Jonathon rose from his tattered, ancient recliner with difficulty and turned, teetering precariously, to begin his laborious trek. He paused every now and then to catch his breath and rasp into a rag he held in his left hand. Another uneventful day, like all of them lately. The home health nurse stopped by to help him bathe and she tried to talk him into having a woman in to clean. She didn't understand that he needed his things around him. He knew his house disgusted that nurse. She'd walk in being falsely cheerful every week, but eventually she would mention about the woman in to clean, and Jonathon would politely refuse. He shuffled in threadbare slippers to the bedroom where he sat on the edge of his bed.  Tomorrow it would happen. Tomorrow.

               His dreams were vibrant. Inside his head he was still on top, women fighting to be near him, men scrambling to shake his hand. They all wanted to be caught in that humming, pulsating glow, encompassed by the magnetic pull of his essence. Slowly though, even in his dreams, they mutated. Faces turned ugly and fingers poked at him;  they clawed, they bit, they chewed, jaws moving viciously up and down while they continued to tear at reddened, wounded flesh. They were carnivores and they carried pens, sharp pens that stabbed into him and remained stuck as if he were one of the bulls in Spain.

               He was startled awake, gasping for breath.   Someone was banging on the front door and he shuffled to it,  still gasping for air–there it was.  The box, the one he'd dreamed about since becoming aware of its existence. Just some things from the old days, the ancient stage manager said. Some unimportant things they found in the theater.  Not much sold at the auction, he'd been told, when it all went up on the block. But enough. Perhaps he still had a chance. His wrinkled, ruddy face began to shine. Maybe those journalistic vultures hadn't ruined him completely with their rapier, talon-like pens. He could begin again, start over, continue to entertain and...

             And then he began to cough, racking, hacking spasms that rocked him and had him
lying prostrate on the floor. He didn't care, he thought as he lay gasping, rheumy eyes luminous. He knew he would be remembered. And really, isn't that what truly matters?

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~