The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.36 The Gorilla Always Wins

"I could try. I'd like to try."

Richard sighed. "Billy, I know you're old and wise. But there are things you haven't experienced, and things you'll never know about. The things I'm thinking about aren't things you could ever understand."

"You can try me," Billy said, gently.

Richard was silent for so long that Billy was sure the man wasn't going to speak again for the rest of the night—perhaps not speak to him again, ever. So when he spoke again, Billy actually jumped a little.

"Billy, have you ever felt... fragile?" Richard asked, quietly.

The boy wasn't sure how to answer that. And before he could come up with an appropriate response, Richard spoke again.

"I doubt you have. Not really. You died when you were fifteen. And I remember enough about being fifteen to remember that you feel immortal at that age. You feel like you're going to live forever, and you don't know a damn thing about what it means to suffer loss. All of that comes later. So you were fifteen and feeling immortal, and then you died. Which, of course, really did make you immortal."

"Richard, I..." Billy started.

"So what I'm saying is that no matter how old you really are, and how much you've watched and learned, you've still never really looked into the darkness, and feared that it was coming for you."

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Billy asked. "That the darkness is coming for you?"

"No, just the opposite actually. It's what I was afraid of. Now I'm afraid it never will."

"I don't understand."

"Let me tell you what it feels like to grow old, Billy. Something you've never experienced, and never will." Richard's voice was calm now, but there was a sadness and futility about it that tore at Billy's heart.

"I asked if you'd ever felt fragile. But I think a better question, is have you ever felt the entropy of the universe? I don't mean just intellectually, but really felt it—in your soul? That move from order to chaos that is inevitable in the world."

Billy didn't reply. He knew Richard wasn't really expecting him to.

"When you're young, it is easy to disbelieve, or simply ignore, that the nature of the universe is entropy. After all, so much argues for order and progress. You have the creativity of the human mind, which is capable of both brilliance and insight. You see the creation of huge and enduring structures, both physical and philosophical, that humanity has achieved. When you're young, even the very air in your lungs makes you think you can fly and leaves you feeling that this rocket you're on will soar forever upwards. Gravity seems meaningless. Horizons are always expanding. Your mind and heart encompass more and more of the universe every day. It's all glorious, and it's all lovely."

Richard's head fell back, and it was as if he was speaking to the ceiling.

"But at some point, all of that changes. For me, that point was in my early fifties. It was a tipping point, but it crept up on me so slowly that I didn't see it coming. I suspect it's like that for everybody. One day you just notice that your upward trajectory in life has begun to sputter out. At first, everything seems fine. You marvel at stasis, and you learn to be content with a quiet life, full of order and stillness. But before you can even fully comprehend that you have stopped soaring, you realize that your arc is slowly curving back toward the horizon.

"At first you fight it. You go to the gym and work out harder than ever before. You try to take up running again, even though it was something you gave up when you were in your thirties. And the universe—damn its sick humor—makes you think there was still an after-burner in there after all.