It really is.

It's hell getting old. The man said it over and over again, like an irreverent hymn, as I helped him find his car.

He paid his water bill at the water department, and somehow managed to lose his car – or at least forgot where he parked it. The man walked several blocks throughout downtown Newark; he ended up in front of dad's store. The little brother and I were taking a walk, in lieu of actually doing any work, when the man said "I lost my car." I assumed he had parked nearby, somewhere along the square as it can be difficult to discern one parking spot from another.

We walked around the block, I noticed the man was quickly tiring, the 85 degree temperature coupled with a sunny, cloudless day was even getting to me and my little nine-year-old brother. I told him to sit and rest. The Brothers Wilson walked around several more blocks, searching vainly for a "black Chevy truck with a covering on the back", as the old man had described it. Issy pointed out a black Chevy truck with a covering about two blocks away; I hoped it was the right one.

We went back and took the befuddled man to "his" car, upon reaching the vehicle he stated that he was looking for a Ford, one that has a two folding backseats and pointed to a nearby Grand Voyager Caravan as the nearest facsimile. Not recalling where you parked your car is a problem; not knowing what type of vehicle you own is something else entirely. To make matters worse, he could barely stand. I failed to mention one fact: the man was ninety years old.

After instructing him to rest on the nearby bench, I asked if he needed any water, the man said "No. I feel like a damned fool. It's hell getting old." I assured him that everyone makes a mistake then hurried back to the store to pick up dad's van, which conveniently had air conditioning. Ten minutes later we drove back to the man and set off, once again, to find his wayward car.

I combed every parking lot, space, nook and cranny between the downtown courthouse and the Water Department, apparently the car had disappeared – or was never there in the first place. I quizzed the man throughout our search, in the hope of gleaming something if anything at all. He finally stated in an agitated tone: "I am sure it is right next to the water department. It has to be."

I checked every space in the water department's parking lot, drove up and down the street, went down each alley and even chased along the parallel roads both west and east. We never found the car.

I decided to retrace his steps and examine the one constant in the story: paying his bill at the water department. We, the unlikely trio of a nonagenarian, nine year old and me, entered the Water Department. The old man took a seat, I explained the situation to the customer service rep at the counter. She remembered the man but didn't know when exactly he came in, nor did she have any information about his erstwhile automobile. I thanked the woman for her time, knowing that I only had one more option to explore.

I told the man that our best bet was to go to Newark Police Department, since they were the experts in locating lost cars (and people); he agreed that was the best course of action, or at least I think he did, as he only nodded his aged head in response. He incessantly muttered, "It's hell getting old."

I parked a few hundred feet from the entrance to the Police Department; I now believe those were the most arduous steps in his life. He could barely walk, I offered to assist him, he politely shooed me away. Several times he faltered and nearly fell. Thankfully, I, along with several nearby parked cars, were there to offer support. He eventually made it to the door, I opened it, and we entered the station. The clerk on duty asked what I needed. I quickly and concisely detailed the particulars of our ill-fated quest. She thanked me for bringing the gentleman in and gestured for me to leave. She motioned for the man to come forward, I left without saying another word.

I regret not staying a little longer, at least to say goodbye. I never did think to ask his name, nor did I think to offer my own. It never came up, we were much too busy looking for the car. I hope he found what he was looking for. Since then, anytime I look at my sixty-eight year old father – or even at my own reflection in the mirror , the old man's haunting mantra sounds in my head...It's hell getting old.


It really is.