Sid
I wipe the fog from the bathroom mirror with my towel and stare at my naked reflection.
I gaze uncomfortably upon the topographic map of my life.
This is the body of an eighty-one-year-old man.
Hello, hernia scar.
Howdy, hip replacement.
Good evening, gall bladder surgery.
I pivot.
Calling 911! Where did my ass go?
I look like a candle that was mistakenly left outside during the summer: melted into an amorphous lump.
I turn and analyze my manhood.
Even my candle wick has disappeared, obviously frightened by its surroundings, a groundhog that does not want to emerge for
the winter.
I study my pubic area. I lift my arms. I touch my head.
And where did all of my hair go?
I have become a sphynx cat in my golden years.
And yet there is a shag rug on my lower back.
My hair has simply relocated south like every other retiree.
I take full stock of the image before me—as clear and as unsettling as the sag of soft skin at my belly—and yet my eyes play a trick on me: In the reflection, I can still see the picture of “Center Sid” when I was seventeen years old and playing high school basketball.
My dark hair was thick and lush, and it fell across my forehead and onto my lashes as if I’d spent an hour styling it that way.
My jaw is set, my dark eyes intensely focused on something. What? The future?
My body is lithe, my biceps pumped, my arms veiny, tufts of black hair popping from my armpits. My legs are muscled and hairy.
My cheeks were always pink, as if I’d just completed wind sprints.
Sid Silverstein was a stud.
I remember in high school Rabbi Weiss always telling us, “Time is an invitation.”
His deep voice echoes in my head:
“The life of man is like a breath exhaling; his days are like a passing shadow. We drink time, we eat time, we live in the
shadow of time, and yet we are oblivious to it, especially what is happening this very moment.”
Standing here—over six decades later—staring at my elderly reflection, I finally understand the importance of his message:
A thousand years have passed, and yet it feels as if it has only been a single day.
I touch my body, run a hand over my chest and stomach.
It’s not that I’m in bad shape.
For eighty-one!
I work out five times a week. I watch what I eat. I don’t even take a statin.
But the reality is, existing within an eighty-one-year-old body is like living in a haunted house: It is filled with unexplainable
creaks, moans, horrors and—when you least expect it—screaming terror.
A shriek pierces my bathroom.
“Oh, my God!”
“Jesus, Teddy!” I yell, grabbing my towel to cover up.
He slaps his hands over his eyes.
“Oh, God! It’s like looking directly into the sun. I will never unsee this!”
Teddy spreads his fingers, and I can see him peer through them.
“And yet I can’t stop looking,” he says. “It’s like a train wreck.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“I’m out of painkillers. I’ve been so distracted, I didn’t refill my prescriptions.” Teddy looks at me. “Now I need something
stronger. Like morphine.”
“Get out!”
“I thought you were gone!” he says. “Speaking of which, where did your ass go? Witness protection? Have you tried to iron
out those wrinkles?”
“GET OUT!”
He starts to leave but turns on a dime and, without warning, raises his phone and snaps a photo of me standing half naked.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell.
“Torturing my SIM card! Blackmail, Sid. Now you will owe me when I need it most.”
“You’ll be dead so it won’t matter!”
I pull a large hand towel from the gold stand perched on my bathroom counter and flick Teddy with it, just like I did as a
boy in the locker room. It catches him hard on the side, but he doesn’t wince. He just stands there, already looking pained.
“Teddy?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he says. Teddy rubs his temples. “This headache just won’t go away.”
“Here,” I say, reaching into my cabinet. “I have Advil.”
Teddy takes the bottle.
“Thanks,” he says, forcing a smile. Teddy never forces a smile.
“You want to talk?” I ask.
“We’ll talk later. Okay? I don’t want to spoil your date.”
His demeanor concerns me. My face falls.
“I mean, this is your first date since Grease.”
I can tell when Teddy is trying to divert attention. He knows it, too.
“Stop it,” he continues. “I’m fine. My sister’s visit has just thrown me for a loop.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Teddy says. “Are you going out with that cute guy who turned down Barry? Is that why he came to Streetbar? To
find you?”
I nod. “His name’s Leo.”
Teddy gives me a once-over. “Remind me again? Is he a blind man?”
“I think you’re feeling just fine,” I say.
“Told ya so.”
“Just keep this our little secret for now, okay? I’m not ready to say anything. Too fragile.”
Teddy leans against the doorframe and watches as I put gel in my hair.
“You deserve to be happy, Sid. You know that, right?”
I cannot believe Teddy is being so tender. I stare at him in the mirror.
“You deserve love,” he continues. “It’s your time.”
The way he says this fills my eyes with tears.
“Teddy,” I say, my voice breaking.
“Now I don’t have to be nice again until you’re ninety. By then, you won’t remember a word I’m saying anyway.”
He turns to leave again.
“Wait, Teddy. Can I ask you a question?”
“I’m basically Jeopardy!,” he says. “I know everything. And I’ll answer in the form of a question, too, if you’d like.”
“Why would Leo want to go out with me?”
“Sid, don’t do that to yourself.”
“I’m serious. Why would a man like that want to be with me?”
I gesture to my reflection in the mirror.
“I’m sorry, but as you just clearly saw, I am not what is considered the fantasy of any gay man today.
I saw Leo working out. He’s in great shape.
I mean, thirty-year-olds would jump his bones.
Everything that is marketed to us today is the image of masculinity and the perfect body: six-packs, pecs, hairy, muscular.
I am anything but. My body is in decline, closer to incontinence than sexual fantasy. ”
“I thought that was just your cologne,” Teddy says. He lifts his hands. “Joking, joking.” Teddy leans against the doorframe
again—as if he needs it for support.
“I know you haven’t been with many men in your life, Sid, and I know you are scared of being judged, but Leo likes you or
he wouldn’t have asked you out. I’m guessing that he’s smart, successful and obviously could have any man, but he likes you. So much of attraction, Sid, is not based on physical appearance but how someone makes us feel inside.” Teddy touches his
heart. “Believe me, I’m not the hottest man to walk this earth. John was much more attractive than I ever was, and I had a
lot of insecurity when we first started dating. In fact, I had it most of our relationship: I would get insanely jealous when
other men would hit on him. But he loved me. He found me hot for some reason. And part of that was my confidence, my humor,
my strength, my ability not to take any shit in life. You are so intelligent, kind, gentle, giving to our community. You are
a wonderful father and grandfather. You wear your heart on your sleeve. And it’s all of that beauty that he’ll see when he
undresses you, Sid.”
I am about to thank Teddy when he adds:
“Just keep the lights off.”
“I am not having sex with him!”
“Then I will! How much younger is he?”
“Google search says over two decades.”
“Can you send an AI version of yourself?” Teddy jokes. “Listen to me: Have sex, Sid. Have lots of sex . . . while you still can. Push all those feelings of guilt, insecurity and unworthiness aside and simply enjoy the moment. Stay out of your big head
so your little one can have a nice time. A good dinner, some good wine, a good roll in the hay.”
I open my arms and take a step toward Teddy.
“I refuse to hug you after what I just saw,” he says. “I’m worried it will rub off.”
“You know what Sophia always said? ‘After eighty, every year without a headstone is a milestone.’ And I’m eighty-one.”
Teddy chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask him, studying him closely again.
“Are you?” he counters.
“No,” we reply at that same time.
“Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” Teddy says. “Thanks for the Advil and the nightmares.”
He walks away.
“Teddy?” I call.
“Yeah.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” he says. “Who doesn’t?”
Leo is seated by the fountain on the patio of Copley’s.
It is a quintessentially Palm Springs restaurant—the former guesthouse of Cary Grant—with a gorgeous outdoor patio hidden
from the street that serves wonderful food and has incredible service.
It is also known for its eclectic mix of clientele and celebrations: young and old, locals and visitors, birthdays and anniversaries.
First dates.
“It’s great to see you, Sid.”
Leo stands as the hostess shows me to our table between the fountain and fire pit.
“You, too!”
I say this excitedly—almost as if I’m a game show host—and the couple at the table next to us starts at my volume.
Leo pulls out my chair for me, and I stand there awkwardly.
Will he hug me? Kiss me? Go for a simple handshake?
Leo gestures at my seat, ever the gentleman.
Nothing. Not even a touch.
The patio is dim, and my next thought is wondering whether he chose this table so no one would see us.
I hear Teddy’s voice: “Get out of your head, Sid.”
I fidget with my napkin. I fold it in my lap and then refold it.
“Origami!” I say, again with too much fervor. I lift my napkin. “Is it a swan? A lotus?”
Leo’s smile now seems forced.
He hates me. I continue, my mouth a runaway train, my brain like Sophia’s after her stroke.
“Oh, wait, I used to do this great dinner party trick for friends! I have to show you! I learned it from an old friend in
Palm Springs.”
I grab my napkin and fold it in half and then half again before pinching it into a long tube. As I tighten it, the napkin
comes to life, rising into a . . .
“Is that supposed to be a penis?” Leo asks.
I place it my lap.
“Voila!”