Visiting Himself

There's an old man from Southern California that visits the hotel every now and again with his two adult sons. I've checked him in quite a few times over the years and shot the breeze with him more than once, so when he checked in last night I greeted him as usual and made the typical small talk we make. He got his usual room with his special room rate, and after a short while he and his sons were on their way.

He's getting up in age, though; he didn't always walk with a cane, and even though his hearing was never the best I find myself repeating myself and speaking up louder more often when talking to him. He was pretty old when I started working at the hotel more than eight years ago, so he has to be well into his 80s I think. He knows he's getting old too.

During a quick chat about general information, he asked me where the cemetery was. I made sure he meant the one in town and not one of the the historic ones, and I told him.

"Oh good," He said, "We're headed that way tomorrow. I'm going to visit myself."

I knew what he meant. "Got yourself a piece of real estate, huh?"

"Yup," He replied, "And I have to pay for it tomorrow."

He was going to his plot at the cemetery. Maybe it's because I plan to get cremated (or eaten by coyotes after getting lost in the desert, who knows), but I never really thought about pinpointing the exact place my body will be left after I keel over. I'd imagine it being a surreal experience, like the Ebeneezer Scrooge existential crisis moment toward the end of A Christmas Carol or an out-of-body experience but while still in your body, seeing your final resting place. Knowing the spot where what's left of your physical existence is going to be brings some small comfort to some people. Setting your affairs in order would set a mind at ease too, I guess.

After some pleasantries he left, and I started thinking about life a little bit.

There was a tinge of sadness behind the joking tone of the mans voice when he said he was going to visit himself. I think most people would have trouble making peace with finality. A lot of people are afraid of dying, but I think after so many years you feel some disappointment for not getting just a little more time. Even though he was making sure everything was in order when he passes away, even though he's led a good long life, he's bummed. He's like a kid who had the best summer vacation having to go back to school; a little disenchanted but accepting.

I hope, should I ever live to see old age, to be as bummed out about the party of life's last call. Life isn't perfect-- it's usually not even all that good-- but since it's going to end anyway it's worth seeing it through until the bar lights come on and the music stops.