth me and the kid just left.

My friggin’ cane is still there. And slumped over the table, one arm hangin’ limp, I see the old man I used to be only a minute ago.

With a strangled sob, Janice rushes toward him. I try to follow, but there’s an insistent tug on my sleeve.

“Time’s up, Paulie,” the kid says. “We gotta go!”

“No!” I cry too late. Way too late. “I’m waitin’ on Janice!”

But I already know the truth. The waitin’ is done.