“I will not rust away!”

I have to admit. I like the VA writing group.

One thing it does, it forces you to be honest with yourself.

I may have mentioned the process. You’re shown an image. In this case, the image was a multicolored image of man shaped creatures. They looked almost mechanical rather than human. You look at it, write what comes to mind.

And yesterday’s image made me be honest.

As many of you know, I’ve been among the ranks of the gainfully unemployed for a several months now. My resume is perfect. I’ve gone to interviews and knocked them out of the park. And then I get ghosted. I’ve no clue what happened. In some cases, not even so much as a “Sorry, we decided to go with someone else.”

Once upon a time, you might not be hired because of the color of your skin or your last name. There are laws that are “Supposed to” protect against that.

But there doesn’t seem to be a law against being a senior citizen.

And that’s what came out of the keyboard on the prompt yesterday. The anger because I feel like I’m being forced to clear the shelf because of a number.

Here it is:

The coffee shop was almost empty. That was a rare thing on a Saturday, but it had to happen once in a while. About the only other person here was an old man who always seemed to be here. He sat in the corner, neither greeting anyone nor even acknowledging they existed. The most he ever did was to take his teeth out and clean them with a coffee stirrer.

It was a good idea to look away when he did that.

I came down just to get some me-time. I always got the Morning Mug blend, tipped the barista a buck, and sat down with a book.

I hadn’t been reading long when Craig walked in. Ever since his knee surgery, he uses a cane. I knew Craig from church. He was an accountant and is a very good friend. I hadn’t expected to see him here.

“Hey, Craig,” I said.

 “Hey, Will. Can I join you?”

“Sure thing.”

“Great. Let me get some coffee.” As he turned away, I saw the look. The ready smile on his face melted away, and there was something poorly hidden in his eyes.

When he faced me, I saw it in his face. Poorly hidden anger seethed behind his eyes, and I wondered what was up.

I put the book down and waited.

A moment later, he had his coffee, came down, and sat down.

“So, how’s my brother from another mother?” I asked.

He rubbed his hand a little. It was cool and rainy out, and I knew his arthritis was bothering him, just like mine was.

“We’re machines,” he said.

He took a sip of his coffee and turned his head to look out the window. There wasn’t much to see out there. Just a few rose bushes in pots that were finally budding. The rain would help them grow.

“Excuse me?”

“Okay. We’re not machines. At least not machines made of metal, oil, and gears. But machines nonetheless.”

The lines on his face had gotten deeper and somehow, the gray in his hair had gotten even grayer. I’d seen him in church just last week, but it seemed he’d aged years in a matter of days.

“What are you getting at?” I asked.

“Think about it. One of the machines on the assembly line breaks down. What do we do?”

“We fix it,” I said.

“Exactly. You go get your toolbox and find out what’s broken. Then you get the part in and you fix it.”

“So?”

“So, the machine makes money, and that’s why we fix it.”

I didn’t like where he was going with this.

“But what happens when the machine has outlived its usefulness? Or at least we think it has.”

“We replace it.”

“Yes, with a newer, shiner model. And that machine is no better than the old one; we’re just thinking because it’s newer, it was better.”

“What happened?”

“They forced me out.”

“What?”

“They started complaining about my work. Writing me up. They were groundless, but they did.”

“And?”

“And I refused to sign the write-ups. So, they just let me go.”

It was several seconds before I said, “Go on.”

“That’s how it is with us humans. We get older.” He didn’t want to admit it, but reality was forcing him to say it. “Maybe we’re not the latest model. Maybe our lines aren’t as smooth as they once were. Maybe we’re not as fast as we once were, or our joints creak.”

He shook his head. “We’re tossed aside because a cheaper model walks through the door. It doesn’t matter what we know or what we’ve done, or what upgrades we’ve made for ourselves. We’re machines that have outlived their usefulness, or so they imply. Truth is, why have me working? I mean, they gave me raises and yearly raises, and now it’s cheaper to hire a kid to do the job.” He shrugged. “They toss us out the backdoor intending that we rust away.”

“They fired you because you’re older.”

“Well, it’s not what they’ll say. I’d sue them if they did. But this is an at-will state. They can let me go just because it’s economically better.”

“Better for whom?”

“Them?” he chuckled. “You know. We kind of did this to ourselves.”

“How?”

“We have social security. At a certain age, you can start drawing it. Or you can start drawing a pension of such.” He smiled as a thought occurred to him. “We put an expiration date on ourselves. My great grandfather worked up to the day he died. They don’t’ want us to do that anymore. They want us to clear the shelf.”

“And how about you?”

“It’s the worst thing that could happen. Retirement doesn’t pay enough. And I’m not ready to retire. I still have too much to offer.” The smile he had a moment before melted away. “Maybe I don’t want to clear the shelf.”

“What are you going to do?”

It was a moment before he answered. “What happens if I don’t want to rust? What if I tell the world to go to hell and seize my destiny? I let the world know that we still have something to give! That yes, I am older. That just means I’ve seen everything twice and I’ve never let it beat me.”

“Go on.”

He nodded. I realized he was agreeing with himself on some decision. “What if I said I will not go quietly into the night? That I’m going to stand up, declare myself useful, and then prove it!”

The fire in his eyes and the timber of his voice caught me.

“What are you going to do? They just took your job from you.”

“Then, by God, I’ll take it back!”