A peek into my future….30 years from now with my son in a grocery store

when I am older I will be in a custom made steampunk wheelchair like this one.
when I am older I will be in a custom made steampunk wheelchair like this one

Regarding the above pictured steampunk wheelchair….My future-My son Jackson will have to build a back support for it – I have bought it off the streets for $7,789 USD – “Take it or leave it old man” they said to me….
So 39 year old Jackson is wheeling me through the hardwood floor aisles of a local grocery store.
I am in a non battery powered wheelchair cuz I can’t afford it after the medicare, medicaid and social security cuts my country put into effect a few years back, and instead of saving for retirement income, I paid for college for my two boys Jack and Dylan (You’re welcome, I think sometimes when they don’t call me from their computer phone implant devices).
I am 80 years old and incontinent.
It is the year 2041……
In my little cheap used wheelchair, with the wheels that squeak and twist around randomly, occasionally forcing Jack to back me up, and then push me forward again to get me unstuck, just like I used to with those Rainbow Foods grocery carts that they were too cheap to replace.
“They need WD-40, Jack.” I say as he shuffles me back and forth.
“Right, dad.” he says, kind of blowing me off cuz at my age, what value could I possibly add to any conversation?
I am wearing a blue and white hand knit shawl, Jackson and Dylan gave it to me for Christmas, and it has the word “SUPERDAD” on it, but because I am so old and frail, the folds in the blanket only reveal the letters forming the word “SAD” across my chest, a chest that has sagged like pudding in a balloon, reaching for the floor.
We are in the produce section, and I am very cold.
Jack is wiping off the drool from my chin, something I can’t control ever since I went on the liver rejuvenation medication I bought in the back alley of a Chinese neighborhood in East St Paul where I live in an apartment with my wife. The street price for this illegal med is fairly high, but I think the guy gives me a break because my wife does free palm reading for him and he buys into that kind of stuff.
“Can we buy tomatoes?” I ask, as he wheels me past them (to my right – I try to turn to the right with my head to signal my desire for them but it hurts too much).
“Why?” he asks.
“I like how they taste now.” I say. “They actually taste like tomatoes.”
“Thats cuz they’re local, dad.” he says.
He stops my chair, and goes over to grab a bunch, putting them into his cloth bag he brought with to the store.
“Its a good thing they are only fifteen dollars a pound” he says.
“I remember when they were only three…” I say, but my weak voice trails off.
“Well, this isn’t twenty-twelve, dad, and we ain’t going back to your golden age of consumerism.” he scolds me.
Suddenly one of my implant lights on my forehead starts flashing and beeping, the red one, and Jackson stops the wheelchair and leans down in front of me. He checks his phone implant device by tapping the side of his head twice, then seems to be reading something that is in front of him, I guess something displayed in front of his eyes but invisible to me – from an app he has created and named ‘OLD DAD‘, then looks up at me.
“Dad, relax…” he says. “You’re gonna bust that Mexican pig valve. It’s from the black market. You can’t afford another one.”
I look at him; he gets blurry to me sometimes cuz I cant afford glasses and the milky white substance growing over my eyeballs is thicker on some days.
“Okay.” I say, weakly, and look down to the floor. The beeping stops and the red light stops flashing.
Later, he wheels me out to his car, picks me up out of the chair and throws me like a sack of potatoes into the front seat of his little miniature canoe shaped vehicle. He has been lifting weights but that’s okay since I don’t weigh much anymore.
‘Ouch’ I think but do not say, for fear he will get mad at me and then not call me for a while.
“Seven hundred dollars, dad.” he says.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back.” I say, a tear rolling down my cheek.
“It’s okay, dad. You don’t have to.” he says, followed by him blurting out “BEATLES…..ABBEY ROAD……SIDE TWO.”
The music in the car begins with Here Comes The Sun…..
And I remember I have been a good dad, cuz nobody plays the Beatles anymore…not even on XM radio……..only my son….when I am riding with him.
I think he loves me after all.
And the little blue light implant on my forehead lights up…flashing silently.
Life is good.

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