"it must suck to be that old", i thought to myself. the idea of having been around for ninety-four years was both at once frightening and inspiring. how does the soul hang on that long? at what point does the body tell the mind, "look, ole chap, i think we've run the gammut. how about turning it in?"

irving wasn't that kind of man though. he saw each day as another opportunity to outdo himself from the day before. everything took longer, sure. but it wasn't as though he felt like challenging himself at the 100meter either. he had seen the passing of a beloved wife, three children, and five grand children. the guilt was the only thing that seemed to hurt anymore. was it his fault that he had outlived his loved ones? irving tended to think not, but he couldn't help but wonder if maybe it was all some sort of cruel joke. it was as though he hit 78 and began getting younger again.

so he reveled in it. at eighty-seven, he became the oldest man to freefall from 20,000 feet. at ninety, he received his third phd; this time in cultural anthropology. and why not... irving was cultural anthropology.

i'm sure he got similar gazes to mine every time he went somewhere, but i was shocked when he walked toward me with his venti non-fat mocha valencia.

"may i?" he asked pointing at the brown velvet chair next to mine.

"of course. let me --"

"i'm fine. thank you though."

"sure. um... mark." i said stretching a cautious 'wet fish' hand to greet him.

"irving avoilles, pleased to meet you." he gripped my hand with great force and raw strength and my unpreparedness caused me to wince suddenly. he noticed and gave a pitying furrowing of his brow both apologetic and slightly offended. "i've seen you here several times this month. grande caramel macchiato, right?"

"um... yes, actually" i'm not sure why, perhaps i always had my head in a book or found myself distracted in conversation of nearby tables, but i had never noticed irving avoilles before today. he certainly wasn't a character to be easily missed. dressed in a bright blue sweat suit with giant g-a-p embroidered on his chest, he wasn't exactly the poster child for twenty-something fashion trends. "do you live in the area?"

"seventy-one years" he breathed with a sigh of something between pride and remorse. he settled back into the lounger and was almost swallowed by the immense wings on either side of him. a wry smile formed on his stoic face. "opened the first five and dime this side of downtown at this very spot over sixty years ago. you never would have made me believe back then that they'd pull in four dollars for a cup of coffee."

"i find it hard to believe myself. even harder to believe that i willingly pay that much to feed an addiction. i used to be content with the daily pot at home, but the convenience of it all has...." his smile had flattened and he stared off somewhere between the grinder and the pastry case, his eyes wide, his chapped lips pursed. i feared that he had drifted off into some alzheimers induced catatonia and flashed my outstretched hand into his gaze.

"she was twenty-four the first time we met. she bought a packet of barrettes, two #2 pencils, and a ne-hi."

that first friday morning, i was introduced through memory to madeline, irving's wife of fifty-one years. i was given a picture of her dark, springy curls and blushed cheeks. over the next several weeks, i would find myself immersed in the avoilles family as irving related every important event of his past with amazing detail.