Beer is good for the nerves

“I’m getting nervous. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

His hands were shaking as he tried to tighten the nut on the bolt but I knew he wasn’t nervous. It was old age, maybe Parkinsons or maybe the nerve endings shorting, the brain not cooperating with the spine, the electric impulses grounded in the grayness of time.

“Here let me try that,” I said.

He handed me the nut and I looked at his arms; dark splotches, white patches, bumps and wrinkles.

I easily tightened the bolt and stood up from the lawnmower. I looked into his bloodshot eyes and saw something like realization there. Maybe it was finally occurring to him that there wasn’t much time left, maybe he was deep inside talking to his hands telling them to stop the fucking shaking, maybe he was going over his will—cutting me out for showing him up.

“That was hard to tighten,” I said.

“It was wasn’t it?” he said, as if reassuring himself.

“Let’s get a beer.”

“Yeah, that will help my nerves. Beer is good for the nerves.”