By Kirk Boys
That Tuesday, there was a cold rain, and Calvin’s arthritis was flaring like a motherfucker, but he knew to shut up about it. Marcy was sick of his complaining and her sympathy was not something to be squandered.
Sixty-nine years held few rewards for Calvin; there was Social Security, Medicare and AARP, senior discounts at the movies and bowling alley, none of which really mattered anymore. He felt irrelevant. People talked up the volunteer thing, claimed it gave them a new purpose. Chumps. They were kidding themselves if they thought anyone appreciated it. He’d volunteered at a local food bank.