Aging in Place

“Prostitution,” the tall man states with serene confidence, “is the

public promulgation of private parts for pecuniary purposes. Do we

call it renting? Or selling? Letting? Or getting? And so what?

“The real question,” he adds, sips his Longboard, holds the glassed

amber before him in a neo-Mussolini salute, “is whether you are ever

embarrassed or offended by any of the things I say?”

They say he woke up with no idea where he was or how he’d got face-up

on cool, damp tile, a light blanket covering him, a rolled towel

pillowing his head. And, yes, it seems he really had pissed his pants.

Or was that spilled beer?

“Could this be the answer to your ‘and so what’ question?” the vacant,

smiling face above him inquires.

“But I don’t remember asking that question,” he complains.

“Precisely,” she avers. “‘And so what?’ Oh you kid. Boo boo ba doo.”

“Coo coo kachoo, my little chickadee,” he grins.

“This may not seem so groovy come dawn,” they croon, then crow, “Our

love’s gonna grow, oo-wa, oo-wa.”

But alas. And alack.

“You peed your pants!” she whisper-shouts. “Oo-gee! Auwe! Go ‘way!”

“And so what?” he thinks, serenity unimpaired, height undiminished. “.

. . the public PROMOTION and promulgation . . .?” he asks himself. “Or

would that be redundant?”