​BUYING OLD BANANAS
Good Friends Don't Grow on Trees

 Copyright © 2024 Cecile Beaulieu
  All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of Cecile Beaulieu.
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1. the appointment

​An old man’s reflection taunts Murray from the mirror. Murray tries to reason, how the old guy got there. There’s supposed to be a young fellow full of piss and vinegar smiling back at him, not this grumpy old dude. It must be a trick mirror.
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He studies the features of the face in the glass. The skin is wrinkled, the eyes are sunken, the nose bulbous, sagging jowls are ashen and creased. Large gnarly ears add to the impression of a sad face with half its clown makeup rubbed off.
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The guy looks as confused as Murray is feeling. Murray runs a hand through his wiry thin hair to smooth it down. It annoys him when the dude in the mirror mocks him by doing the same. He wants to show him his fist but doesn’t want to chance that the old guy may have been a prizefighter in his early days . . . or something worse. An old cuckoo clock on the wall chirps the top of the hour breaking Murray’s concentration on the mug in the mirror.

He needs socks. That’s why Murray’s standing in front of the bureau ogling his reflection, but the damn drawer won’t open. It’s stuck again. Murray fumbles with it, yanking hard, knocking a tin of photos from the dresser top to the floor. The lid pops off the canister spilling the contents at his feet. He ignores the mishap and fixates on finding a pair of socks instead.
It’s an ongoing battle between Murray and a decrepit piece of furniture. He needs socks, not next week, but now. He releases his grip on the knob, sits on the edge of his bed and contemplates a better approach . . . or a surrender.

He rests, elbows on knees, head hung, hands clasped. He draws a breath through pursed lips trying, but failing, to calm his impatience. Blinking twice he notices, as if for the first time, the disarray of snapshots strewn across the floor. Next to his right foot, a little cowboy in an ancient photo grins at him. A gap between two front teeth gives away his age―about six years old. The picture was taken at least fifty years ago and Murray remembers the boy, who is his son, who became the man, that he no longer recognizes. Murray picks it up, fingers the image and closes his eyes. Memories disrupt his thoughts, which he desperately tries to avert.

  

When the boy was born, they named him Bill, not William. Murray’s wife, Sharon went into labor on the first day of the Calgary Stampede in 1949. It was a bit of a shit show getting to the hospital with Stampede festivities raging through the downtown. So, it was no coincidence that little Bill grew to embrace the spirit of rodeo.
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The year he learned to walk Santa gave him a hobby horse for Christmas. There was no more walking for Billy, if he was going somewhere he rode his horse. You couldn’t leave a cowboy hat lying around or Billy would don it and claim it as his own. No matter that it was man-sized, wobbled loosely on his head and blocked his vision, Billy was proud to wear it. And he had heroes―cowboys like Wild Bill Hickok, Buffalo Bill and Billy the Kid. He aimed to live up to their celebrity, perhaps earn himself a brand―Rodeo Bill or Bronco Billy.

For his sixth birthday, his grandpa bought him a pair of real cowboy boots, unlike the fake ones made of rubber he was used to wearing. Billy had to be coerced into taking them off at bedtime, or before stepping into the bathtub. The day of the Calgary Stampede Parade, he was decked out in proper garb―boots, Wrangler jeans and shirt and a snug-fitting kid’s cowboy hat, minus the toy whistle. No self-respecting cowboy wore a whistle with his hat.
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While sitting on the curb waiting for the parade to start, Billy posed for his father to take a picture. It was a proud and happy time for both of them. Then the act of living drove the memory into obscurity, but the black and white photo forever corroborated the moment.

  

​Murray places the photo back into the tin and covers it with the rest of the snapshots scattered on the floor. He sets the lid on top, snaps it shut and stashes it on the floor under the bureau.

Murray decides it’s easier to focus on socks.

​He tries the drawer again, this time with even more force. The drawer flies open and he rummages through it hoping to find a pair that doesn’t have a gaping hole at the toe. He finds tube socks that look to be in good enough condition and pulls them on. He slips his socked feet into the sneakers he bought at the SAAN store the week before.

He checks the time and stands up to leave. He walks the hall outside his bedroom and regards the stairs leading up to the main floor. The climb is hard, his long legs don’t work the way they used to. Pain in his hip sometimes makes it difficult to negotiate the stairwell. On the seventh step, he’s winded. He leans against the handrail to catch a breath.

He isn’t a huge man, but tall and bony with slender limbs. His hands are big, with fingers like bird claws especially when he neglects to clip his nails. He isn’t interested in grooming now that he’s eighty years of age―primping days are long gone. He has enough challenges to face without complicating his life further.

Murray reaches the landing and pauses. To his left, two more steps lead to the main floor. The door is normally closed. He isn’t often welcomed in, other than to collect his meals and take them downstairs. It’s his choice to eat alone. Dining upstairs is awkward and downright unpleasant sometimes. The climate in his bedroom is less contentious, so he chooses to eat in peace.
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He stands on the landing facing an open closet filled with coats. A rack of shoes and boots spans the closet floor. He turns right toward the door to go outside. He usually leaves the house before breakfast. This day is no different, except that he has an appointment.