(no subject)
The Oldest, Part 2
Margaret Ann Harvey is 130 years old. She is the second oldest human still alive. As far as she remembers, which spans back to two world wars and more political revolutions than she can count on two hands, she has always had her heart set on being the oldest human alive. In fact, it was on November 23, 1882 that she decided on her ultimate goal.
It was a cold autumn evening in Nebraska; Margaret Ann was only six years old. As she stretched at her town’s local dance studio in her little pink tutu, excited to rehearse that year’s Christmas special, her teacher, Mrs. Heidrenklof, kindly broke the news that one of her legs was ridiculously shorter than the other and that she could no longer continue her career in petit ballet. It was at that point that young Margaret decided to beat genetics and become the oldest living human.
She lived the rest of her life in moderation. She grew her own food to make sure that no unwanted chemicals could ever shorten her precious life. She never touched a single drop of alcohol, until scientific studies proved that wine could prevent heart disease. Every time she drove past a McDonalds, very slowly that is, to not get in an accident, she would cringe and weep. She thought about being a nun until she realized that solitude can kill and that sex relieves stress. As soon as she realized that fact, she met the man she would spend a good portion of her very long life with. His name was Nathaniel Polaris. They were never officially married, because marriage causes stress, and stress causes death.
They had one child together, Oliver Polaris. It is her theory that the more children you have, the more danger you put yourself and the child in. Besides, the pain she went through during labor was enough to convince her. She obviously couldn’t take the drugs, and the doctor had to be kidding when he offered a cesarean. Margaret Ann Harvey was not about to get cut in half for a child who would probably only live till the age of 80, anyway. To call Margaret devoted is a complete understatement.
At the age of 83, she began to see her loved ones pass away. First her husband, then most of her friends and their husbands. The last one to go was Oliver. He died at the age of 50. While some might find these series of events saddening, Margaret saw them as a sign of great things to come. Her friends then became the daughters of her friends, may they rest in peace. The way she saw it, she needed friends to live. Her friendships were never anything personal, only a tool to expel the awful loneliness, which crept up once and again on cold dark nights. She no longer needed love, just companionship. To find love once is inevitable, and truly just a matter of patience. To find love twice is not only luck, but more hard work than Margaret would ever be willing to go through. Luck was hardly a factor that Margaret could depend on.
To be honest, Margaret could only depend on herself. She learnt very early on that anyone and everyone around her had her life in their hands. This lesson came about in the most abrupt and bizarre way. One day at the office, her father was called over to speak with his boss, Mr. Naughtmire. On that certain day, Mr. Naughtmire was quite upset at the fact that his wife had just discovered his affairs with the office secretary. As Mr. Harvey entered the office, Mr. Naughthmire rapidly, and carelessly opened a letter with his brand new letter opener, given to him by the ambassador of Japan. Given that the leather around the handle was brand new and that the blade was as sharp as any samurai sword, the letter opener flew out of his hand and into Mr. Harvey’s stomach. Mr. Harvey slowly looked down, removed the letter opener, said, “You wanted to see me, sir?” and fell over dead.
On her 100th birthday, Margaret was given a key to the city. A parade was held, but she left early, for her heart could not handle that much excitement at once. Instead, she sat at home and watched it on TV, where she could control the volume of the marching bands and cheering crowds. She was so happy, she could barely breathe. She had her great grandchild set up the VHS player so she could record it and play it until she fell asleep.
“Margaret Ann Harvey is truly a national landmark. She has lived a long and extraordinary life, and we hope she lives many more years in this beautiful town. With this in mind, I, Mayor Jeffrey Roberts, present her with a key to the city. I would also like to present the new state sign and slogan, ‘Nebraska: The birth state and home of Margaret Ann Harvey.’ Mrs. Harvey, thank you for gracing us with your presence today.” Every tear she held back throughout her 100 years of life was released at that moment.
On her 130th birthday, she decided that things were getting pretty goddamn ridiculous. She was still second on the list of oldest human alive, and each of her birthdays posed the same question, “How can we light these candles without burning down another VFW hall?”
Her health was slowly deteriorating. Her memory was slowly fading. She realized that she had lived for 130 years, and yet, never accomplished anything. Her life was spent waiting, and she could wait no more. She bought her edition of the Guinness Book of World Records, as she always did, and made sure that the oldest living human still held her throne. Ms. Josefa “Ma Pampo” (Whatever that meant) Romero. That bitch. Margaret Ann Harvey did not live 130 useless and agonizing years for nothing! She will become the oldest living human if it’s the last thing she ever does.
She spent a year planning the assassination. Each step, each move. This was to be done right, for it was the single greatest deed of Mrs. Harvey’s life. And sooner than she ever expected, she was boarding a plane headed to Cuba.