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Growing Young is a Jay Dubya science fiction story that appears in the Kindle, Nook and Smashwords e-book First Person Stories.
First Person Stories is a unique collection of thirty-six Jay Dubya writings, all authored in the first person, of which twenty-two fictional offerings along with fourteen non-fiction writings are presented.
The first person writing technique is particularly difficult in literary expression, especially when writing fiction, because the author must continually use the pronouns’ “I, me, my and mine” over and over, and there''s always a danger of communicating a sense of monotony and boredom to the reader. This is why most fiction is written in the third person, the author utilizing the more functional pronouns “he, she, you, they and we.”
Three types of non-fiction writing represented in First Person Stories are autobiography, humor and the essay point of view composition structure, which is often used in newspaper journalism and ordinarily found on the publication''s opinion/editorial page.
“Growing Young”
December 7th, 2014 had become my own personal self-inflicted Pearl Harbor Day. I recollect that that particular Sunday morning started-out quite routine and nondescript. After waking-up early, shaving, dressing, and then hastily drinking a tall glass of orange juice, I promptly left my Hammonton, New Jersey Pratt Street humble ranch home, entered my green 2012 Subaru Outback and mechanically drove four blocks to St. Mary of Mt. Carmel Church on Third and French Street to attend 9 a.m. Mass, where each and every Sunday I predictably sit isolated and self-exiled in the next-to-last right-side pew nearest the center aisle.
After the perfunctory religious service was finished, I silently departed the all-too-familiar building, re-entered my Outback in the church parking lot and drove my dependable automobile twelve miles west on Route 30 toward Berlin to peacefully enjoy a delicious breakfast in complete anonymity. Being introverted as is my shy demeanor, I impatiently sat alone among the singular patrons at the Berlin Diner’s counter and soon ordered a Belgian waffle topped with bananas, walnuts and an abundance of whipped cream.
“Where ya’ from Stranger?” the middle-aged brunette waitress asked, cheerfully initiating a casual conversation. “You’re new in here! Ya’ don’t live in Berlin, I do believe.”
“You’re right about that observation!” I politely answered. “I’m from Hammonton.”
“What’s wrong with the Silver Coin Diner?” the chatty waitress quickly asked. “They have great food there too, ya’ know. My sister-in-law is a hostess at that diner and says the tips are terrific.”
“Well,” I uncomfortably replied, shifting my level position upon my elevated stool, “I felt I needed a change in venue this morning so I’m exploring a little bit out of my regular territory. Confidentially, I have to buy some heater filters over at the local Home Depot. I change the buggers twice a year, once in April for my summer air-conditioning and then once again in October for the heating system as our nemesis Old Man Winter approaches South Jersey on the yearly calendar. It’s quite an annual ritual for me!”
“That’s right!” the attractive waitress verified with a forced smile. “You don’t have a Home Depot over in Hammonton. Your town only has a smaller-type Wal*Mart store. The huge Berlin box-store you’re gonna’ patronize certainly has a much better selection of hardware and home products! But be careful Mr.! It’s December 7th, Pearl Harbor Day. Don’t be jinxed and have your own private ‘Day of Infamy’!”
“I promise not to buy any Japanese heater filters!” I quipped.
The nosy customer seated two stools down had been eavesdropping on our courteous, non-flirtatious dialogue. Hearing the flash-point words “Pearl Harbor,” the old geezer felt obligated to contribute what he valued as being somewhat significant to the general diner verbal exchange.
“After Pearl Harbor,” the codger awkwardly interrupted, “my pop was drafted into the Army at age thirty-six, since there was a basic shortage of manpower to go up against Hitler and his evil minions. Pop served in France, Germany, Luxembourg, Holland and Belgium before returning back to the States. My ears got me interested in your discussion when you had mentioned Belgian waffle. It made me think of my pop stationed in Belgium.”
“Did your dad bring home any special trophies or interesting souvenirs from World War II?” I inquired, attempting to exhibit a degree of social decorum. “A French or Dutch wife perhaps! Maybe some Brussels sprouts!” I innocently joked, contrary to my usual introspective nature.
“Yes,” the elderly fellow remarked, ignoring my feeble attempt at humor before taking another sip of hot coffee. “Pop found a nifty bombshell casing and had it engraved with the names of all the cities, towns, villages and countries he had visited on his three-year European tour of duty. The finished mortar shell was a beautiful metallic piece that Mom used as a flower vase in the family den.”
After consuming my delectable Belgian waffle, side-of-bacon and coffee breakfast, I deposited a three dollar tip on the diner’s front serving counter, quietly said “Goodbye” to both the ‘affable waitress’ and the garrulous ‘old curmudgeon’, paid my breakfast bill at the cashier and then exited the then semi-crowded Berlin Diner. I ambled to the back lot, climbed into my green Subaru, fired-up the engine and headed west on Route 30 in the direction of the Berlin Shopping Center and the popular Home Depot store.
‘This superficial task should only take about fifteen minutes,’ I reckoned as my left foot stepped upon and released the car’s emergency brake. ‘In another hour I’ll be replacing the 16 x 25 x 1 inch gas heater filter down in my cellar. But I gotta’ remember to buy a large Snickers candy bar on my way out!’
After locking the doors of my Outback, I sauntered into the Berlin Home Depot, quickly located the appropriate exact-size air filters in a side aisle, and when I bent-down to grab the two sought-after items, a heavy cardboard merchandise box fell from the top overhead shelf. The dangerous object grazed the right side of my scalp and ears and then violently crashed into my right arm and chest, the simultaneous impacts immediately knocking me to the tiled floor in an unconscious state.
In retrospect, it was that specific event that placed my long-kept longevity secret in jeopardy of having public disclosure and scrutiny. The next thing I remember, I was lying in a hospital bed experiencing heightened agony and discomfort, and next a pleasant blonde-haired nurse was informing me that the actual date was Monday, December 29th and then disclosing that I had been surviving in a deep coma for over a three-week period. But truthfully, at that moment I was absolutely glad to be alive!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
That late December Monday afternoon I had fully awoken from my three-week-long unconscious state and my drowsy pupils immediately noticed the distinguishable presence of a vertical IV stand and a side catheter/urine bag. Instantly I was aware that I had been occupying a hospital bed.
“Where am I? Who are you? What the heck happened? ” I neurotically asked the nurse and doctor peering-down at me while standing next to my bed.
“I’m Dr. Stephen Arena and this is Nurse Linda Rizzotte,” the physician professionally introduced himself and his assistant. “I’m the surgeon who had operated on you. You had quite a near-death experience at the Berlin Home Depot, I must admit. If that enormous box had hit you squarely on the head, I don’t think we’d be having this informal conversation right now!”
“What hospital is this?” I requested knowing. “It looks pretty modern and new.”
“You’re in Room 311 at Virtua Hospital, Route 73 in Voorhees,” Nurse Rizzotte related with a somber expression exhibited upon her face. “The Berlin Rescue Squad transported you here soon after your near-tragic Home Depot accident.”
Everything seemed fuzzy and nebulous at that exact moment, so my new medical companions decided to prattle about the harsh weather, about the Philadelphia Eagles football team and about the impending winter snowstorm before returning to their review of my identity and my improving condition. The pair suggested that they were happy to note that I apparently was not suffering from either amnesia or any severe memory loss.
“You were fairly easy to identify from your New Jersey driver’s license and from your wallet’s credit cards,” stern-faced Dr. Arena indicated. “But one aspect of the entire matter seriously concerns me. Your license amazingly shows that your birth date was July 2nd, 1899. Is that a misprint that needs to be changed and rectified? The date seems to defy basic reality!”
“That would make you approximately 115 years old!” Nurse Linda Rizzotte exclaimed and then disbelievingly shook her head from side-to-side. “The oldest man still living in the United States is….”
“Reportedly 112 years old,” Dr. Stephen Arena finished and objectively reported, “and that aged fellow happens to be residing in New York. As a matter of fact, I had read a fascinating magazine article about him last week. The guy was born in Spain and then later emigrated to the U.S.”
“And not that it’s so important, but we’ve also noticed that you’ve never donated blood to the American Red Cross,” Nurse Rizzotte stated. “Is there something especially wrong with your blood? For example, do you have Hepatitis C antibodies or any other irregularity like that?”
Those startling perceptive commentaries had made me become rather anxious and nervous. I feared that my coveted long-held secret might be harmfully revealed and exposed. I worried that my former orderly human existence was suddenly becoming unraveled and disheveled, all because of the unfortunate Home Depot incident I had experienced. Momentarily I had become lost for words. Then after careful neurotic deliberation, I uttered what constituted a boldface lie which I orally conveyed in a depressed state of mind. “I’ve always had a fear of needles. Yes, fear of needles has kept me from giving blood over the years!”
“As you probably know,” the medical doctor diplomatically explained, sensing that I had been clumsily prevaricating, “your blood type is O Positive. O negative is often referred to as ‘the Universal Donor’. Because of the complicated operations we had to perform on you,” Dr. Arena hesitated and then resumed his incisive narrative, “we had to administer four units of RH O Positive blood during the lengthy six-hour O.R. procedures, all due to your critical loss of plasma.”
“Over the years,” I shakily declared from my sitting semi-erect hospital bed position, “I’ve become an unrecognized authority on blood,” I almost guiltily confessed. “I probably know more about the composition and properties of blood than anyone working in your sophisticated hospital labs.”
I continued delivering my comprehensive explanation by citing that blood is manufactured in a person’s bone marrow and that the vital body substance can be broken-down into erythrocytes, or red blood cells, leukocytes, or white blood cells, platelets, which allow for clotting and coagulating, plasma, hemoglobin and finally, into essential proteins. “Too many leukocytes, which are part of the body’s immune system, could lead to leukemia, and having not enough platelets could drastically mean developing hemophilia. A healthy human body depends on just the right ratio of these indispensable and fantastically interrelated blood elements.”
“Granted, you do understand plenty about the chemistry and functionality of blood,” Dr. Arena complimented my conceited expertise. “Whatever caused you to be so academically enamored and intrigued about that highly specialized subject?”
“I suppose it all started with me seeing the 1931 black and white movie Dracula at the Hippodrome Theater in downtown Baltimore,” I recalled and declared to my astonished listeners. “It was an impressive vampire movie, and over the decades I too have evolved into a sort of contemporary vampire myself,” I impatiently mentioned, obviously confusing the wits of my two-member audience. “In the original classic film starring Bela Lugosi, Dr. Van Helsing had performed blood transfusions on a patient named Lucy Weston, and that’s precisely when I had organized my eccentric blood immortality theory.”
“Yes, I’ve read Bram Stoker’s novel at least a half-dozen times since high school,” Nurse Linda Rizzotte contributed, “but your Lucy Weston appearing in the film version was really named Lucy Westenra in the famous Dracula novel.”
“Wait a minute now!” a slightly irritated Dr. Arena insisted. “You’re losing me by your weird account, evidently leaving-out some pertinent details. We’ve conducted a meticulous background check on you and I must acknowledge that we’ve discovered that your unique driver’s license is incredibly accurate. You were indeed born in Posen, Michigan just outside of Alpena on July 2nd, 1899. Your family then moved to Baltimore around 1907. And so, remarkably,” Dr. Arena cleared his throat and continued his precisely on-target commentary, “your claim about seeing the movie Dracula at the Hippodrome Theater in 1931 seems to jibe with our intensive background research done on you. Now for the sake of logic and sanity,” the skilled surgeon suavely qualified, “please reveal how you’ve managed to age to a ripe 115 and still look like a rejuvenated man of fifty years. You don’t have any dark age marks on your hands or any expected wrinkles on your neck and face!”
“That’s totally correct!” Nurse Rizzotte concurred with her immediate superior. “Have you discovered the Fountain of Youth that Ponce de Leon had been futilely seeking?”
“Well,” I reluctantly said in response, “the New Jersey Department of Motor Vehicles has for a long time been mighty suspicious about my recorded chronological age,” I verbally shared. “I have to take a new written test every two years along with a thorough-and-redundant behind-the-wheel test, too. The Motor Vehicle inspectors are flabbergasted about my phenomenal mental acumen along with my extraordinary physical dexterity. As you’ve both learned,” I deliberately hesitated and paused to gauge the doctor and the nurse’s overt reactions to my seemingly peculiar statements, “I’m now probably the oldest man currently living in the United States!”
“This is one oddball story that most definitely must be published in the American Medical Association Journal,” Dr. Arena instinctively determined. “Sir, you must reveal how you’ve managed to achieve the age of 115 without ever exhibiting any signs of being affected by the common and debilitating aging process!”
At that most critical juncture of our rather unorthodox hospital room conference, my mind and body suddenly felt weak and fatigued. Much to the frustration and consternation of Dr. Arena and Nurse Rizzotte, my weary eyes slowly shut, and next my encumbered consciousness was soon drifting-off into a rather disturbed-and-stressful dream slumber.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Tuesday morning at 9:30 Dr. Stephen Arena and Nurse Linda Rizzotte escorted two black-business-suit and tie gentlemen into Virtua Hospital Room 311. Earlier that morning I had been disconnected from the bothersome catheter and accompanying urine bag and my regenerated spirit possessed a degree more energy because I had finally eaten solid food for breakfast two hours before.
“These two federal government men have a distinct interest in investigating, or should I more discreetly say ‘interviewing’ you about your rather bizarre age situation,” Dr. Arena candidly greeted. “May I now introduce Mr. Frank Mitchell of the Social Service Agency and Mr. Lawrence Delaney representing the Internal Revenue Service.”
“Have I committed any major felony while I was hibernating in the coma?” I defensively replied. “I hope I’m not being interrogated without any lawyer being present to protect my First Amendment civil rights!”
“We promise that we won’t prosecute you in any way,” Mr. Mitchell pledged with a grin. “Mr. Delaney and I are only interested in ascertaining how you’ve successfully defeated the aging process. We hope that you’ll be cooperative in answering our basic questions. Just be a little patriotic, that’s all we ask. Uncle Sam is relying on your honesty, you know!”
“Well Gentlemen,” I skeptically declared to my newfound federal acquaintances, “the Social Security System was set-up to compensate workers that paid into it upon reaching their retirements. But obviously,” I boldly and bravely clarified, “people back in the 1940s had a life expectancy of around fifty-six years. The government was betting that few public and private sector employees would ever reach age 62 to collect their monthly entitlement checks.”
“Very sagacious observation,” Inspector Delaney answered. “Our Washington records reveal that in your working lifetime you were once a prosperous grocery store owner, a prominent fruit and produce broker and distributor, and also a partner for sixteen years in various boardwalk businesses in New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland. Isn’t that information all true?”
“Yes,” I suspiciously affirmed. “Now please tell me what your relevant concerns are in relation to me.”
“Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Delaney would like to learn how you’ve conquered aging in order to live to be 115,” Nurse Rizzotte expressed, hoping to ease the general tension that quite ostensibly dominated the room’s cold atmosphere. “They’ve already stated with Dr. Arena and me as their witnesses that you’ll suffer no federal consequences from truthfully conferring with us.”
“Yes,” piped-up Dr. Arena. “From the government’s perspective, if all citizens lived to be 115, the Social Security Trust System along with the entire U.S. Treasury would go bankrupt within the next fifty years. I truly hope that you now fathom the government’s curious examination of your incomparable longevity from 1899 up to the present.”
“Why don’t you begin where you had left off yesterday,” constructively recommended Nurse Rizzotte. “You can start with your captivation with the 1931 movie Dracula and with your strange interest in blood transfusions.”
“This ought to prove to be a rather ‘sanguine’ story,” jested Mr. Frank Mitchell in an effort to allay my apprehension. “Already Sir, Mr. Delaney and I feel like we’re your blood brothers.”
I inhaled several deep breaths and cautiously collected my random memories and thoughts. I then steadfastly stated that from the movie Dracula I had considered all facets of the art and science of blood transfusions. I had conjectured the prospect of ‘What if I were to have a doctor remove my blood at certain intervals over the span of a month and then give me back my younger drained blood five years later so that the technique could be repeated every half decade?’ I then concluded my sensational exposition by saying, “I hypothesized that the fresh old blood from my body would favorably replenish my vital organs like my lungs, liver, pancreas and spleen and therefore, the younger five-year-old injected blood would allow me to effectively stifle the dreaded aging process?” I directly divulged.
“Astounding to say the least!” evaluated and articulated Dr. Arena. “In certain Transylvanian legends vampires live acquiring blood samples to drink from selected victims. In your case, you’re kind of imitating a vampire by inserting your younger blood back into your body and substituting it for your tired blood every five years or so. And that’s probably why you still look like you’re a young and fit sixty-year-old male specimen, even though you’re way beyond being a deteriorating centenarian!”
“Brilliant idea!” agreed Nurse Rizzotte while addressing me as I was sitting almost vertical in my elevated hospital bed. “But you could only have adopted this exceptional self-transfusion practice of yours forty or forty-five years ago!”
“Why is that?” curiously asked the now-bewildered Social Security official. “Why is it only forty or forty-five years ago?”
“Because Mr. Mitchell,” Dr. Arena plausibly explained, “blood can only be preserved over time by freezing it at a very low temperature, and that complex technology has only been recently perfected within the past half century. The blood must be stored at a minus 85 degrees after being initially frozen at a minus 122 degrees.”
“How many pints’ of precious blood does the average human have in his body?” wondered and asked Mr. Lawrence Delaney. “I think I remember from a high school science class that it’s about six quarts, which I presume is equivalent to around…”
“Twelve pints,” I estimated and voluntarily offered. “Each pint is called a ‘unit’, and the average male has around twelve pints constantly flowing inside his arteries, veins and capillaries, with each separate pint or unit weighing precisely 16.7 ounces.”
Dr. Arena then pontificated about how donated blood is normally distributed for hospital use and next the veteran surgeon emphasized that the dark red fluid is usually broken-down into plasma, hemoglobin, red blood cells, white blood cells, proteins and platelets for necessary individual medical and O.R. requirements.
“So you’ say that over the course of the past fifty years you’ve gotten blood specialists to administer your own whole blood that had been drained from your veins five years prior, and now you’ maintain that this frozen older blood stimulates your immune system and revitalizes your principal vital organs too!” assessed and marveled Mr. Delaney. “That’s so preposterously simple! Why hadn’t anyone in the scientific or medical communities ever considered that sort of revolutionary-yet-elementary experiment? I mean, why is blood ordinarily only donated to give to other people?”
“Yes Sir,” I frankly confided to the perplexed IRS Treasury Man. “I have to pay a blood expert ten thousand dollars to remove my twelve pints of blood over a month’s time and then provide another ten thousand bucks to replace my blood with the new/old blood five years later. But truthfully, most of my life’s savings have been spent on the very costly and illicit underground economy frozen blood storage fees. The entire enterprise can be quite expensive as you can well-imagine, but in stark reality, ‘virtual immortality’ does have its price! That’s why this former multimillionaire must now live in a modest ranch home over in Hammonton. I’ve traded my wealth for longevity!”
“This whole confidential matter is entirely preposterous!” claimed and exclaimed Social Security Inspector Frank Mitchell. “Yet conversely, it’s not a colossal hoax at all! Your prodigious 115 years upon this Earth verify your seemingly ludicrous assertions! According to indisputable government records, you actually were born in 1899! Government documents also show that you had been married in 1942 in Elkton, Maryland and that your wife had died in 1974. Yes, you were born in Michigan in 1899!” florid-faced Mr. Mitchell uncharacteristically bellowed. “That’s totally unbelievable! Why that’s even before Queen Victoria had died over in England! Historically speaking, it’s remarkably eighteen whole years before America’s involvement in World War I!”
“Exactly Mr. Mitchell!” I enthusiastically acceded, automatically nodding my still-aching head up and down. “Now I hope that you two eminent Gentlemen will accept and appreciate the legitimacy of my former blood-transfusion secret. But I can’t guarantee that the explicit method I’ve just described will satisfactorily work for all other human beings! In summary, older blood cells get tired and worn-out, eventually not being able to perfectly duplicate themselves as thawed-out five-year younger cells can more easily do.”
“And to my knowledge,” Dr. Stephen Arena pertinently stressed, “no others except you had ever imaginatively had twelve pints of their own whole blood frozen and sinisterly held in the underground black market, and then systematically transfused back into their own bodies every five years or so.”
“Have you had any fears living all these years guarding this miraculous knowledge you’ve just shared with us?” sincerely asked exasperated Treasury Department Man Mr. Lawrence Delaney. “The emotional pressure must’ve been quite extreme!”
“Yes,” I soberly replied. “Even though I could retain my youthful vitality and appearance, I always worried about how I could avoid any accidental death in, let’s say for example, an auto’ collision or perhaps drowning. In fact, I haven’t gone swimming in the ocean, in a lake or in a pool ever since I began receiving my essential blood transfusions back around 1968. And that’s the honest-to-God truth!”
“And you almost were permanently eliminated at the Berlin Home Depot with that heavy large box descending upon you,” astutely noted Nurse Linda Rizzotte. “That near-disaster was a close call which almost sent you directly to the cemetery.”
I had little opportunity to express my deepest gratitude to Dr. Arena, to Nurse Rizzotte and to the absent Berlin Rescue Squad paramedics.
“Sir, you don’t have to worry about going to a federal penitentiary for committing any red-blooded felony,” Inspector Frank Mitchell told me. “And we won’t implicate and investigate any of your co-conspirators either! The main reason for Mr. Delaney and me being here today is to save our country’s fragile Social Security System from imminent insolvency,” the very high-ranking Washington agent austerely announced. “Now here’s my proposal agreement. For obvious reasons, it’s both mandatory and imperative for the five of us to take an official oath to never divulge the essence of the esoteric blood-rejuvenating secret that has been discussed and described today in this New Jersey hospital room. Is this matter perfectly clear?”
“Yes!” we all chanted in unison before ever repeating and reciting our dutiful allegiance to the United States of America. “Yes!” we all coincidentally reiterated.
“Excellent then!” exclaimed a very relieved Mr. Frank Mitchell. “Now please raise your right hands and repeat after me, “I hereby solemnly swear that….”
Jay Dubya
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