| Romance Fiction posted September 13, 2021 |
  |
a romantic story about seniors
Empty Seat, Empty Life
by RodG
Walter Connell lumbered aboard the bus, worked his way down the aisle to the last row, and took the seat closest to the privy. Everyone on these two-hour trips knew him and never challenged his right to his seat. Or its neighbor by the window. Nora's, and she was late.
He already had to pee, but wouldn't till she was aboard and settled.
"Where is she?" he grumbled, glaring out her window.
He'd called her twice to see if she was coming. Left voice messages both times. His daughter's two kids never talked on their phones, but never stopped texting. He'd never learned how, nor did he want to. If he bothered to call, he wanted a voice answering. "Only polite thing to do," he insisted.
Rennie, their driver, clambered up the three steps and scanned his passengers. When his eyes caught Walter's, he grinned.
"Where's Nora?" he asked.
Walter shrugged.
"I'll wait five more minutes, but no more," Rennie said. "Got a tight window, you know."
Walter knew. The bus was a weekly charter that picked up these seniors at nine, deposited them at the front door of the Wisconsin casino near eleven, gave them till three to gamble and had them back at the community center no later than six.
Nora never showed, never called. Several long-time cronies of theirs took turns coming to the rear of the bus to chat, but Walter wasn't the least bit cordial. He'd grunt a hello, maybe, then stare morosely out her window.
It was a dreary day, and he couldn't see much of the familiar landscape. Only her face in the dusty glass if his thoughts wandered. And they did.
Nora Danek was a widow he'd met two years earlier. A fellow retiree who'd told him about these larks convinced Walter to join him. Fifteen minutes into the trip, Walter, who had a problem with his prostate even then, headed back to the privy. Because it was occupied, he lowered his bulk into that empty seat now infamously his. Nora, a small white-haired woman with glistening blue eyes and a wide smile, struck up a conversation quickly. He'd almost forgotten his mission until she laughed and pointed at the now-available privy.
Later, when his buddy went off to play the tables, Walter rediscovered Nora who was animatedly playing the slots. He never left her side the rest of that day, and soon they were saving each other's seats on the bus weekly.
Although they'd shared fifty or more of these weekly trips, Walter always shook his head when his daughter called Nora and him "an item."
"Friends!" he insisted. "Just friends."
The other six days of the week, Nora had her life, and he had his. Rarely had that other life superseded their day.
Neither were addicts, but both gambled foolishly. She'd risk much of her dead husband's pension, Walter each Social Security check. On most trips Nora had the luck. She often came home $50-100 ahead. If Walter broke even, he was happy.
Not surprisingly, both dreamed of winning the Big One--a $10,000 jackpot on a nickel machine.
Once, while returning from a disastrous trip for each of them, Nora asked the question neither had brought up before.
"What would you do if you won the Big One, Walter? Shove it all back in with a big smile on your face?"
"Nope! I'd buy a ticket to Monte Carlo. That's long been on my bucket list." He gave Nora a sheepish glance. "No, I'd buy two and . . . take you with me."
Nora squealed with joy, and smooched him on the cheek in front of everyone. The others, even Rennie, had thought Walter proposed.
As he stared bleakly out her window, Walter groaned as he remembered.
"Why do I miss you so?"
Fast-rolling tires drowned out his words.
*. *. *
Rennie, who had a heavy foot, made up the time and promptly deposited his gang at eleven. All but Walter gleefully disembarked.
Rennie shouted through the open door at the mopey old man. "Have fun, Walter. Win big!" .
Walter gave him a sullen nod and lurched into the casino. A few minutes later he was seated at one of their twin machines, pumping in nickels mindlessly.
Usually he and Nora would break for lunch only after the crowd at the buffet had dwindled. Because it was all-you-can eat, it was their favorite meal of the week. Both stuffed themselves.
Not today.
Walter kept feeding both slots. His and hers.
He lost what cash he'd brought with him by noon. He used his debit card to get more nickels. For a while his luck turned. No jackpots, but repeatedly five or ten nickels would clunk into his tray and once or twice it overflowed.
Win or lose, he continued to glower.
Then he started to lose again. Rapidly.
By two-thirty the tray was empty and he had only two dull Jeffersons left.
"Well, one for each of us, Nora." He stared at her machine. "Ladies first."
He slipped it in, tapped the button, waited.
"Nothin' for the lady? That's rude!"
Walter pinched the last nickel between his thumb and forefinger, then slipped it into his machine and tapped.
It whirred . . . He watched a casino logo come level . . . then a second . . . a third . . . Walter sucked in his breath . . . and gasped when the fourth stuttered . . . stopped . . . stayed!
Lights flashed, bells jangled, and the machine erupted. Coins spilled into the tray, bounced out, covered his shoes in seconds.
"Holy Shit!" was all he could say.
*. *. *
They'd heard the commotion, but nobody on the bus believed Walter had won the Big One until he appeared, waving the casino's check.
"Let me see that!" demanded one of Nora's friends." After squinting at the sum--10,000 dollars--and his name--Walter Connell--written in block letters, she squealed, "My god! He did win it!"
Everyone, especially Rennie, wanted a peek at it. Walter wasn't hesitant to let them finger it, clutch it, snuggle it to their powdered cheeks.
"Still can't believe it, and I'm holdin' it," grumbled an old-timer who'd been taking these trips five times longer than Walter. He also had to smell it.
Creeping down the aisle, a gauntlet of much back-slapping, and sloppy kisses on both cheeks, Walter finally reached his seat. The hooting and loud cheers lasted a long fifteen minutes as Rennie got them back on the road. But these seniors' zest far exceeded their energy. Soon most were snoozing as they headed home.
Not Walter. He stared for a long while at the name on the mangled check. His!
"I never believed in fate until today," he muttered. "Last nickel . . . Why me?"
Frustrated because answers weren't forthcoming, he clumsily replaced the phone in his shirt pocket with the folded check.
"Nora . . . she--she'll know."
He snapped open the phone, a birthday present from his daughter, specifically designed for hearing impaired, near-sighted folks like him.
He scrolled down the illuminated list of names, punched hers. Four loud rings . . . then that voice he hated: "Please leave a message after the tone. . ."
Angrily he snapped shut the cover and glowered out her window.
*. *
Again Rennie made good time and even arrived at the Community Center early. He pulled the bus tight to the curb, then opened the door.
"Grab your stuff, folks. We're here," he shouted.
The cheers began again as the busload of gamblers found their sea-legs.
"Party next time! At the buffet, Walter's treat!" someone shouted.
No one exited till Walter nodded.
Walter slowly pulled himself to his feet and lumbered up the aisle.
"Why the frown?" Rennie asked as Walter closed the gap between them. "You're a rich man."
Walter stopped to corral his emotions, but couldn't. The words tumbled out.
"Be--because she wasn't there when I won this thing." He yanked the check from his pocket and waved it in the driver's face.
A grin eased across Rennie's broad face.
"Well, she is now, Walter. There's your Nora." He pointed out the door.
Walter gaped at the little woman standing amidst a cheering crowd. He stumbled down the steps into her wide-spread arms.
"How . .?"
"Lots of texts from everyone. That's why you couldn't reach me." She yanked him closer and gave him her widest smile. "You did try, didn't you?"
Walter nodded, then glanced around. Seeing lots more grins, he whispered into Nora's ear.
"Monte Carlo in the spring?"
"Oh, yes!" she screamed, then disappeared within his arms.
Fiction Story contest entry
Walter Connell lumbered aboard the bus, worked his way down the aisle to the last row, and took the seat closest to the privy. Everyone on these two-hour trips knew him and never challenged his right to his seat. Or its neighbor by the window. Nora's, and she was late.
He already had to pee, but wouldn't till she was aboard and settled.
"Where is she?" he grumbled, glaring out her window.
He'd called her twice to see if she was coming. Left voice messages both times. His daughter's two kids never talked on their phones, but never stopped texting. He'd never learned how, nor did he want to. If he bothered to call, he wanted a voice answering. "Only polite thing to do," he insisted.
Rennie, their driver, clambered up the three steps and scanned his passengers. When his eyes caught Walter's, he grinned.
"Where's Nora?" he asked.
Walter shrugged.
"I'll wait five more minutes, but no more," Rennie said. "Got a tight window, you know."
Walter knew. The bus was a weekly charter that picked up these seniors at nine, deposited them at the front door of the Wisconsin casino near eleven, gave them till three to gamble and had them back at the community center no later than six.
Nora never showed, never called. Several long-time cronies of theirs took turns coming to the rear of the bus to chat, but Walter wasn't the least bit cordial. He'd grunt a hello, maybe, then stare morosely out her window.
It was a dreary day, and he couldn't see much of the familiar landscape. Only her face in the dusty glass if his thoughts wandered. And they did.
Nora Danek was a widow he'd met two years earlier. A fellow retiree who'd told him about these larks convinced Walter to join him. Fifteen minutes into the trip, Walter, who had a problem with his prostate even then, headed back to the privy. Because it was occupied, he lowered his bulk into that empty seat now infamously his. Nora, a small white-haired woman with glistening blue eyes and a wide smile, struck up a conversation quickly. He'd almost forgotten his mission until she laughed and pointed at the now-available privy.
Later, when his buddy went off to play the tables, Walter rediscovered Nora who was animatedly playing the slots. He never left her side the rest of that day, and soon they were saving each other's seats on the bus weekly.
Although they'd shared fifty or more of these weekly trips, Walter always shook his head when his daughter called Nora and him "an item."
"Friends!" he insisted. "Just friends."
The other six days of the week, Nora had her life, and he had his. Rarely had that other life superseded their day.
Neither were addicts, but both gambled foolishly. She'd risk much of her dead husband's pension, Walter each Social Security check. On most trips Nora had the luck. She often came home $50-100 ahead. If Walter broke even, he was happy.
Not surprisingly, both dreamed of winning the Big One--a $10,000 jackpot on a nickel machine.
Once, while returning from a disastrous trip for each of them, Nora asked the question neither had brought up before.
"What would you do if you won the Big One, Walter? Shove it all back in with a big smile on your face?"
"Nope! I'd buy a ticket to Monte Carlo. That's long been on my bucket list." He gave Nora a sheepish glance. "No, I'd buy two and . . . take you with me."
Nora squealed with joy, and smooched him on the cheek in front of everyone. The others, even Rennie, had thought Walter proposed.
As he stared bleakly out her window, Walter groaned as he remembered.
"Why do I miss you so?"
Fast-rolling tires drowned out his words.
*. *. *
Rennie, who had a heavy foot, made up the time and promptly deposited his gang at eleven. All but Walter gleefully disembarked.
Rennie shouted through the open door at the mopey old man. "Have fun, Walter. Win big!" .
Walter gave him a sullen nod and lurched into the casino. A few minutes later he was seated at one of their twin machines, pumping in nickels mindlessly.
Usually he and Nora would break for lunch only after the crowd at the buffet had dwindled. Because it was all-you-can eat, it was their favorite meal of the week. Both stuffed themselves.
Not today.
Walter kept feeding both slots. His and hers.
He lost what cash he'd brought with him by noon. He used his debit card to get more nickels. For a while his luck turned. No jackpots, but repeatedly five or ten nickels would clunk into his tray and once or twice it overflowed.
Win or lose, he continued to glower.
Then he started to lose again. Rapidly.
By two-thirty the tray was empty and he had only two dull Jeffersons left.
"Well, one for each of us, Nora." He stared at her machine. "Ladies first."
He slipped it in, tapped the button, waited.
"Nothin' for the lady? That's rude!"
Walter pinched the last nickel between his thumb and forefinger, then slipped it into his machine and tapped.
It whirred . . . He watched a casino logo come level . . . then a second . . . a third . . . Walter sucked in his breath . . . and gasped when the fourth stuttered . . . stopped . . . stayed!
Lights flashed, bells jangled, and the machine erupted. Coins spilled into the tray, bounced out, covered his shoes in seconds.
"Holy Shit!" was all he could say.
*. *. *
They'd heard the commotion, but nobody on the bus believed Walter had won the Big One until he appeared, waving the casino's check.
"Let me see that!" demanded one of Nora's friends." After squinting at the sum--10,000 dollars--and his name--Walter Connell--written in block letters, she squealed, "My god! He did win it!"
Everyone, especially Rennie, wanted a peek at it. Walter wasn't hesitant to let them finger it, clutch it, snuggle it to their powdered cheeks.
"Still can't believe it, and I'm holdin' it," grumbled an old-timer who'd been taking these trips five times longer than Walter. He also had to smell it.
Creeping down the aisle, a gauntlet of much back-slapping, and sloppy kisses on both cheeks, Walter finally reached his seat. The hooting and loud cheers lasted a long fifteen minutes as Rennie got them back on the road. But these seniors' zest far exceeded their energy. Soon most were snoozing as they headed home.
Not Walter. He stared for a long while at the name on the mangled check. His!
"I never believed in fate until today," he muttered. "Last nickel . . . Why me?"
Frustrated because answers weren't forthcoming, he clumsily replaced the phone in his shirt pocket with the folded check.
"Nora . . . she--she'll know."
He snapped open the phone, a birthday present from his daughter, specifically designed for hearing impaired, near-sighted folks like him.
He scrolled down the illuminated list of names, punched hers. Four loud rings . . . then that voice he hated: "Please leave a message after the tone. . ."
Angrily he snapped shut the cover and glowered out her window.
*. *
Again Rennie made good time and even arrived at the Community Center early. He pulled the bus tight to the curb, then opened the door.
"Grab your stuff, folks. We're here," he shouted.
The cheers began again as the busload of gamblers found their sea-legs.
"Party next time! At the buffet, Walter's treat!" someone shouted.
No one exited till Walter nodded.
Walter slowly pulled himself to his feet and lumbered up the aisle.
"Why the frown?" Rennie asked as Walter closed the gap between them. "You're a rich man."
Walter stopped to corral his emotions, but couldn't. The words tumbled out.
"Be--because she wasn't there when I won this thing." He yanked the check from his pocket and waved it in the driver's face.
A grin eased across Rennie's broad face.
"Well, she is now, Walter. There's your Nora." He pointed out the door.
Walter gaped at the little woman standing amidst a cheering crowd. He stumbled down the steps into her wide-spread arms.
"How . .?"
"Lots of texts from everyone. That's why you couldn't reach me." She yanked him closer and gave him her widest smile. "You did try, didn't you?"
Walter nodded, then glanced around. Seeing lots more grins, he whispered into Nora's ear.
"Monte Carlo in the spring?"
"Oh, yes!" she screamed, then disappeared within his arms.
He already had to pee, but wouldn't till she was aboard and settled.
"Where is she?" he grumbled, glaring out her window.
He'd called her twice to see if she was coming. Left voice messages both times. His daughter's two kids never talked on their phones, but never stopped texting. He'd never learned how, nor did he want to. If he bothered to call, he wanted a voice answering. "Only polite thing to do," he insisted.
Rennie, their driver, clambered up the three steps and scanned his passengers. When his eyes caught Walter's, he grinned.
"Where's Nora?" he asked.
Walter shrugged.
"I'll wait five more minutes, but no more," Rennie said. "Got a tight window, you know."
Walter knew. The bus was a weekly charter that picked up these seniors at nine, deposited them at the front door of the Wisconsin casino near eleven, gave them till three to gamble and had them back at the community center no later than six.
Nora never showed, never called. Several long-time cronies of theirs took turns coming to the rear of the bus to chat, but Walter wasn't the least bit cordial. He'd grunt a hello, maybe, then stare morosely out her window.
It was a dreary day, and he couldn't see much of the familiar landscape. Only her face in the dusty glass if his thoughts wandered. And they did.
Nora Danek was a widow he'd met two years earlier. A fellow retiree who'd told him about these larks convinced Walter to join him. Fifteen minutes into the trip, Walter, who had a problem with his prostate even then, headed back to the privy. Because it was occupied, he lowered his bulk into that empty seat now infamously his. Nora, a small white-haired woman with glistening blue eyes and a wide smile, struck up a conversation quickly. He'd almost forgotten his mission until she laughed and pointed at the now-available privy.
Later, when his buddy went off to play the tables, Walter rediscovered Nora who was animatedly playing the slots. He never left her side the rest of that day, and soon they were saving each other's seats on the bus weekly.
Although they'd shared fifty or more of these weekly trips, Walter always shook his head when his daughter called Nora and him "an item."
"Friends!" he insisted. "Just friends."
The other six days of the week, Nora had her life, and he had his. Rarely had that other life superseded their day.
Neither were addicts, but both gambled foolishly. She'd risk much of her dead husband's pension, Walter each Social Security check. On most trips Nora had the luck. She often came home $50-100 ahead. If Walter broke even, he was happy.
Not surprisingly, both dreamed of winning the Big One--a $10,000 jackpot on a nickel machine.
Once, while returning from a disastrous trip for each of them, Nora asked the question neither had brought up before.
"What would you do if you won the Big One, Walter? Shove it all back in with a big smile on your face?"
"Nope! I'd buy a ticket to Monte Carlo. That's long been on my bucket list." He gave Nora a sheepish glance. "No, I'd buy two and . . . take you with me."
Nora squealed with joy, and smooched him on the cheek in front of everyone. The others, even Rennie, had thought Walter proposed.
As he stared bleakly out her window, Walter groaned as he remembered.
"Why do I miss you so?"
Fast-rolling tires drowned out his words.
*. *. *
Rennie, who had a heavy foot, made up the time and promptly deposited his gang at eleven. All but Walter gleefully disembarked.
Rennie shouted through the open door at the mopey old man. "Have fun, Walter. Win big!" .
Walter gave him a sullen nod and lurched into the casino. A few minutes later he was seated at one of their twin machines, pumping in nickels mindlessly.
Usually he and Nora would break for lunch only after the crowd at the buffet had dwindled. Because it was all-you-can eat, it was their favorite meal of the week. Both stuffed themselves.
Not today.
Walter kept feeding both slots. His and hers.
He lost what cash he'd brought with him by noon. He used his debit card to get more nickels. For a while his luck turned. No jackpots, but repeatedly five or ten nickels would clunk into his tray and once or twice it overflowed.
Win or lose, he continued to glower.
Then he started to lose again. Rapidly.
By two-thirty the tray was empty and he had only two dull Jeffersons left.
"Well, one for each of us, Nora." He stared at her machine. "Ladies first."
He slipped it in, tapped the button, waited.
"Nothin' for the lady? That's rude!"
Walter pinched the last nickel between his thumb and forefinger, then slipped it into his machine and tapped.
It whirred . . . He watched a casino logo come level . . . then a second . . . a third . . . Walter sucked in his breath . . . and gasped when the fourth stuttered . . . stopped . . . stayed!
Lights flashed, bells jangled, and the machine erupted. Coins spilled into the tray, bounced out, covered his shoes in seconds.
"Holy Shit!" was all he could say.
*. *. *
They'd heard the commotion, but nobody on the bus believed Walter had won the Big One until he appeared, waving the casino's check.
"Let me see that!" demanded one of Nora's friends." After squinting at the sum--10,000 dollars--and his name--Walter Connell--written in block letters, she squealed, "My god! He did win it!"
Everyone, especially Rennie, wanted a peek at it. Walter wasn't hesitant to let them finger it, clutch it, snuggle it to their powdered cheeks.
"Still can't believe it, and I'm holdin' it," grumbled an old-timer who'd been taking these trips five times longer than Walter. He also had to smell it.
Creeping down the aisle, a gauntlet of much back-slapping, and sloppy kisses on both cheeks, Walter finally reached his seat. The hooting and loud cheers lasted a long fifteen minutes as Rennie got them back on the road. But these seniors' zest far exceeded their energy. Soon most were snoozing as they headed home.
Not Walter. He stared for a long while at the name on the mangled check. His!
"I never believed in fate until today," he muttered. "Last nickel . . . Why me?"
Frustrated because answers weren't forthcoming, he clumsily replaced the phone in his shirt pocket with the folded check.
"Nora . . . she--she'll know."
He snapped open the phone, a birthday present from his daughter, specifically designed for hearing impaired, near-sighted folks like him.
He scrolled down the illuminated list of names, punched hers. Four loud rings . . . then that voice he hated: "Please leave a message after the tone. . ."
Angrily he snapped shut the cover and glowered out her window.
*. *
Again Rennie made good time and even arrived at the Community Center early. He pulled the bus tight to the curb, then opened the door.
"Grab your stuff, folks. We're here," he shouted.
The cheers began again as the busload of gamblers found their sea-legs.
"Party next time! At the buffet, Walter's treat!" someone shouted.
No one exited till Walter nodded.
Walter slowly pulled himself to his feet and lumbered up the aisle.
"Why the frown?" Rennie asked as Walter closed the gap between them. "You're a rich man."
Walter stopped to corral his emotions, but couldn't. The words tumbled out.
"Be--because she wasn't there when I won this thing." He yanked the check from his pocket and waved it in the driver's face.
A grin eased across Rennie's broad face.
"Well, she is now, Walter. There's your Nora." He pointed out the door.
Walter gaped at the little woman standing amidst a cheering crowd. He stumbled down the steps into her wide-spread arms.
"How . .?"
"Lots of texts from everyone. That's why you couldn't reach me." She yanked him closer and gave him her widest smile. "You did try, didn't you?"
Walter nodded, then glanced around. Seeing lots more grins, he whispered into Nora's ear.
"Monte Carlo in the spring?"
"Oh, yes!" she screamed, then disappeared within his arms.
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