Growing Old

Vito Clapp undid the clasp holding the thing to his head and switched the power off. He hung the device on its hook and rubbed his face vigorously. Breathing in the thing all night left a film of perspiration and his skin tingled when he wiped it away. There was no need to check the mirror; it would show the perfect face of a nineteen-year-old youth as it had every morning for the past, what was it now, eighty-seven years? And no need to check again before he clamped the mask on at night. He knew that he would see that other face and he took no joy in looking at it. And what did it matter? This young, bright face or that other, which one was real? It wasn't so much how he looked that mattered to him, it was how he felt and he didn't need a mirror to tell him he preferred this youthful health and energy to the lassitude and melancholy he took with him to bed at night.

But that was night and this was the bright early morning and he couldn't wait to get out of the building and start his day. Youth, the feeling of lightness and the joy that came with it. And the smiles of the young woman looking his way. It still filled him with gladness even after all these years. When he had really been on this earth only 19 years he had taken those smiles for granted. Women smiled at him and he smiled back; that's the way it was. He'd never wondered about it until the smiles had stopped and, at first, he hadn't understood why they had, and when it dawned on him that young woman no longer looked upon him as a young man he'd felt a surge of anger, but it hadn't lasted. He realized they were right; he wasn't a young man anymore and that magical exchange of smiles was gone for him and he had sighed in resignation like he supposed most people do who have passed their sell-by date.

And it wasn't until much later that he began to really regret it, to realize what a grace youth and beauty bestows, and that he would never experience it again. For him, that realization meant giving up on life, or on a life that had any joy for him. He would have ridden that regret down into the grave if the device hadn't come into his possession. Now he had those smiles again and that was enough to keep him going, to give him a reason to look forward to the beginning of each new day. The nights, well, they were a different matter, but there was a price to pay for everything and, for this, he was willing to pay.

But, the nights were not the worst of it. The evanescence of experience, the inability to grasp and hold onto any permanent outcome of his brief exchanges; the hollowness left behind each time he had to break off or hold back; that was the insidious price. He had attempted some work arounds, but they were difficult to maintain. The young woman down the hall, Benigna, what kind of a name was that? He'd never have the time to ask her about it. He could only greet her in the morning and be careful not to linger too long and to be doubly careful not to meet her in the hall when he came home at night. Or would she even recognize him? Doubtful, but if she did, the game would be over and what would it do to her? At any rate, he didn't want it to be over, not now, not ever. But, to sit with her all through the night and tell her about himself and listen to her talk about her life, her loves, her fears. Could he do that? But the smiles, he would never have those again. Did he dare even to sit at a cafe for an hour with her? Would she note the changes even in that time and ask him about it, or wonder? He could say, he supposed, that he was feeling ill and had to get back home. But then, what if she knocked on his door to see if he was well? Would she do that? He could pretend not to be in. Then the next morning, would she smile, or would her face be filled with concern or suspicion? He couldn't bear that; he wanted her smiles and he wanted to smile back.

It was only with the very old that he could spend any real time. They were no more dismayed to see how he looked at night than they were to see their own faces in the mirror, and if he stayed with the very, very old they might not even see well enough to notice what he looked like. He could imagine spending the night with his arms wrapped around an old crone, content with the feeling of another person's body near his, but, then, there was the device. He had to use it and how would he explain it to her? Offer to let her use it? See the expression on her young face when she woke in the morning, but then watch the looks and the smiles fade by the hour and the despair in her face when she experienced the aging of an entire life in the span of a day? Is this an experience which could be shared? Yes, he thought, it was. But he didn't need the device for that.

He looked at the thing hanging on its hook and did something he made a point of avoiding if he could; he went into the bathroom and looked intently at the young face in the mirror and stayed like that for a long time, watching the face lose its bloom, watching the lines settle in and the skin begin to sag. He stayed for such a long time that eventually it became difficult to see clearly in the fading light. He would have had to turn on the lamp, but what would be the point of that? Instead, he walked back to his room and took the device off its hook and coiled it's hoses and cords and put them in their box. He locked it and put the key in his pocket and left his room. He looked down the hall at Benigna's door. He wondered if he should knock and ask what kind of a name that was. He lingered a moment, then turned and walked down the stairs and out the door. Somewhere, he knew, there was someone he could tell all about himself, and who would tell all to him.