"Conspiracy stories Jack? Is this what this story is about?" Are we going to be hearing tales of laser beams being shot from space by a class of global elites lead by George Soros?"

My eyes had adjusted to the light in the sparsely furnished hovel Jack called home. It wasn't much to look at. It wasn't the kind of place you took others to impress. I could see his gnarled fingers contorted by arthritis cradling the glass of brandy. It reminded me of a priest respectfully holding onto a chalice of wine that would soon change into the blood of Christ through the power of transubstantiation. The priest performed the ritual to nourish the souls of the congregation. In Jack's case, it was a medical procedure to ease the pain of a body long past it's prime.

Jack replied,
"No. This conspiracy theory that American is being dumb-ed down deliberately is an oldie but goodie. A good conspiracy story has to have elements of plausible truth. If it doesn't, it is just stupid. A good conspiracy story makes you think twice; that can't be true, is it? A good conspiracy theory has imagination. These Q Anon tales that Marjorie Taylor Green and her merry band of brain dead minstrels are peddling have none of the above."

He paused, took a slow draw of his sacramental brandy and continued,
"I was out walking the other day. I travel past this old folks home. I see the same man pushing a walker in front of him carefully making his way down the sidewalk, measuring the distance in tiny little steps. It must be some kind of ritual. I walk, he walks. I stopped to say hello to him."

The old man told me,
"I am 79 years old.
I suppose I have to make a push for it and try to make 80."

I told him,
"You'll make it. You're tough."

He looked up at me and smiled a wry grin,
"I don't know. The pain."

Jack was silent. His once piercing blue eyes, now dulled with brandy and the passing of years starred off to a place I couldn't follow,
"He was telling me about the future, my future. This is the story I want to tell. It is too late for me, but what I have to say matters to the young man or woman still in High School.
They have a chance.

I had to ask,
"Did the old man say what the pain was?"

Jack wispered,
"He didn't have to."