Life after Sixty for a Gay Man?
by PlacidGuy

 

When Rob hit thirty, a bar manager handed him his walking papers with a smile that said “too old” without saying it. He threw himself into weights and protein shakes, sculpting a body that could compete with the twenty-somethings. The piano bar came next, bow tie choking his neck, mixing martinis for finance bros who tipped like they were doing him a favor. Then the country-western joint, where he perfected a drawl that wasn’t his and collected enough cash to justify the barbed wire tattoo circling his bicep. When that place folded, he bounced around, watching the same story play out with different backdrops. Each birthday made him less marketable, he’d gone from fresh meat to seasoned professional to novelty act. At Valentino’s, he thought he’d found his last stop. The men loved him, his tip jar overflowed. Then came the closed-door meeting, the sympathetic nod, the “we’re going in a different direction” speech. Another final paycheck to add to his collection. ‘They see me, just an old man.’ Rob felt old, irrelevant.

Five months since Mom’s funeral, and all he had to show for it was a deed to her bungalow in Maple Park, Illinois, a town where streetlights went dark at ten. That and a savings account that shouldn’t exist on factory wages; his grandparents had somehow squirreled away every spare nickel. He could pack it in, leave Chicago’s bar scene behind. What was keeping him here anyway? No boyfriend, no prospects. Just trading city loneliness for country solitude.

The afternoon light had gone flat. Rob swirled cabernet in a glass. Condensation from his breath was fogging the window as he watched snow accumulate on the sill. His thumb scrolled through Spotify until it found what he was looking for: a playlist labeled “EMERGENCY USE ONLY, emotional quicksand.”

The playlist alternated between Joan Baez and Eva Cassidy, their voices like undertows pulling him into emotional depths. He surrendered to the current, knowing he might surface in either euphoria or despair. Cassidy’s “Image” washed over him, followed by Baez’s “Love Minus Zero/No Limits“, so far, he was treading water. Then “Autumn Leaves” crashed into “I Shall Be Released,” and he felt himself sinking. Still, he couldn’t resist the shiver that ran through him as their crystalline tones penetrated his numbness. Those goddamn voices, devastating in their perfection.

Exhaustion settled into Rob’s bones, not just physical tiredness, but the kind that comes from decades of solitary nights and diminishing purpose. Sixty years old felt like a cliff edge with nothing but fog beyond. The thought of retreating to Maple Park made his stomach turn.

He pulled a spiral notebook from the drawer, flipped to a blank page, and wrote in careful block letters: “THINGS I CAN DO BESIDES TEND BAR.” The emptiness of the page mocked him. “Goddammit,” he muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair. This couldn’t be all there was. With a deep breath, he reached for his phone and called the one person who had never failed him in fifty-five years, Wilma Roberts.

“Robbie,” she answered, clearly delighted to hear from him.

He cleared his throat. “Billy Bob,” he said, the childhood nickname catching slightly as he forced a casual tone.

“Well, look who remembered my number,” she said, but the warmth in her voice took any sting from the words. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“Bad time?” His fingers tightened around the phone.

“For you? Never.” Something in her familiar cadence made his shoulders drop an inch from where they’d been hovering near his ears.

The pen hovered over the empty page as he cleared his throat. “I’m trying to make a list of my marketable skills outside of mixing drinks, but I’ve been staring at a blank page for twenty minutes.”

“Let me guess,” Wilma said, her voice softening slightly. “You’ve written a fancy title and nothing else?”

Rob ran his finger along the bold letters at the top of the otherwise pristine sheet. “Got it in one.” The knot in his stomach tightened.

A familiar snort came through the phone. “Sixty years on this planet and you can’t fill one lousy page? Robert Allen Wilson, I swear to God.”

Rob didn’t respond. The silence stretched between them like a tightrope he couldn’t cross. His pen hovered over the blank page, trembling slightly.

“For God’s sake,” Wilma finally exhaled. “You’re bilingual. You charm strangers within minutes of meeting them. Your apartment looks like it was organized by someone with a label maker fetish. Your letters make people cry, in a good way. You calculate tips faster than my phone app. You process feelings that most men your age pretend don’t exist. You can discuss Kahlo, Sondheim, and the Spanish Civil War in the same conversation. And how many times have I told you that you’d be brilliant in front of a classroom? Twenty? Thirty?”

His pen moved mechanically, transcribing her words into his notebook. Each compliment landed like a pebble tossed at a window he couldn’t open. “Billy,” he whispered, “what if sixty is just … the end of the story?”

“I don’t see how any of this translates to an actual career at my age,” he said, staring at the list without really seeing it.

“Listen to me, Rob,” Wilma’s voice softened but kept its edge. “You’ve spent your whole life connecting with people across a bar. Now you’re telling me you can’t figure out how to do it anywhere else? I’ve known you since Lyndon Johnson was president, and that’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”

Rob’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’re not exactly gentle with the tough love, Billy Bob,” he said, tracing the edge of the notebook with his thumb.

Wilma’s voice softened. “Look at this list, Rob. This isn’t just random skills; this is the foundation for an actual future.”

Rob pressed his palm against his forehead. “I hear you, but I can’t see it. Sixty years old and I’m staring at a blank horizon.”

Suddenly a random thought hit her, “Eye candy. Add that to your list. Wait, no. They don’t call it that anymore,” she paused, then laughed, “Thirst Trap! Put that on your list. You are a Thirst Trap.” Then her thoughts turned serious.

“What about teaching Spanish? Adults, not kids. No playground duty.”

Rob snorted. “Me? A teacher?” The image wouldn’t form, like trying to picture himself as an astronaut.

The line went quiet except for the faint click of her fingernails on what he assumed was her keyboard. Then: “Hey, quick question, aren’t there a bunch of gay retirement communities in Spanish-speaking countries?”

Rob scratched his temple. “I’ve heard Puerto Vallarta has a decent gay scene. Why?”

The line went quiet except for the rapid-fire clicking of Wilma’s keyboard. Rob stared out at the snow, imagining himself withering away in his mother’s bungalow, surrounded by doilies and faded wallpaper.

“Tulum,” Wilma announced with the satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a crossword puzzle. “There’s a whole expatriate community down there, Americans, Canadians, and a thriving gay population. It’s practically a colony.”

“So, you’re saying I should move to Tulum and work teaching Spanish to expats?” he asked, feeling a glimmer of hope mixed with skepticism.

Wilma cut him off. “This conversation is going in circles. Let me guess, you got laid off again?”

“Give the lady a prize,” Rob said.

“Hold your horses. I’m looking something up.” The familiar sound of her acrylic nails attacking a keyboard filled the silence. Every few seconds, she’d mutter commentary that made Rob picture her face scrunching up in disapproval. “God, no… Who would pay for that?… Absolutely not…” Then suddenly: “Jackpot! Oh, this is perfect. Robbie, I’ve found exactly what we need.”

“Oh wait, full stop. Robbie, your passport is still valid?” she asked.

“Yeah, I have a couple years left on it,” he replied, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Wilma’s keyboard clattered like hail on a tin roof, punctuated by her running commentary. Rob listened, picturing her hunched over her laptop, glasses perched on the end of her nose. For the first time in weeks, a flutter of possibility stirred in his chest.

“Pack your bags, Robbie,” she announced with the authority of a general. “Friday morning, 9 a.m. sharp. I’m parking at your place, then we’re hitting O’Hare. Direct flight to Cancun, overnight there, then we’re driving to Tulum for two weeks.”

Rob’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Billy, I can’t afford …”

“Did I stutter?” she cut in. “My dime, my trip. You’re just my speedo wearing boy toy. End of discussion.” Her tone was brisk, but Rob caught the undercurrent of affection. This wasn’t charity; it was Wilma being Wilma.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do in Tulum?” he asked, surprised by the thread of hope in his voice.

Wilma exhaled into the phone. “For God’s sake, Rob. Do the thing you’ve done your whole life, charm people into telling you their stories. Find out how they’re making it work. Let them show you the gaps you could fill.”

After hanging up, he traced his finger down the list of skills she’d forced him to write. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Fifty-five years of friendship, and she still saw possibilities in him he couldn’t see himself. Through his window, Chicago’s familiar skyline suddenly looked less like home and more like a backdrop he might be ready to leave behind.

 

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