pick a number

by Kenneth M. Kapp

~ Johanna ~

There were two benches in the park on a point that looked out over a small lake. One bench faced northeast and the other southeast. Behind them, at a respectable distance, a walking path swept by in a gentle curve. Clusters of lilac bushes and mockorange fought the good fight in the space between, and people who had been walking there for decades would observe that in some years the purple clusters seemed to be winning, while in others the white blossoms appeared to be healthier. But they’d shrug and continue on their walk. However, occasionally one could hear a walker comment, “I hope the groundkeepers don’t play favorites.”

One morning early, Johanna sat down on the north bench, a cup of coffee in her hand. She was uncertain what to do, as she remarked to her good friend, “About so many things.” She took a few sips from the cup and then set it down between her feet. She looked out over the lake, trying to relax her neck and shoulders. Several times she tried raising her shoulders to her ears and letting them drop. “That doesn’t help,” she sighed. Next she squeezed her eyes shut and then released them. “Oh, bother!”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Once again and then again. “Ah, if only I knew.”

Then she heard footsteps on the path and a couple of studied coughs. She turned and saw an elderly woman standing and smiling. The woman gestured, asking if she could come sit for a while. Johanna nodded and waved her over, sliding to one side of the bench.

The woman walked gingerly, using her cane to test the grass as if there were hidden traps.

Johanna smiled and patted the space to her right. She wished her bench guest good morning and gently said that she would like to sit quietly as she needed to think about things.

The white-haired lady, dressed in old but obviously expensive woolens, returned her smile and softly moved her lips, “I understand.”

They both sat there as the sun continued to rise in the sky until the mist on the far side of the lake was gone.

Johanna stood quietly and nodded to her companion. “I must be going now. Thank you for your company.”

The old woman smiled. “Oh, it was no problem at all. But before you leave, can you kindly pick a number between ten and ten thousand?”

Johanna was startled for a moment but she was disarmed by the charm of the request. “Oh, I guess thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…” She thought for a moment, turned down her fingers and laughed. “Oh, that would be far too many. Just the first two then: one thousand three hundred and fourteen.”

“Thank you ever so much. I’ll just sit for a little while longer; the sun is so nice to my old bones.”

Johanna walked back to her car, thinking what a funny old lady.

~ John ~

            John was in bad sorts. He’d had one of those days that could only be called rotten. “Really rotten,” he told his partner.

            “Well, don’t take it out on me. Brown-bag a beer down to the lake and take it out on some water sprite. It wasn’t any better for me.”

            John grabbed a cold one from the refrigerator, muttered something about the bag, checked to make sure it was a screw-off bottle, and went back out to his car. Twenty minutes later he was sitting on the bench facing southeast. He looked around. It was supper time and there was only one other car in the lot. No problem with one beer. He opened the bottle, thought twice about chucking the cap over the bluff, and put it in his pocket. Taking a couple healthy slugs, he put the bottle down on the seat.

            He extended his hands along the back of the bench and muttered, “This would be nice but it ain’t!” He made several faces and ended up smiling.

            A cool breeze came up the bluff from off the lake and he coughed a couple of times, pounding his chest with his fist. I can still feel the cigarettes in my lungs and it’s been two years, just the occasional puff. Can’t plan shit!

            He was feeling yancy – that’s what his mother had always called it when he got in one of these moods. “More than forty years, Mom. So how’s that for yancy? Some kind of record you’d think.”

            He rolled his head back, looking up at the sky as if he expected an answer from his mother, long gone.

            Then he remembered his beer and took a few more healthy swallows. He stared at the bottle, swirled the contents around to loosen any of the yeast that might have settled out, having told his partner all too many times, “Brewers yeast, vitamin B – that’s why I drink – keeps me healthy.”  And then he squinted down the mouth of the bottle, cursed, and chugged the rest.

            He bent over and put the bottle on its side between his feet then squirmed back on the bench. He burped a couple of times and laughed. Better go easy on the garlic at lunch.

            He rolled his shoulders then rotated his head, slowly bringing his chin a couple of times over one shoulder and then the other, watching as an old man with a walker came down the path and stopped directly opposite the bench.

            The old man freed one hand and swung it back and forth from his walker to the bench. John understood and waved him over, watching as he moved slowly across the grass.

            “Plenty of room here, Old Timer. Sorry, I just finished my beer or I’d offer you some. I ain’t such good company now, but you’re welcome to watch the submarine races out on the lake. It’s about the only thing exciting happening in this town. They don’t tell you who wins so there’s no sense making bets.”

            The old man nodded. “I wouldn’t bet anyhow. Never know if you’ll be around the next day to collect if you win. I’ll leave you with your thoughts, young man.”

            John chuckled and rolled the bottle away from his new found friend. “No sense having you trip. Me too, case I forget when I get up. Too many worries, even at my age.”

            John closed his eyes. Yeh, right on, old guy. Never know when you’re out of here. Pain in the ass, you ask me. He sat for a few more minutes, wondering if the old gentleman was even breathing. Be just my luck if he croaked..

            He was getting hungry. He bent over, picked up the empty bottle, and turned to his bench mate. “You all right? I’ve got to go, stomach’s growling.”

            The old man smiled. “Oh, I’m fine. I’ll be around for at least a couple more days. But would you be kind enough to pick a number between ten and ten thousand?”

            John laughed. “OK, is that going to be the number of days I’ve got left?” He laughed again and caught his breath. “Fine – nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine. I wouldn’t want to be greedy.”

            The next day the old woman with her cane and the old man with his walker were sitting on a log below the bluff, comparing numbers.

            “There’s always uncertainty, just part of living and dying. And no one ever knows. John was just being macho. Besides, we never talked about the units: days, hours, minutes, even seconds.”

            “Hardly anyone asks about the quality of life. We know it is what it is. Johanna is beginning to understand. Perhaps thirteen years, fourteen months? There’s that. What do you think?”

            “We could make that suggestion. But when all is said and done, we’re just the scouts.”

            “Then perhaps we should go swimming, see if we can find any submarines.”

            “That’s silly.”

            The sun was soon at its zenith and the wisps of fog on the log were gone.

Photo of Kenneth M. Kapp

BIO: Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. His essays appear online in havokjournal.com and articles in shepherdexpress.com. Please visit www.kmkbooks.com. His stories have appeared in more than eighty publications world-wide including The Saturday Evening Post and October Hill Magazine.