Page 31 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Two

around you. Every time they see you they are reminded of some very
unpleasant things.”
Bud shook his head. “That’s their problem. They signed the same
contract I did. It didn’t say anything about staying young forever, and
it didn’t promise I’d never be confronted with death or dying or the
hint of a wrinkle.”
“Never mind the contract. Most of what you get here cannot be
written down, but it has to be delivered. I’m through trying to reason
with you. It comes down to this: within a very short period of time,
like a couple of weeks, one of three things is going to happen. One:
you cancel your contract, go back to your hometown, and forfeit a lot
of money and the chance ever to return. Two: you get with the
program and clean up your act; what you do inside your own
apartment is your business, but you can’t go outside looking like an
old man. You will be given priority at any of the clinics. You’ve let
yourself go to the point where a complete makeover will be a bit
painful. Too bad.”
Bud squinted. “Wait a minute. You said three things.”
“Figure it out yourself. You could have an accident. We can’t make
this place absolutely safe and harmless, you know.” Mance gestured
at the dog, now beginning to twitch. “Your dog, for instance, might
eat something poisonous. You could slip and fall in your own
bathroom, suffer a fatal concussion. Nobody really lives forever.”
“You wouldn’t—” Bud pulled himself up as Mance stepped
toward the front door. “No, I can see that you would. A couple of
weeks, eh? All right. I’ve got to do some thinking. Dead here at your
hands; dead pretty quickly out there; or living dead in here. Not much
of a choice.”
Mance A. Megra took one last look at Bud Farcy, his expression
devoid of sympathy. “Well, you superannuated fool, that is what
getting old is really all about: choices reducing to zero.”
He left.
Bud went to his dog, began stroking her head. “Zero? Only if the
last choice is suicide.”