“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He kept moving.

“Hey, asshole, why didn’t you tell me what would happen if I hit him?” People standing nearby stopped to stare at the old crazy fart in red, shouting down the street at a kid who was obviously trying to ignore him.

“I’m talking to you!”

Gus was watching now, as were half the people on the sidewalk, but not Junior. If I’d had any legs under me I would have sprinted over and– stopping, he put his hands on his hips and turned slowly. His face showed only disgust. “Don’t you get it yet? I can’t do anything for you! You think I wouldn’t have said something if I could? You think I want to be here? Are you really that stupid?”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Be-cause-I-can’t!”

We shouted at each other across that wide space. Sooner or later a cop was bound to appear and it was sooner. Police in Vienna wear green uniforms and white caps that make them look more like crossing guards than police. This dude was husky, wore a matching husky moustache and an attitude you could smell in five different languages. He chose to interrogate me. The prick– he had to pick on an old weak man. In red.

“Na, was ist?”

“What’s the problem, officer?” Probably because I answered in English and didn’t hesitate looking him in the eye, his expression downshifted to sullen and confused—a bad combination if you’re on the receiving end with a cop.

He responded in limping, phrase-book English. “Why do you screaming? It is not allowed to scream so in Wee-ena.”

“I’m not. I’m calling my grandson.” I pointed at Junior. I hoped the cop would see the family resemblance. The kid shrugged. The cop pursed his lips and moustache hairs went up into his nose. Out of the corner of my eye Gus Gould came hotfooting over toward us. He must have thought I was completely bonkers.

The cop’s nametag said Lumplecker. I paused a moment to digest that and stop myself from laughing out loud. “Officer Lumplecker?”

“Ja?”

“What year is it?”

“Bitte?”

“The year. This year, now. What’s today’s date?”

Eumplecker shot me a lumpy look, like I was trying to pull a fast one on him. “I do not understand you. My English is poor. Here is your friend. You may ask him your questions.”

“Come on, Frannie, we gotta get to the cafe.” Gus nudged me with his hip while smiling a lot of old yellow teeth at patrolman Lumpy. Some bystander in leather shorts and green knee socks nearby said, “Was ist mil ihm?” The cop turned his annoyed attention at this unsuspecting Fritz and started shouting at him in machine-gun German. Gus and I drifted off without saying so much as an auf wiedersehn.

“What’s the matter with you this morning, Frannie? Are you on drugs? Did you take something?”

My father used to ask me that question when I was young and permanently in trouble. “Are you on something?” was his way of putting it. He hoped I was so there would be a valid excuse for my detestable behavior. And if he could somehow get me “off,” I’d return to normal again. Fat chance. At the time the only drug I was on was me.

“Wait a minute! How come you can see him?” I pointed at Junior ten feet away.

Gus unwrapped a piece of gum and put it in his mouth. “How can I see him? Why wouldn’t I?”

I walked to the boy. “Why can he see you now? Back in Crane’s View you said no one could see you but me and the cat.”

“Because we’re both in the wrong time slot now. Neither of us belongs here.”

It was spring. Girls passed in sherbet-colored summer dresses, their perfumes wiggling come-hither fingers at your sense of smell. I might have been old as hell but my nose still worked. Couples strolled slowly from here to nowhere enjoying the warm weather. Street musicians played everything from classical guitars to musical saws.

Vienna. Austria. Mozart. Freud. Wienerwald. Sacher Torte. I’d not gone there even when I had the travel bug because I’d never had the slightest curiosity about the city. London, I’d spent some time in. Paris. Madrid. Other exotic places too, but Vienna meant opera, which I hated, those Lippizaner horses that hopped on their back legs depressed me, and the town was where Hitler got started being Hitler. Who needed it? Plus George Dalemwood had visited and returned to say that generally speaking, the Viennese were the most unfriendly, unpleasant people he’d ever met. What the hell was I doing here in my dotage? Married to Susan Ginnety, no less.

“There’s the opera house. I thought it would be bigger. It sure looked bigger in the pictures.”

As we approached I saw the celebrated building but felt nothing. Of course a heart is supposed to surge forward on seeing certain famous sites—the Grand Canyon, Big Ben, the Viennese opera house. But my heart usually went into reverse at those moments just because it doesn’t like being told what to do.

“Don’t forget, Frannie, we’re supposed to take a tour of the place this afternoon.”

“Uh-huh. How far is this cafe?”

“About another ten minutes.”

“Jesus, that far?” My body felt like lead, like paste, stone, wood, double gravity, it felt like shit. So this was what it was like to be old? Forget it! I wanted to trade me in on a new model. Immediately. How did old people put up with it? How did they lift their unbendable, hundred-pound legs and put one in front of the other day after day? My hands were lava-hot with arthritis; legs cold with I had no idea what. It seemed like every person whizzed past us as if they were all on rollerskates; but they were only legs connected to younger, healthy bodies they took for granted. I wanted to move faster, to stop, and to weep in frustration all at the same time. “Guys, wait a minute. Hold it—I gotta rest.”

Gus and the kid exchanged looks but stopped. I wanted to kill them both. How could they keep going while I felt like a boulder was sitting on my head?

“Are you okay, Frannie?”

“No I’m not okay! Just wait a minute, willya?”

“No problem, partner.”

“Is that a hot dog stand? What’s a wurstel?” The kid pointed to a small kiosk nearby that had different pictures of hot dogs taped to its windows. “I’m hungry. I’m getting one.”

Between gasps, I asked if he had any money.

“Nope. You got any?”

Without a sliver of surprise, my hand slid over a bunch of cards in my pocket. I took them out to see what they were.

Gus said, “Use your Visa card.”

“They take credit cards at a hot dog stand?”

He made a face that said I couldn’t be that dense. “Are you going to pay with a five-dollar bill? When was the last time you saw paper money?”

“I got a card too. I got one of those. I had it all along.” Junior waved a shiny pink card and moved toward the stand.

I could not catch my breath. My entire body felt outraged at having had to walk so far so fast. Yet I knew we hadn’t come far at all. Besides all the other shocks whirling around like multiple cyclones, I couldn’t believe this was me inside me—an aching, whining, grumpy, exhausted, old... shithead.

“So tell me about your grandson, Frannie. He’s a good-looking boy.”

We watched good-looking boy buy his hot dog, with much pointing and nodding until the seller understood what he wanted. It had been so long since I was in a place where I didn’t speak the language. Now suddenly I was in two simultaneously– Austria and Old Age.

While concocting some piece of nonsense about my “grandson” to tell Gus Gould, I heard a huge high sound. Instinctively I knew what it was because I’d made the sound myself many times on my Ducati—the high ripping whine of a downshifting motorcycle. Turning from Gus toward the street, I saw the last thing I would ever see: A most beautiful silver and sleek motorcycle, airborne, was sailing straight at me.

The End.