As he watched the old man slowly climb the porch, one step at a time,
carefully making sure each foot was firmly planted before attempting the
next riser, Ekcol paused. It was rather sad. Only two and a half decades
before, this man was a lively, forceful individual,--- vital and intense.
Now he was simply an old man making his way homeward.
“Well,--- friend your trip is nearly over,” Ekcol murmured as he inserted
a final seedling in the secret garden. "The last day is finally here.”
The secret garden now lay fully sown,--- waiting. Ekcol planted
it seed by seed, kernel by kernel, ignoring both advice and threats. Now
at long last it was ready to sprout, but first something ancient had to die.
A tiny pod lay dormant for a quarter century, ruptured, irreversibly spilling
its contents and abruptly bringing an end to the old man's slow and painful
progress toward entropy.
* * * * * * *
Chet Latham awoke with a phantom toothache and a miserable tender spot
on his gum that grated like chalk on a blackboard. He ran his tongue over
it feeling a definite swelling.
“Jesus Christ, now what!” he muttered as he threw back the covers. All
he ever wanted from his last few years was a bit of comfort. Instead, he
got continual reminders of a failing body. A heart attack, a minor stroke
and two operations should be more than enough punishment for all his sins,
he thought. “Damn lying doctors!” He cursed as he stumbled toward the bathroom.
They said the cancer was gone. So, what the hell's this,--- chopped liver?
In the mirror he tried looking at the offending spot only to find the trifocal
on his good eye wouldn't focus properly.
“Shit!” He yelped as he fit his upper plate and quickly spat it out
again. With an aching jaw and a lump the size of a pea, wearing dentures
was out of the question. Instead of going out for breakfast as he usually
did, Chet rummaged through the refrigerator, finally poaching a couple of
eggs to feed a hunger he normally didn't feel until around noon. His usual
breakfast routine consisted of a trip to the 'Roadside Cafe' for coffee and
toast with a little jelly on the side.
At seventy-two, Chet looked forward to his meager breakfasts at the
restaurant; in fact, they were the highlight of his day. He and a few old
acquaintances gathered around a table eager for their morning gabfest.
True, most of the jabber was pure bullshit and many of the opinions put
forth were downright stupid, but being with people, even some whom he considered
idiots, was better than being alone.
Since Ivy's death, there wasn't much emphasis to Chet's life, good or
bad. He'd been surprised at what a hole in his life her passing left, especially
considering that for the last twenty years of their marriage they merely
lived in the same house with Chet going his way and Ivy hers. While they
cared for each other in some indefinable way, they long ago stopped trying
for any intimacy. Forty-five years wasted, Chet thought. In truth they only
stayed together for fear of ending up alone, and now here he was alone anyway.
It didn't seem fair. Ivy was ten years younger,--- he should've gone first.
Maybe this was yet another punishment for marrying.
He remembered courting Ivy, hoping marriage would somehow make him
feel like a normal person, whatever that was, but all it did was bring
pain to them both. Of course, Ivy married for her own selfish reasons, so
maybe in the end they each got what they deserved. Strangely enough, in
his own way, Chet really did care about Ivy and they did have some good
years; especially, when the kids were small, but if parenthood made him
happy, the commitments of marriage to Ivy left him cold. It sometimes made
him sad to think he could never be the lover Ivy wanted nor could she ever
be the one he desired, and there were periods in his life when he would
have given anything for it not to be like that. He tried,--- he struggled
with it,--- but that deep burning attraction he yearned for never came
about,--- not with Ivy anyway. Still, they made it through those years
together,--- and what did we have to show for all the strain?
A paid off house, some money in the bank and two kids who now couldn't
wait for him to die so they could inherit the scant proceeds from two thoroughly
wasted lives. It might've been different if Ivy actually loved him, or
if she was even slightly adventurous, but that wasn't the case. To her,
love making was a one-way street,--- touch me,--- she seemed to say,--- I'll
lie here,--- you do what you will, but don't expect me to reciprocate. Their
sex life quickly deteriorated to simply going through the motions. Ivy
got pregnant in their first weeks of marriage; otherwise, Chet doubted
it would have lasted a year. He stuck it out, he couldn't abandon his children
no matter how unhappy he was; yet, in the end they abandoned him. Chet
made up his mind to leave everything to charity. He hadn't heard from the
boys since Ivy died, except a few times when they needed money,--- so,---
to hell with them.
Chet tried the upper plate again only to spit it out in disgust and
reach for the phone. He had no intention of showing up in public without
teeth, --- so, despite the pain,--- he put them in once more and left the
house, slamming the door behind him.
After two hours of waiting in excruciating pain, Dr. Burke finally x-rayed
the area and a few minutes later said in a jovial voice,
“Well, I'll be damned! Hey, Chet, old man, you're cutting a tooth!”
“Horse shit! I've had dentures for almost twenty years. You're out of
your mind. What's the matter with you, can't chu' tell a tooth from a tumor?”
“Here, take a look,” Burke said as he motioned Chet to the light box.
“See that? A tooth and what's more, there seem to be tooth buds developing
in all the sockets on this picture. Sorry to disappoint you, Chet, but you're
cutting teeth.”
It turned out Burke was correct, and cutting new teeth was no picnic.
Many times over the following six months, Chet wanted them all out! His dentist
flatly refused saying they were perfect and only a fool would trade good
teeth for dentures, but Chet suspected both the dentist and Dr. Burke wanted
to see if he'd actually survive the experience. Either that or they both
planned on publishing papers on their remarkable old guinea pig. Neither
one could come up with a reasonable explanation as to why this might be
happening to a man of his age and state of health. All previous case histories
were confined to younger people, those without years of denture wear and
even then, the teeth that developed were usually soft, discolored and needed
extracting.
His came in perfect and far better looking than the slightly crooked
set of his youth. These new sparkling white teeth even made him feel younger.
Everything tasted wonderful again. His energy increased remarkably and he
began taking long walks, occasionally breaking into a jog from sheer exuberance.
Despite Burke's repeated warnings, his heart seemed fine. He shoveled snow
that winter without the slightest twinge of chest pain; although, it did
take a toll on some long unused muscles. Chet couldn't understand why growing
new teeth would make him feel so good; in fact, he now felt better than
he had in many years,--- except for one thing. His vision was getting worse.
One morning he awoke to find himself in full arousal, something that
hadn't happened since the experimental chemotherapy three years before.
He took advantage of the event with full and appreciative gusto making the
moments last as long as possible; It was almost like being sixty again, he
marveled.
Even in his prime Chet never thought of himself as a handsome man. Now
with age adding countless sagging wrinkles, his features actually bordered
on the ugly. He often wished as a younger man he'd gone for plastic surgery,
at least a nose job. His older brothers, now both dead, sported the same
roman snozz, only theirs held more of a classic look, while his was exaggerated
and just plain gross. For all his teenage years he hid his honker behind
books or by taking seats in restaurants that looked straight out on the
crowd. Never once a profile for Chet; approach from the side and his hand
automatically came up to shade his eyes (and hide his nose). He was in his
twenties before conquering that reaction. He did however have a nice smile,
until dentures pulled the corners of his mouth into a dour looking frown.
Now the frown was gone. It was the new teeth of course, but wasn't there
something else? He searched his face in the mirror looking for minor changes.
Didn't there seem to be fewer wrinkles and didn't his face and hair look
fuller? It was hard to tell with his eyesight as bad as it was. Just wishful
thinking he concluded. The only thing different was the facial angles now
changed by the new natural teeth. He smiled at himself. He wasn't all that
ugly from the front, but why even think about it at this late date? He was
almost seventy-three, his health was dodgy and his shiny new teeth didn't
make him one day younger.
For months Chet's glasses caused him no end of aggravation as his vision
slowly faded. Now, fifteen minutes of reading brought on a miserable headache
and streaming eyes as he struggled to find the correct distance to accommodate
his eyesight. A doctor warned him of this four years ago when a small
stroke destroyed half the vision in his right eye, only he didn't want to
believe it. Blindness to Chet was almost worse than death itself, and one
day in a fit of frustration he hurled his glasses against the wall shattering
them into a million pieces.
“Stupid, stupid!” He railed at himself. Looking around for a spare pair,
he realized the room seemed crisper without the glasses. He couldn't make
out print, but distance and middle vision appeared clearer now than at any
time since the stroke. Pawing through a drawer, Chet found glasses from
two previous prescriptions and was shocked to find he wasn't losing vision
at all; he was regaining it! This was too much of a coincidence to simply
brush off. In every way he was growing stronger. The last ultrasound showed
carotid arteries with the same or possible less plaque than previous one
and the nurse commented, perhaps, the exercise was helping. Chet was due
for his annual check up and for the first time in years, he actually looked
forward to it. Thursday at nine A.M., Chet entered Burke's clinic for his
physical,--- the first test being the ultrasound. At eleven A.M., he was
having it done over since Burke refused to believe the first results which
showed no stenosis whatsoever.
From there, things degenerated rapidly. Chet's blood pressure was normal,---
for a man of twenty! His heart murmur disappeared, and the results from
every test were those of a younger person. Even a vigorous stress test hardly
winded him. Since his last exam, Chet gained twenty pounds, putting him
back to the weight he carried two decades before. Burke hadn't examined
Chet for over a year except for x-raying his teeth. Blood tests and blood
pressure monitoring was done by nursing staff, so Burke was shocked when
he walked in to see a man whose face said not seventy-three, but perhaps
sixty. Not only that, but Chet's body looked even younger. Gone were the
sagging muscles of chest, arms and buttocks, replaced by the firmer tones
of a working man in his fifties. Gone also were the scars left by the melanoma
surgery on Chet's back, even the tell-tale radiation scars vanished. His
bout with Cancer was a close one for Chet. Only the combination of radiation
and newest advances in chemotherapy saved his life. Now,--- there stood
before Burke a Chet who looked far healthier than the last time he saw him
and years younger than his real age. 'Good Lord,' Burke thought, 'he's not
only regenerated teeth, but a new body as well!'
And it seemed to be true. Every test showed him to be perfectly healthy
with the constitution of a twenty year old. Chet even claimed his eyesight
was improving. Also in evidence were a few black hairs at Chet's temples
where before there had been only white. Burke was well aware Chet was one
of those men who went gray at an early age. He was Chet's physician for
more than twenty years and couldn't recall a time when the man's hair wasn't
completely white,--- everywhere; but, no longer. Abundant dark pubic
hair was plainly visible against the thin gown that covered this strangely
younger Chet. What was happening to Latham excited Burke. In all his twenty-five
years in medicine he never heard of such a thing. Chet was throwing off the
effects of aging as though they didn't exist and Burke wanted to know why,
or more precisely, he wanted to know how. It was the kind of discovery that
would make Burke's name world renowned.
Doctor Burke ordered every test he could think of in hopes of finding
some abnormality, some indication of what was happening to Chet. The blood
tests, the CAT scans and MRI uncovered nothing except for an extra little
tangle of internal ducts that seemed to have no purpose. At first Burke
thought he was on to something; only, as it turned out, Chet's little anomaly
was well documented in the annals of medicine, not common, perhaps, but about
as meaningful as a sixth toe or an extra nipple. Chet Latham was absolutely
healthy and Burke kicked himself for not ordering tests when Chet first
started cutting teeth. Maybe then some chemical or hormonal imbalance would
have shown up. Now, Chet was simply a healthy man; too healthy for his
apparent age. Tests indicated increasing hormone levels and his blood chemistry
was that of a healthy male in his prime. In the four months that followed,
even Burke could see accelerated changes taking place. Chet was bulking
up, yet slimming in the hips, his bones were becoming more flexible, even
his sun damaged skin seemed to be renewing itself as age spots slowly faded.
In desperation, Burke called his old alma mater to arrange for further testing.
The University Hospital would have resources not available to Burke, but
it meant losing his advantage. Now he could expect no more than a footnote
mention in the discoveries that Chet might reveal.
Burke was wrong. Chet revealed no secrets at all, he simply grew younger
while teams of specialist drew blood, took tissue samples and scanned his
body in every conceivable way. Chet was subjected to all standard tests
as well as dozens more thought up specifically for him and without enlightening
the doctors one bit. They called in specialists and scientist from around
the world and yet the answer remained the same. Chet was absolutely normal
for his apparent age. After two years of testing it all proved fruitless.
Chet carried no special gene, no special blood type, no special anything.
Others, who had gone through the exact same series of cancer treatments
as Chet, proved only the treatment worked in thirty percent of the cases.
Chet finally refused any further testing until the doctors could come
up with some new angle of attack. He was tired of being poked, prodded
and stabbed by anyone who could lay their hands on a blood draw kit. He
rightly assumed by now there was enough blood and biopsy samples in storage
to keep a thousand researchers busy for a hundred years. He did his part
for science; now,--- he wanted to get on with life.
For a while he worried the younging process would reduce him to a zygote,
but it stopped about the apparent age of twenty-five. Chet thought he might
be actually younger than that; perhaps, about nineteen or twenty, since
that was the age he stopped growing up and began growing older, but he did
appear to be close to twenty-five. The reversal couldn't erase all signs
of age. If you looked carefully you could see a lifetime of living in his
eyes, the same eyes now saw the world with perfect clarity. He was now
close to seventy-five, looked twenty-five and had two sons in their forties,
both of whom came rushing back to accept large sums of money to be part of
the testing program. His sons, however, were not happy about their father's
sudden change; in fact, they maintained a chilly formality throughout their
stay in Ann Arbor and when Chet began looking younger then they did, they
stopped speaking to him all together. 'Life can be the pits,' Chet thought.
He once had a good relationship with his sons,--- right up until the moment
Ivy dropped her bomb about Jim Locke.
She swore she never intended to cause a rift and Chet was sure that was
the case, only Ivy should have kept her damn mouth shut. He certainly never
brought up her peccadilloes in front the boys. 'How'd they get to be so narrow
minded,--- so Goddamned bigoted,' he wondered. Chet remembered the drugs,
the B & E's John and Thad did as kids, all the messes he got them out
of; apparently, none of that counted; especially, not after they
found religion, or whatever it was they called it. For years it was like
this. They appeared at their mother's funeral service, leaving directly afterwards
without saying a word to him. The only time he heard from them was when they
needed money. Ivy left them a small trust fund to be administrated by Chet.
It was her hope it might get them talking to their father again, only it
just made things worse. They resented his holding sway over what they considered
to be their due, so the exchanges were always terse and to the point. He
knew no more about his son's lives now than they once knew about his. 'Too
bad that couldn't be said for the rest of the world,' he thought.
Images of Chet now graced every magazine, newspaper and tabloid in the
country. The ongoing story of his growing younger crowded out even sex scandals.
Photographers hounded him, reporters clamored for his time, T.V. cameras
recorded every pronouncement about his case, while the tabloids printed
wild, unsubstantiated stories. At first he refused to talk to the media,
which only made them more intrusive. Finally he hired a lawyer, who in turn
found an agent to handle the mess and at their advice Chet began doing talk
shows and interviews. He stiffly answered the same dumb questions dozens
of times before loosening up in front of the camera, but when that finally
happened, he suddenly became the darling of the talk show circut. He was
a good looking young fellow with the tart tongue of an old codger who had
seen it all and the stories he told of friends, relatives and life in general
came across as hilariously funny.
People found him fascinating, especially since at each appearance he looked
younger than the last one. Offers came flooding in. Chet turned down nearly
all endorsement deals while chuckling over the many marriage proposals. The
former he incorporated as jokes in his T.V. appearances; especially, the
truly stupid ones like endorsements for cigarettes and headache remedies.
The proposals, he responded to with warm personal notes of 'thank you for
the thought,' on which he placed the return address of his agent. People
couldn't seem get enough of Chet, reporters covered his daily routine, the
food he ate, even the car he drove, everything about him was suddenly important
to the grinding mill of Chet mania.
Fame also brought a modicum of wealth and part of that was the car he
drove. He received it as payment for one of the few endorsements he did
make. His old friend and breakfast buddy, Matt Emmons owned an auto dealership
in Greenville, Being friends, Chet succumbed to his offer. He was expecting
something modest, similar to the sedans he bought from Matt in the past;
however, when it was delivered, it turned out to be a flaming red Buick two
door, overloaded with options, including a ridiculous looking fake, trunk
mounted spare tire holder and fifty pounds of after market chrome strips.
Chet was sure Matt was trying to get a rise out of him. It was just the
kind of trick he'd pull, but Chet accepted the Buick anyway, assuring Matt
it was exactly the car he always wanted. 'Two can play that game,' he thought.
A week later, the Buick sported gobs more of the ugliest add-on chrome Chet
could find until it looked for all the world like a pimpmobile. During interviews,
Chet never failed to extol the virtues of Matt's dealership, saying Matt
and his employees had a certain 'Je ne sais quoi' that could turn any car
into a 'classic.' Otherwise, he lived modestly in Ann Arbor,--- an efficiency
apartment suited him just fine. All other income he invested as carefully
as always, knowing full well the fleetingness of unearned fame.
The new Chet was different from the old in many ways. At fifty he wished
he had taken better care of himself when he was younger and now that his
younger days were back, he did exactly that. No smoking this time,--- he hadn't
smoked in ten years anyway and didn't miss it. Instead, workouts became his
vice. Two hours a day found him sweating in a gym as he toughened his body
on the weight machines. An hour of running each evening brought on an endorphin
high more satisfying than any cigarette. He had plans for the future
that didn't include staying a celebrity forever. In fact, in his mind he
could all ready visualize the end of it. When that time came, Chet would
fade from the scene, acquire a new face and finally live free of the past.
His sons would never miss him, nor would Chet miss being known as the famous
rejuvenating man.
As much as he wanted to leave it all behind, he couldn't at the moment.
Too much notoriety, too many camera-toting tabloid 'journalists' floating
around. No, it would have to wait. Hell, he'd all ready waited forty-five
years and was well prepared to wait another year or two if need be. He had
it all figured out. University doctors were at this moment preparing to
announce to the world there was nothing more they could learn from Chet,
genetically or otherwise. What had happened to him was an odd, untraceable
fluke of nature that had left no hint of how to reproduce the effects. With
that news, Chet felt sure he would soon be relegated to the back pages and
finally out of the papers altogether. All he had to do was wait, but in
preparing for this eventuality, Chet overlooked the obvious; some people
refuse to accept the solemn pronouncements of science.