The day was April seventeenth, nineteen-seventy four; the birds were chirping, blue and yellow tulips were springing out of the ground, and Alfred Pickett was waiting to die. The scene of his awaited death was such: newly washed sheets covered an old, wooden bed, the floors had been newly polished, a crystal vase of fresh flowers set on the side table. In the middle of it all, Alfred was tucked in bed, sporting a clean shaven face, a suit he hadn’t worn for years, and newly polished leather shoes. Alfred had settled into position around noon, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands over his stomach. He wasn’t waiting very patiently however— every so often he’d open an eye to take a peek to see if he’d gone to heaven, and to his disappointment, he found himself to be very much living. To make matters worse, Alfred’s stomach had started growling after only an hour into his endeavor. With a loud scream that sounded quite like a battle cry, he ripped the blankets away, sprang out of bed, and kicked off his nice leather shoes.

“What’s a seventy-nine year old man gotta do to die in peace these days?” Alfred nearly wept. He had heard from very educated fellows that the average life expectancy for the American male was seventy-five years old, and had never believed himself to be anything but the average. As he stormed outside he slipped his feet into some worn slippers and grabbed his stout-looking walking stick. Although Al Pickett didn’t necessarily need the stick, he always felt that it was a sophisticated and mature addition to his ensemble, and therefore carried it with him everywhere. Grumbling and muttering under his breath, Alfred Pickett marched out of his house at an energetic pace, leaving the screen door swinging violently behind him. He was just at the end of his driveway when--
“-Lo! Mr. Pickett! Good afternoon my friend!” Alfred cursed silently as he eyed his troublesome neighbor, Freddie Mustard. Freddie was a balding man in his mid-forties, and lived right next door with his wife, Hattie, and two boys, their names of which Alfred had forgotten long ago. Every year, without fail, Alfred received cheeky invitations to the boys’ birthday parties, their christmas parties, summer barbeques, spring parties, halloween parties, and more, all slipped into his mailbox by Freddie Mustard himself. In fact, Alfred’s frown grew as he watched Freddie straddle the white picket fence separating their property in an attempt to get closer to illicit more irritating conversation. “What a fine, fine day it is, isn’t it Mr. Pickett. Can I call you Al? That’s just wonderful, just wonderful really, did you see the letter I--”
“Get your foot off of my side of the fence!” Alfred barked, glaring at the offending limb. His frown remained until Freddie retracted himself back onto his side of the fence.
“Oh my apologies Al, I should’ve noticed your beautiful tulips planted here-- and to think I nearly trampled them!” Freddie gave a hearty laugh, which subsided when he noticed that Mr. Pickett had promptly turned around and continued to walk away, with his walking stick wedged under his armpit.
Alfred, glad to have gotten away from the Mustards, headed into town to dine on a cup of tea and onion soup at the local cafe. The cafe had recently renovated--to Alfred’s disgust-- with new, bright windows covering every wall that was previously bricked in. The light that flooded in generated a new wave of younger people, who enjoyed basking under the Sun’s glow while eating the cafe’s delicious sweets. Even with all of these changes, Alfred was a man of habit and refused to eat any other cafe around town, and therefore settled into a booth wedged in the back of the room. The architects and renovators had somehow missed this spot, because none of the natural light from the windows reached this area, making it the only booth in the cafe that was to Alfred’s liking. Alfred sat with his cane draped across his lap, rubbed his aching fingers over his tea mug, and sighed. The warm soup had warmed him from the inside and the cafe’s constant buzz was starting to blur and fade from his ears.

      ***

The mustard gas was terrible. Alfred didn’t know what it was, except that the Americans had rushed into the war with funny looking masks that they were instructed to wear while in the trenches. The yellow clouds drifted over no-man’s land and Alfred watched in horror as the gentle winds carried it even closer, through the Allies’ trenches. The tense silence of trench warfare was murdered with the piercing screams of men. Alfred was crying, watching the men clawing at themselves, pressing themselves to the dirt, panicking in the yellowish haze. He saw the inhuman masks of the enemy ranks, their eyes gone and in their stead the darkened goggles that made them look like black mantises.
“Stop--” he tried to say, crawling away as the burned figures suddenly lifted themselves up once again. Gaping holes where human eyes should have been, awful, bubbling sores and burns growing up the neck and on their arms and lips; they never stopped screaming. Alfred ran, the yellow gas had turned viscous and choking, the black figures of enemies and allies alike, all reaching toward him; suddenly unaffected by the gas.
The entire Earth was soon covered in the evil smoke, thickening until it choked the very light out of the sky, plummeting the trenches into darkness. As the sun disappeared from view, Alfred realized that along with the universe, he had completely abandoned any hope for mankind.

      ***

Alfred’s face was wet when he woke up, so he shakily wiped his eyes with his sleeve. His  face changed back to a sharp frown as he looked at the young people chatting merrily in the cafe in disgust.
“They know nothing,” he muttered. He  picked up his walking stick and left a large tip.

      ***

Later that same afternoon, Alfred was sitting on a rotting park bench, somewhere along the way back home. The bench faced away from the street, looking towards a sprinkling of trees, through which there was just a glimpse of a bubbling creek. He hadn’t gone the quickest route back because he knew that Freddie was probably still stationed in his front yard. The sky was completely blue and cloudless, and Alfred could vividly imagine what he must have looked like; a graying old veteran hunched over on a bench, alone. He didn’t feel sorry for himself in the slightest however, because he was straining to hear the music coming from some gathering nearby. It was some sort of stringed instrument from as far as Alfred could tell, singing for everyone around to hear. Alfred couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed music, but found himself closing his eyes and listening anyway. He was so absorbed by the despairing notes that he hardly noticed someone had taken a seat next to him, making the bench creak a little with the added weight.
“Al, is that you?” Alfred opened his eyes in surprise to see his old friend, Ralph, staring at him in amazement. “It’s been at least forty or so years, hasn’t it? My god, to be honest I thought I was probably the only man in our division still alive,” he chuckled darkly. Time had aged Ralph much more than it had Alfred, shown in the lines across his forehead and cheekbones.
“What are you doing here, Ralph?” Alfred said tiredly. He hadn’t seen anyone from his regiment in so many years that most of their faces had faded with the help of time and large doses of strong alcohol.
“I heard there’s a good doctor in town, someone who might be able to help me with this,” 
Ralph pointed at his lame leg, paralyzed in just their second year on the front.
“You’re still trying-- after all this time?”
“Why should I ever stop?” Ralph patted his leg, “That’s the thing about men, we’re fighters, you know Al? I mean look at you, three years in that blasted war and not a scratch. Absolutely brilliant I say, no one believes me when I tell em about the invincible Al Pickett,” he said in wonder, looking at Alfred up and down.
“It was bad luck,” Alfred growled sharply, “no man deserves to go into war and out without getting a scratch; it just isn’t right. There isn’t that much time for me here anyway, I can feel it.” Alfred rubbed his chest, which was aching painfully again, “it’s driving me nuts- all the waiting.”
“Now that’s nonsense, Al. You’re a lucky man, we both are. I’m glad we made it through this far- you and I, I like to think it means the world’s still got a little hope for us after all,” Ralph stared off into the trees.
“After everything you saw? After everything you and I did, and we’re supposed to be the good ones you know, everybody was praying for us back here and they didn’t know what the hell they had sent us to go do. We killed people, and then it was over.” Alfred declared bitterly, “And it only got worse when I came back. They told us to get on with our lives, get jobs, settle down. And then what?”
Ralph was silent for a second. “When I went back home, after it was all over, it really was a nightmare. I didn’t know how to live anymore, isn’t that something…” his voice turned serious. “The alcohol didn’t help at all, did it? I think we all tried that. It didn’t make time pass any faster for any of us. And you know what I realized? Look around, Al. The world is healing itself too. There are people here, good ones, that are gonna make things better even after we’re gone.”
“There’s nothing left for me here,” Alfred muttered, “I’m just waiting for my time to go.”
“There’s no hurry to go. You can find good everywhere in this world, even in the darkest times.” Ralph extended his hand, which Alfred shook firmly. “My grandson is here, I need to make my appointment,” Ralph heaved himself onto his feet. “I’m glad you’re still around, take care of yourself. Al, you’re a good man.” He handed Alfred an old business card, and with that, he turned and left.
Alfred watched his old friend limp away, and felt a twinge in his chest that was different from the ever-present physical pain. “What a fool,” he sighed, but at that same moment, he wondered whether anything Ralph had said was actually true.

The sun was just touching the top of the trees when Alfred gauged that the Mustards had gone back inside. He had spent the afternoon in a wreck- torn by what Ralph had said and by his own beliefs. A high-pitched shriek of laughter startled him from his thoughts, and he watched a small girl bouncing along on her father’s shoulders, who was carrying her back from the creek. He looked on in confusion as she gave him a toothless grin, her face stretched in innocent joy.
“Hellooooo,” she called, waving a chubby fist at him when she saw that he was in fact, looking. “Hellooooo, grandpa! The water is fun! Come play with me tomorrow!” She continued smiling and hollering while Alfred, unable to reply, processed the little girl’s happiness. The girl’s father gave him an embarrassed smile.
“I’m sorry sir, it seems that Lily can’t stop talking to people today,” he chuckled, “have a great day!” He gave Alfred a polite wave, and carried Lily further down the sidewalk. Just before they reached the corner, Lily twisted around and gave Alfred one last energetic wave. This child was happy, swinging her arms back and forth without a care in the world. It was as if a dark veil had been lifted off of his head for the first time, as he squinted and blinked in the newfound light. And for the first time in forty years, Alfred formed a hesitant smile, that turned into booming laughter that rang for the whole world to hear. He stood up, still chuckling, tossed his walking stick into a nearby trash can, and started to walk home.
 
      ***

Freddie was still outside in the yard with his sons when Alfred returned home. He gave Alfred a meek wave, which turned into a look of full-blown shock when he noticed Alfred was beaming.
“Why, Al, what a pleasant walk you must--”
“Freddie! My, my, look how much your boys have grown,” Alfred said softly, stopping just before the fence. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you or your boys at all, Fred.” Briefly, Alfred wondered for the first time what the boys’ names were.
“Al, I don’t know what to say…” Freddie said in amazement, “Are you quite alright? I’ve never seen you in a mood so dapper,” his eye’s couldn’t bulge out any further as Alfred himself straddled the picket fence, winced through the pain in his chest, and finally climbed over it so that he stood directly on the Mustard’s yard.
.
“It’s the vitamins, I tell you,” Alfred said rather matter of factly, “and, my dear friend, it feels like I’ve finally woken up from a terrible, terrible dream.”

      ***

Alfred Pickett passed away about a month later, found sitting in a rocking chair in his back porch. His eyes were closed, and he wore the same hesitant smile he had had on his very first day. Freddie and his boys, Joe and Carter, all cried mournfully when they discovered the news. The Mustards planted a small gravestone right by their white picket fence, and always talked of Mr. Pickett with the utmost fondness. Surrounded with tulips, the little stone read:

Here lies Al Pickett

      May he forever rest in peace and happiness.