John and his pal Jack

John spent most of his 74 years building things. He worked as a mason and had the wore out knees and shoulders to prove it.
Six days a week for nearly sixty years he'd shown up at work; done his job and gone home again to his quiet little apartment. Some nights he sat with cool compresses on his arthritic joints, but most of the time he drank a bottle of Jack Daniels to numb the pain. He and Jack were familiar friends. It was Jack alone who welcomed him home. Jack who could make him feel better. Jack who kept him company.

John prided himself on his work. He had little else to think of, since once he got home he stopped thinking at all. He could work as fast, as hard, and do a better job than any of those young guys the boss seemed so intent on hiring. He often said They didn't care about the job, they just wanted the paycheck. Their minds were full of wives, and family, and bills.

John had never fallen into that trap. He remembered watching his Father work himself to the bone for his Mother who was never satisfied, his brother who was always sick and needing Doctors, and medicines they couldn't afford. John swore at an early age that he would never allow himself to be trapped like that.

John could take you for a ride around the city and show you the hundreds of buildings he had worked on (If anyone had cared to see them.) The straight lines of the brick and mortar hard proof that he'd earned his keep. He didn't owe the world a dime and never got anything that he hadn't earned.

John had all he needed with his work. It paid for his apartment, supported his drink, and had let him build up a tidy sum for his retirement. He'd worked till he was 72, then quit when his back just couldn't take no more. So John sat at home. With Jack. And watched out his window as others scurried back and forth racing to make a living, chasing after kids, running errands for their wives who surely could have done it themselves.

Johns patience with women had long since wore out. His Mothers whining and praying had done no good. In the end Joe had died in spite of the Doctors and money they'd spent. Then when he thought that perhaps he might get a bit of her time, she had shrunk into herself with a grief that she never came back from. Damned women!

Johns routine hadn't changed. He still woke with the sun and passed out by supper time. Even Jack didn't seem to be able to comfort him like he used to, but John didn't complain. Who would hear? He'd be damned if he was going to ask for help now. He'd done for himself and would continue to. Even though the arthritis was making his joints swell with fire and his gut burned until Jack numbed it. When he could no longer walk to the store, he had his things delivered. Oh how he hated those delivery boys who always stood with their hand out hoping for a tip! He gave them a dollar and thought that was more than they were worth. His order was always the same, so it's not like it was hard for them to pick his stuff out and cart it around the corner.

Sunday he had salmon on toast. Monday canned soup. Tuesday he had the rest of the salmon. Wednesday fried ham and beans. Thursday he liked that chicken in a box, Friday sometimes he'd splurge and have the bar downstairs fry him up some of that fish that smelled so good coming up through the vents. By Saturday he ate his leftovers and prided himself on saving a days meal expense.

John used to read the daily paper, more often than not a day or 2 late after the bar was done with it and he could scoop it out of the dumpster. He'd read it less lately, as the steps were getting too steep to climb just to read bad news. He had no company. No friends, or family left to bother him. He changed clothes when he remembered, and bathed when his skin began to crawl. No one bothered him even on the rare occasions that he did go out because the smell alone told them He had nothing they'd want.

John passed away one night alone in his bed. His heart gave out and he died as he'd lived; quietly, unknowingly. His absence noticed only by Jack, who sat un-drank in the cupboard. Some might say his spirit left him that night. Those who had once known him knew it was gone long ago.