Lionel Wellington
The alarm beeped its angry sound. Mr. Wellington rolled over and threw his hand down to stop the noise. He blinked his eyes once, twice, three times. He stretched his arms out high above his head, and the groan that escaped him resembled that of a dying animal. His hand searched randomly in the dark for his nightstand. When he found his glasses he put the thick lenses onto his face, and pulled down the dangling cord. The lamp turned on, throwing its bright light into the room. Mr. Wellington’s bed was only large enough for himself, and an old tattered quilt lay across it. Beside his bed was a nightstand. Mr. Wellington was a cleanly man, and the only thing that sat on its surface was a picture frame, containing an old faded photograph.
Today was an important day, and Mr. Wellington had to wake up early for it. He turned over onto his side in order to sit up. His stomach was round and his ab muscles had left him long ago. Once he was in a sitting position, his feet searched under the bed. He found his fuzzy slippers, slipped his feet into them, and stood up. The first try was unsuccessful, along with the next two. However, on the fourth try Mr. Wellington was standing and proud. He gave a small smile and shuffled over to the windows. He pulled the curtains wide, and admired the scene.
Next Mr. Wellington hobbled into the bathroom. He removed his glasses and splashed some cold water onto his face. He grabbed the bottle of gel and squeezed as hard as he could until he was rewarded with a small dollop. He ran it through his diminishing hair: slicking it back and to the side. Then he opened the cabinet door and stared at his choices. His fingers pointed at one, and then traveled to the next. Finally he made his decision and pulled out the old glass bottle. He held the bottle to his nose and then slapped the cologne generously onto his neck.
He whistled a happy tune as he slowly made his way into his closet. The racks were full of button down shirts, tweed coats, and matching pants. He took a green shirt off of its hanger and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Now came the most challenging part of his morning. His fingers crooked with arthritis struggled to remain in control of the buttons. It was an ongoing war, with a battle fought every morning. After some effort Mr. Wellington had all of the buttons done up. He then found a pair of brown pants and pulled off the slippers. He had to sit down on a bench so that he didn’t fall over. He pulled the pants up and grinned as the zipper slid up with ease. It took some strength to stand up again but soon Mr. Wellington was standing in front of his vanity table. He pulled out the drawer and smiled at his treasures. Within the drawer were bowties of every size and color. He found a purple one and held it up to his neck. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and shook his head with a sigh. He returned the tie to the drawer, and dug around in the back until he found a red one. Just the feel of it brought back good memories. He clipped it onto his shirt, and winked at the face staring back at him.
Mr. Wellington then exited his room and was met by the staircase. He stared down its lengthy steps and furrowed his brow. He pushed his sleeves up, took a deep breath, and then lowered his foot, finding the first step. He had to take one stair at a time, moving first his right foot, and then his left. He hung on to the railing with both hands as if his life depended on it, and in his case it did. By the time that he got to the bottom he was a little sweaty, and a little shaky, but he punched the air in triumph, and laughed back at the stairs that had taunted him.
Mr. Wellington slowly entered the kitchen and was greeted by a yellow tabby. He carefully bent down to rub the cat in-between her ears. He then turned to the counter where he brewed a pot of coffee. When it was done he filled a cup and sat at the only chair beside the table. The yellow cat jumped up onto the table and found her spot laying beside Mr. Wellington and his newspaper. She purred softly as he rubbed her head with one hand, and read the comics with the other. When his cup was empty Mr. Wellington grabbed the sides of the table and stood up. He placed his cup into the sink, and filled a small bowl with cat food and placed it on the table. He then turned to the fridge and made himself a small sack lunch containing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a juice box, and a bag of green grapes. He dug his hand into his trousers and produced a pocket watch. The thing had seen better days, but none could doubt its elegance. Mr. Wellington looked at its face and saw that it was seven o’clock. It was time to leave.
He shuffled down the front hallway and chose a hat off of the hanger. He checked his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. He ran a hand through his hair, and placed the hat upon his head. He straightened the bowtie a bit, and pulled on the edges until it was the right shape. Once he was happy with his appearance Mr. Wellington grabbed the cane that was leaning in the corner and left his home behind.
It was only a short block to the park, but Mr. Wellington saved himself thirty minutes to get there. He scuffled down the sidewalk, leaning heavily on his cane. Four hundred meters may have well been four miles, but the smile never left his face. He waved at the women with the baby carriage, and the man with his dog. He sang softly to himself and enjoyed the slow pace that he was contained to. It was a beautiful day and the sun was low in the sky. A few fluffy clouds sailed lazily over his head. Eventually Mr. Wellington made it to the park. he walked up the gravel path and found his favorite bench. It was beneath an apple tree, and flowers were in full bloom. He sat down with a content sigh and began to wait.
After some time, Mr. Wellington took out the sack of food, and began to eat the sandwich. When he was done he removed the juice box. His fingers struggled to unwrapped the straw that was glued to the box. However, what really slowed him down was having the control to stab the straw into the small hole located on top. After some labor, he was met with success. Mr. Wellington sucked the sweet taste of victory.
To amuse himself Mr. Wellington began to look at the sky. The sun was now well above the tree line. The clouds clumped together creating pictures in the sky. Mr. Wellington spotted an elephant with its trunk waving high in the air. As the wind blew the animal shape shifted, and all of a sudden Mr. Wellington was looking at an alligator. Next, he watched as a group of clouds began a rhinoceros wearing a tutu. He laughed to himself at the whimsical sight.

Mr. Wellington took out his watch and checked the time. It was 8 o’clock. He smiled and looked around patiently. After a few more moments Mr. Wellington saw out of the corner of his eye a man. The young man was jogging down the path. As he began to get closer, Mr. Wellington reached his hand into his bag of grapes. His fingers searched around, squeezing each one gently. One was too ripe, and it swished uncomfortably in his hand. Another was too small, so he tossed it aside. Eventually Mr. Wellington found the ideal one. It was large, and perfectly round. He pulled it out of the bag, held it up in front of his face admiring it, and kissed it. Then he casually rolled it out onto the center of the path. He picked the newspaper up off of his lap and glanced at it. He then looked above the columns of black and white and waited for the scene to unfold.
The man neared the bench, running with long strides. He eyebrows were tilted down slightly and his mouth was parted open. He lifted one foot and then the other, covering the ground quickly. When he was directly in front of Mr. Wellington his foot went down and a shout escaped his mouth. Mr. Wellington’s mouth curved up at the corners, and he hid his face behind the newspaper. A small laugh began to build in the back of his throat and he tried desperately to hold it back. This only resulted in a strange gasping noise, which then made Mr. Wellington laugh harder.
The man lifted his foot in shock. He stared down at the sole of his foot and then at the ground. He saw the squashed grape and his nose wrinkled up. He looked at the pitiful fruit in disgust and walked over to the grass. He scraped his foot on the grass, and stared at the bottom of his shoe. Still not satisfied he rubbed his foot back and forth until it was thoroughly clean. By this point, Mr. Wellington had tears running down his face, and his hand was pressed tightly to his mouth to contain his laughter.
The young man looked over at the old man, and Mr. Wellington quickly ducked behind the newspaper. The man shook his head and continued on his jog. When he was well out of hearing range, Mr. Wellington broke out into unrestrained laughter. He laughed with tears overflowing his eyes; he laughed so hard that he almost fell off of the bench. He took a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. He sat for a few more moments trying to regain his breath. Then he pulled one more grape out of his bag and popped it into his mouth. He picked up his cane, and pushed himself up slowly until he was standing. Then he began the walk home, already looking forward to next Saturday.