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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: General Interest
- Published: 09/14/2019
Resident of the Month: The 100-Year-Old Man
Born 1929, M, from Roseville/CA, United States2019HundredYr (Approx. 1,000 wds.)
Resident of the Month: The 100-Year-Old Man
Malcolm Prescott’s house, as befitting a man who’d donated a million dollars to renovate our retirement community’s 20-year-old restaurant, was our largest and most expensive model, situated on a hill overlooking our golf course. I was there to interview him for our community newspaper’s “Resident of the Month” feature. It was a fine spring day and we were seated on the large patio, from which we could see some elderly golfers struggling to put their balls on the green.
Prescott was, I judged, a man in his sixties, looking tanned and fit in a white sports shirt and slacks. I knew he was a golfer. He told me he was also in the tennis club. I took out my notebook and went through my usual list of questions, starting with asking where he’d been born, what had his family been like, where had he been to school, then going on to his occupation and own family. I learned that he’d been raised on a farm in the Midwest, that he’d had an older brother who, he said, was a genius, that he’d graduated from a local college, then, not being a genius himself, had worked for the federal government for a number of years and had never married. He was also a veteran, having served in the Army. Of course I asked him how, if he was a civil servant, he’d managed to accumulate enough wealth so that he was able to make that million dollar donation. He said he was lucky in some investments he’d made.
As I looked over my notes I thought there were a few oddities. For example, his account of being in the Army sounded more like World War II than Vietnam, which is when I assumed he’d served. Also, he’d said the family farm had gone bankrupt in the Depression, which sounded as if that was back in the 1930’s, before he’d been even born. And there was nothing in his life story that would indicate he had such a knack for investing that he could afford that million dollar donation. I was puzzled. I asked Prescott about this. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me out.”
I sensed that I was about to hear something beyond Prescott’s official biography. This wasn’t that surprising. I’d learned during the course of my interviewing people that they all liked to talk and that, having gone so far, they sometimes kept going about things they might not usually disclose. “What do you mean?” I asked, and waited.
This is the story, in abbreviated form, that Prescott told me. It was true that he’d grown up on a farm but he’d been ten years old when the stock market crash occurred, and in a few years, as the country went into the Great Depression, his family had to give it up. “But the stock market crash was in 1929,” I said. “That would mean you were born in 1919 and that would make you --- “ I paused, realizing what I was about to say.
“Exactly; that would make me 100 years old.”
“But ---.” I stopped again. I didn’t know what to say.
“Let me go on. As I told you, my brother, his name was Jake, was a genius. Even as a kid he was experimenting with all kinds of chemicals. He used our barn as his laboratory. He went to college of course, got a PhD and went to work for one of the top pharmaceutical companies. Then World War II came along and he was conscripted to do some kind of top secret work. I think he might have been on the Manhattan Project that developed the atomic bomb. I myself was drafted and Jake saw to it that I had an office job in Washington. After the war, Jake formed his own company, which was very successful. But he also went to work on a side project. He said he’d been so horrified by the thousands of young men who’d died in the war that he wanted to make something that would prolong life. He came up with something, he called it a potion, that seemed to work on mice so he tried it on himself. He also tried it on me.
“What did it do?”
Jake tried to explain it to me. I never could understand it but somehow it slowed down the aging process. You wouldn’t live forever but you’d live far beyond the normal life expectancy.”
“So you’re saying it worked on you?”
“Yes, as you see.”
“What happened to Jake? Is he still around?”
“I’m afraid not. Shortly after he’d taken the potion the private jet that he flew was caught in a storm, crashed and he died.”
“That’s too bad. So what happened to this potion?”
“I don’t know. Whatever Jake put into it the knowledge about its ingredients died with him. By the way, you asked me how I was able to become so wealthy. It was simply the power of compound interest. It’s amazing how much the money piles up over the years and I’ve lived a lot of years.”
We sat there for a while. Another foursome of oldsters was trying to hit their way onto the green. Finally, I said, “That’s quite a story.”
“You sound a little skeptical.”
“You have to admit it’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Wait a minute.” He got up and went into the house. In a few minutes he was back with a piece of paper in his hand. He showed it to me. It was a birth certificate. The date on it was April 1, 1919. “Hmmm,” I said. “Well, it’s been interesting. Thanks for the drink.”
* * *
Back home I looked at the notes I’d taken and considered. Did I have an amazing story to tell or was Malcolm Prescott playing some elaborate joke on me, or was he simply delusional. True, he’d shown me that birth certificate but that could have been forged. And the date on it was April 1, April Fool’s Day. That in itself was cause for suspicion. In the end I decided to write my usual article, stressing Prescott’s generosity to our community. I didn’t go into detail about his birth date and other dates in his life. I’d be interested to see what he looked like ten or so years from now.
###
Resident of the Month: The 100-Year-Old Man(Martin Green)
2019HundredYr (Approx. 1,000 wds.)
Resident of the Month: The 100-Year-Old Man
Malcolm Prescott’s house, as befitting a man who’d donated a million dollars to renovate our retirement community’s 20-year-old restaurant, was our largest and most expensive model, situated on a hill overlooking our golf course. I was there to interview him for our community newspaper’s “Resident of the Month” feature. It was a fine spring day and we were seated on the large patio, from which we could see some elderly golfers struggling to put their balls on the green.
Prescott was, I judged, a man in his sixties, looking tanned and fit in a white sports shirt and slacks. I knew he was a golfer. He told me he was also in the tennis club. I took out my notebook and went through my usual list of questions, starting with asking where he’d been born, what had his family been like, where had he been to school, then going on to his occupation and own family. I learned that he’d been raised on a farm in the Midwest, that he’d had an older brother who, he said, was a genius, that he’d graduated from a local college, then, not being a genius himself, had worked for the federal government for a number of years and had never married. He was also a veteran, having served in the Army. Of course I asked him how, if he was a civil servant, he’d managed to accumulate enough wealth so that he was able to make that million dollar donation. He said he was lucky in some investments he’d made.
As I looked over my notes I thought there were a few oddities. For example, his account of being in the Army sounded more like World War II than Vietnam, which is when I assumed he’d served. Also, he’d said the family farm had gone bankrupt in the Depression, which sounded as if that was back in the 1930’s, before he’d been even born. And there was nothing in his life story that would indicate he had such a knack for investing that he could afford that million dollar donation. I was puzzled. I asked Prescott about this. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me out.”
I sensed that I was about to hear something beyond Prescott’s official biography. This wasn’t that surprising. I’d learned during the course of my interviewing people that they all liked to talk and that, having gone so far, they sometimes kept going about things they might not usually disclose. “What do you mean?” I asked, and waited.
This is the story, in abbreviated form, that Prescott told me. It was true that he’d grown up on a farm but he’d been ten years old when the stock market crash occurred, and in a few years, as the country went into the Great Depression, his family had to give it up. “But the stock market crash was in 1929,” I said. “That would mean you were born in 1919 and that would make you --- “ I paused, realizing what I was about to say.
“Exactly; that would make me 100 years old.”
“But ---.” I stopped again. I didn’t know what to say.
“Let me go on. As I told you, my brother, his name was Jake, was a genius. Even as a kid he was experimenting with all kinds of chemicals. He used our barn as his laboratory. He went to college of course, got a PhD and went to work for one of the top pharmaceutical companies. Then World War II came along and he was conscripted to do some kind of top secret work. I think he might have been on the Manhattan Project that developed the atomic bomb. I myself was drafted and Jake saw to it that I had an office job in Washington. After the war, Jake formed his own company, which was very successful. But he also went to work on a side project. He said he’d been so horrified by the thousands of young men who’d died in the war that he wanted to make something that would prolong life. He came up with something, he called it a potion, that seemed to work on mice so he tried it on himself. He also tried it on me.
“What did it do?”
Jake tried to explain it to me. I never could understand it but somehow it slowed down the aging process. You wouldn’t live forever but you’d live far beyond the normal life expectancy.”
“So you’re saying it worked on you?”
“Yes, as you see.”
“What happened to Jake? Is he still around?”
“I’m afraid not. Shortly after he’d taken the potion the private jet that he flew was caught in a storm, crashed and he died.”
“That’s too bad. So what happened to this potion?”
“I don’t know. Whatever Jake put into it the knowledge about its ingredients died with him. By the way, you asked me how I was able to become so wealthy. It was simply the power of compound interest. It’s amazing how much the money piles up over the years and I’ve lived a lot of years.”
We sat there for a while. Another foursome of oldsters was trying to hit their way onto the green. Finally, I said, “That’s quite a story.”
“You sound a little skeptical.”
“You have to admit it’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Wait a minute.” He got up and went into the house. In a few minutes he was back with a piece of paper in his hand. He showed it to me. It was a birth certificate. The date on it was April 1, 1919. “Hmmm,” I said. “Well, it’s been interesting. Thanks for the drink.”
* * *
Back home I looked at the notes I’d taken and considered. Did I have an amazing story to tell or was Malcolm Prescott playing some elaborate joke on me, or was he simply delusional. True, he’d shown me that birth certificate but that could have been forged. And the date on it was April 1, April Fool’s Day. That in itself was cause for suspicion. In the end I decided to write my usual article, stressing Prescott’s generosity to our community. I didn’t go into detail about his birth date and other dates in his life. I’d be interested to see what he looked like ten or so years from now.
###
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