The old man sat quietly in the coffee shop surrounded by young people. He calculated how many years it had been since he was a young man, just beginning to taste life. He decided that if 21 was the right age to begin taking hold of one’s life, at 75, it had been 54 years since he came of age.

Impulsively, he tapped a young man’s arm as he passed by, headed to the service counter. “How old are you, fella?”

“How old do I look?” the young man asked. He tugged the bill of his Red Sox ball cap and smiled.

“I’d say, 21.”

“Cool! I turned 21 yesterday.” He turned to leave, but stopped and asked, “How old are you?”

The man realized he could respond in kind, asking how old he looked, but he no longer found verbal gymnastics entertaining. “I turned 75 four months ago.”

The young man glanced down at the older man’s coffee mug and noticed it was empty. “Looks like you’re ready for a refill. I’ll get you one. Name’s Jordan, by the way.”

“I’m Gordon.” He pulled a twenty from his billfold and handed it to Jordan. “Get us both something to eat too. You look hungry if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Jordan hesitated. “I can’t let you do that. Anyway, it’s Wednesday, so refills are free.”

“Take the money kid. It won’t bite you. I’m an old man with money. And not enough time left to spend it all.”

Jordan hesitated, but took the bill and went to the counter and placed their order. He returned to the table and put the refilled mug and a banana muffin in front of Gordon. He put the change next to the mug. “Thanks,” he said. He turned and walked to a table where he met another young man and woman.

Gordon grimaced a little. He needed conversation. He enjoyed talking to young people especially, because they hadn’t had time to become cynical. Many of them were egotistical, true, but he didn’t mind that. A little ego would serve them well.

The young woman at the table with Jordan had been watching the exchange when Jordan first arrived. Now, she was looking at Gordon, curiously. She said something to the two men and walked over to where Gordon was sitting. “Would you like to join us?” she asked.

Gordon smiled. “I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not doing much of anything.” She took his hand and said, “My name is Cara.” Her hand was warm and soft. Gordon found it unsettling and yet, comforting.

They walked over to the table and sat down. The other young man introduced himself as Jeff. “Hey, Gordon, thanks again for the muffin,” Jordan said.

Gordon simply nodded. The table grew silent then, no one sure what to say.

Jordan tore off his muffin top and handed it to Cara. He said, “Cara is a starving writer. So is Jeff, actually. I sell software to banks. What kind of work did you do?”

Gordon hid a smile behind his coffee mug. “You’re assuming I’m retired.”

“You’re not?” Jeff asked.

“No, like you and Cara, I’m a writer. A word to the wise for you two, writers never retire.”

“Oh! What kind of a writer are you?” Cara asked.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you and Jeff the same question. Would you mind going first?”

Cara ran her fingers through her short brown hair. “Jordan exaggerated a little. I’m a communications major at the university. I write short stories, mostly.”

Gordon nodded. “And you Jeff?”

The young man adjusted his eyeglasses and shrugged. “I want to write novels. I’m working on one now, but…” his voice trailed off. He took a bite of his scone. “So, what kind of writer are you?”

“I’m a novelist.”

“Wait,” Cara said, suddenly excited. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a paperback book. The title was, The Last Courageous Man.  The author was Gordon Smith. “Is that you?”

“Yes. Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. Why on earth are you reading that book? I wrote it 45 years ago.”

“My lit professor, Doctor Penrose assigned it to the class.”

“How is Albert doing?” Gordon asked. “Haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“Okay, I guess,” Cara said. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m sitting here with Gordon Smith.” She turned to her friends. “This book won a Pulitzer.”

“Really? Get him to sign it, Cara,” Jeff said.

She turned to Gordon. “Will you?”

The old man was uncomfortable now. This wasn’t going the way he had hoped it would. “Okay.” He took a pen from his pocket and autographed the book.

“What advice do you have for these two,” Jordan asked.

“Don’t be a writer.” They all smiled. “Listen, there’s nothing I can tell you that you haven’t already heard. I’ve been very successful and I’ve failed miserably. I worked hard on everything I wrote, but that doesn’t always matter.”

“Would you still be a writer if you hadn’t had success?” Jeff asked.

Gordon added more sugar to his coffee. He hadn’t touched his muffin yet and he pushed the plate over to Cara. “Share it with Jeff.” He drank more coffee. “Yes, I’d still be writing. Maybe it would be Hallmark greeting cards, though.”

“There must be some advice you can give us about writing,” Cara said.

“You would think so, but the truth is, I don’t know more about the craft than your professors, really. Nobody can teach you to be interesting, or describe perfect timing, where your idea for a story matches what the audience wants at exactly the right moment.”

“So, writing is kind of a crap shoot?” Jordan asked.

“Writing is very hard work, but if it’s your calling, it’s the most fun you’ll ever have, being miserable.”

Cara tore the top of her muffin and handed it to Jeff. “Better eat this. You’re gonna need your strength.”