
SENIORS ON THE MOVE by Mike Itaya
I’m Old Boy. In the assisted living, they give me the journal, for a doodling. I write camphor, cancer. Camphor, cancer. I don’t give a shit. I’m Old Boy. It’s Tuesday. And right off, things go bad. Somebody swiped Rundy’s anxiety candle. “Who’s fucking with my aromatherapy?” He wants to know. I used to drink. I don’t have the mind for it. My back’s fucked. I sleep out in the banquet hall, like a plank, waiting on them lunch ladies. I flash peepers and spot Rundy beneath the salad bar—guzzling stuff—working up to frenzy. He monograms his onesie with ranch…