Don't wait until I am sick or Dead.

Let me tell you what it actually feels like to be - Living in The Town of Almost-Nice.

My name is Harold Finchley, and if you reside in the town of Barnbridge - you may or may not notice that the inhabitants have a rather peculiar habit.

They treat me like a national treasure---but only on days when I look like I might keel over.

And my relatives, God, they treat me quite crappy when they think that my constitution is up to the challenge of yelling at me. I can tell you plainly and very straightforward-ly...so many of them are narcissists, that I have lost count.

Mind you now...my age makes me susceptible to minor memory miscalculations and little otherwise avoided accidents. They forget that I am getting a little long in the tooth.

Not that anyone said this out loud....'that I am a conditional national treasure', I mean. They just… behaved accordingly.

Now, I am a spry seventy year old with the constitution of a stubborn goat, and I have learned to navigate this strange civic rhythm. On mornings when I jogged briskly, waved cheerfully, and looked annoyingly alive, people barely nodded to me. The barista would hand me my orders quite nonchalantly. The librarian would shush me before I even spoke. Children would use my fence as a soccer goal.

But the moment I so much as coughed?

The town transformed.

One Tuesday, I sneezed - now, I'm talking just a single, polite sneeze -- not the gushing repetitive kind that evinces many 'god bless you' and serious concern from everyone within hearing distance - This polite little sneeze happened while I was walking past the bakery. Within seconds, Mrs. Dalloway burst out of the door offering me a warm cup of chamomile tea - heaven only knows how the tea came to be already made, maybe she keeps a never ending supply at the ready. But with a trembling hand she offered a gentle pat on my shoulder, ushering me to the nearby table all laid out for her many customers.

“Oh Harold, dear, sit. Sit. You mustn’t strain yourself.”

I tried to protest, but she was already dragging out a chair, shouting for a croissant, and instructing passersby to “give the man some space, for heaven’s sake.”

By noon, three casseroles had been delivered to my porch.

By evening, the mayor had stopped by “just to check in.”

See what I mean...sigh. I wasn’t even sick. I’d just inhaled a bit of flour.

The ungrateful relatives scarfed down the food without even a by-your-leave...not even asking why free food had suddenly appeared - but they all fawned over a mayor turning up at the door. Suck-ups if ever I did see one.

The next day, determined to reclaim my autonomy, I put on my brightest windbreaker, stood tall, and decided to march into town with the vigor of a man auditioning for a fitness commercial.

My relatives didn't even bat an eyelid.

People on the streets barely saw me.

At the grocery store, someone reached over my head for the last ripe avocado. At the post office, I held the door open for a woman who breezed past without a thank you. At the park, a teenager skateboarded so close he nearly shaved my kneecap.

I harrumphed, muttering, “Unbelievable,” but no one paid me the slightest attention.

I had now come to know the pattern. I’d lived in Barnbridge long enough to understand the unspoken rule.

So, on Thursday, I decided to test a theory on my ungrateful relatives...the ones who had yelled at me for being right, for pointing out their utter selfishness and lack of empathy for anyone but themselves.

I put on his oldest sweater---the one with the sagging elbows. I limped a little slower---added a thoughtful, distant look, as though pondering the mysteries of the universe or the price of caskets. For dramatic effect, I paused constantly and pressed a hand to my lower back.

The reaction was immediate.

Everyone started phoning and texting everyone, even those living in the house I live in - because, blast it...it seems people are afraid to speak to each other face to face anymore...maybe for fear of seeing the truth reflected in their faces...the god-awful truth that they don't much care for each other anymore...so they let little machines do the talking. Harrumph. There was a flurry of 'are you feeling ok'. 'Do you need to go to the doctor'... of course - what the little shitheads actually mean is:

"Did you remember to write the Will". The great big sack of hypocrites.

I waltzed past them, standing with phones in hand ready to call the undertaker...and headed into town.

In town, I again tried the routine: I limped a little slower---added a thoughtful, distant look, as though pondering the mysteries of the universe or the price of caskets. For dramatic effect, I paused and pressed a hand to my lower back.

Cars stopped even when I wasn’t crossing. A teenager offered me her seat on a bench. Someone I barely knew from the gardening club rushed over with a thermos of soup “just in case.”

I accepted the gesture but declined the soup with a gracious nod. “You’re very kind.”

“Oh Harold,” she said, eyes misty, “we just want you to know how much you mean to us.”

I blinked. “Do you?”

“Of course! Everyone does.”

I looked around. People were watching me with soft, worried expressions, as though I was a beloved houseplant on the brink of wilting.

I cleared my throat. “Well… I’m not going anywhere, anytime soon.”

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the small gathering.

But then---because Barnbridge was Barnbridge---everyone slowly drifted away, reassured that I was fine, and therefore no longer in urgent need of affection.

I stood alone on the sidewalk, wishing I were holding the thermos of soup I didn’t want. At least it's warmth would have felt like company.

I chuckled sadly. Then shook my head. Then I did something I’d never done before.

I walked into the town square, climbed onto the fountain ledge, and let out the most dramatic, theatrical groan that I could muster.

People sprinted toward me.

The chuckle turned into a wide grin--until it became a great rumbling laugh.

If this was the only way to get a little tenderness while still breathing, I was hell bent on taking it.

---And everywhere beneath the roots and in the twining vines of existence of Barnbridge - the rule still rippled quietly beneath the surface---never spoken, always obeyed.

This was merely a waiting game.

The game of survival, but with codicils attached.