THE RECLUSE

When the years have reduced me to a wretched state, I will not venture outside my domicile. (My pride may be false, but it's real!) Though Genesis didn't record the fact, God resumed his labors on the second Monday during which he created both air-conditioning and the computer.

I will remain in my cool room, write stories, take sedatives, drink wine and venture onto the balcony to recline in the morning sun like a turtle on a log until I pass into darkness. (I hear foolish talk about our energy zipping throughout the universe, but I would argue that a loud, smelly fart has more substance than my spirit.)

The Xanax is kicking in. I'm feeling positive. I can't run like I once did, but I can take long walks. I can't cover the tennis court like I once could, but I can play doubles and stroke from the baseline. I can't exercise with the same energy, but I can stretch slowly. The phone rings.

"How are things going?" asks Scott Steinbeck, the managing editor of The McHale Report.

"Everything is fine," I answer. "No complaints. Just finished the column."

Much like sex, a completed column brings temporary satisfaction. But there is no rest. In less than 24 hours that drive will be making its demands again. But I have no regrets. If I am conscious in the next  stage, I will savor my memories of my brief duration as a human being.