Gerry Boomers
by A.J. Austin & Daniel Hatch
Illustration by John Stevens
Ed Ronson regarded the dying razor in his hand, the soft buzz fading as he stared at it.
So much for manufacturer’s claims, he mused. The charge should have held for at least a month, and he had recharged the razor only five days earlier. But then he remembered that it had been plugged in the day the power went off, and must not have had a chance to become fully charged.
Leaning on the edge of the sink, he bent closer to the mirror and ran a hand over his chin, then down his neck and over both cheeks. The small amount of morning sunlight streaming through the tiny window over the bathtub made it difficult to see even with the shower curtain pulled aside, but his face felt smooth enough. He’d look just fine at the meeting. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about trying to use a blade for a couple more days. Not having shaved with a blade for at least forty years, the thought of using one on a daily basis until the power returned didn’t thrill him. He frowned at himself in the mirror.
“Do they even make shaving cream anymore?” he asked the reflection mere inches from his nose. He stood straighter, then added under his breath, “Damned Chinese.”
“Does that mean if you cut yourself to ribbons shaving, that’s the fault of the damned Chinese, too?”
He smiled and looked over his shoulder to find Carol leaning against the door frame, her arms folded across her chest in mock reproach. “Yeah, why not? We’ve been blaming everything else on them for the last few days.” He set the dead razor in its regular spot on the shelf below the mirror and leaned in to better examine his reflection once more. “How long have you been there?” he asked.
“A while.” She tried to keep up a pretense of disapproval at his offhand remark, but failed, and allowed a smile to spread across her features. “You missed a spot.” She reached out and ran the tip of her index finger beneath a corner of his gray mustache, making a faint scratching sound. “You know, I’ve enjoyed watching you shave and get ready for your day for nearly forty years now,” she said, encircling her arms around his waist from behind. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned her chin on his right shoulder and looked at their reflection in the mirror. “Why should it be any different just because of some stupid Chinese satellite? Why should that change anything—anything important, anyway?”
“It shouldn’t.” He kissed her once, then turned away from the mirror to embrace her. “And I hope it never does.”
Still encircled in his arms, she sighed deeply and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Damned Chinese.”
“What? What did you say?”
She pulled away slightly, staring past him into the mirror and playing her hand across her face and neck. “It’s these shadows. With no light in here but the window, the shadows make me look so old.”
He followed her gaze and was disturbed by the true look of concern in her eyes. Why was she so upset by her appearance? Ignoring his own reflection he studied his wife in the mirror. She still wore her hair long and straight and, although it glowed silver gray even in the dim lighting, it was thick and full bodied, framing her face perfectly. He pulled her hair back and placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the strength and muscle tone of a body that had been well taken care of. Even at sixty-eight she still had a flush of youth about her face. But for the color of her hair and the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her deep blue eyes, in his mind she looked little changed from the girl he’d met at the Eagles concert in New Haven when she was just twenty-three.
“You look fine,” he said sincerely, bringing the smile back to her face, “and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather look at.”
He nuzzled her neck and she leaned her head back, closing her eyes and smiling warmly.
“I like that.”
“Do you know how much I love you?” he asked, turning her around by the shoulders.
“I think so.”
They embraced and kissed again, enjoying the quiet moment. A soft, spring breeze played through the bathroom, fluttering the shower curtain and bringing with it the gentle fragrance of lilacs that mixed delightfully with the scent of Carol’s hair and the aroma of coffee from the propane camp stove he’d set up for her in the kitchen. A bird was singing somewhere outside, but he couldn’t tell for sure what kind it was. He held her lovingly for several moments, enjoying the closeness they shared, and thought idly that had it not been for the lack of electricity—with the lights on, the window shut, and the bathroom vent fan running annoyingly overhead-—this moment might never have occurred. And at seventy-one, he wanted to enjoy as many moments like this as he could.
He glanced at his watch, a battered old Timex, and saw that everyone was probably at Brandon’s house already, gathering to see the latest news about the blackout, but he didn’t mind so much if they arrived a few minutes late. There was little chance the news would be any different today than it was the day before. And this moment was much more important.
Maybe the Chinese weren’t so bad after all.
“Oh-oh, C.D. must be in the mood to needle someone today,” Ed said as they strolled across the tiny manicured lawn toward Brandon’s house. He squeezed Carol’s hand and nodded ahead of them at the white-haired man sitting on the steps of the house’s side door.
C.D. Merle took a long drag on his cigarette, then waved to them in greeting. His best friend had quit smoking—successfully—just before the turn of the century, and hadn’t touched one until the genetically altered safe tobacco had been approved by the FDA a few years earlier. He claimed not to really like them anymore, but with the threat of cigarette-caused disease and nicotine addiction nonexistent, he indulged himself now and again, more out of a sense of duty than anything else. “Besides,” C.D. had confided to him on more than one occasion, “the Cybermuppets never grew up around smoke. It really pisses them off.” C.D. took more pleasure in irking his younger neighbors than did most folks, and had raised the practice to the status of spectator sport. It was he who had coined the term “Cybermuppet”—Cybernetic Middle-aged Urban Professional—and he used it at every opportunity.
In turn, Jason had begun referring to C.D.—and obliquely to Ed—as “Geriatric Boomers”—or Gerry Boomers for short.
“I was beginning to wonder what’d happened to you two,” he called from the steps as he rose slowly to greet them. “Another five minutes and I would’ve come to see what you were doing.” He grinned broadly, then added, “Who knows? I might even have knocked first.” He kissed Carol on the cheek, and shook Ed’s hand warmly.
“Heather throw you out again?” Carol asked, nodding toward the house.
“Yeah.” C.D. laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Brandon, Jason and the rest of them were all arguing about which DBS they wanted me to tune in and I got fed up with the lot of them. Just set the screwdriver down on top of the set, took a seat and lit up. Works every time.” He took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe in the exact center of the bottom step where Brandon’s wife Heather would be sure to see it.
“You’re incorrigible,” Carol said, shaking her head. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yep.” C.D. reached for the door, but paused before pulling it open. “And I don’t want to catch you sneaking back out here later and picking it up, either.” He pointed at the cigarette butt as he held the door for her. “Be in in a sec’. I want to talk to Eddie.”
She smiled at him, then gave her husband a quick kiss before disappearing inside.