Column: You’re. The. Oldest. Person. I. Know. Thwomp!

M glanced from his phone to ask if he could interview me for a class project.

“I’d love to help,” I said.

Suddenly, I felt . . . dare I say it . . . RELEVANT . . . yes, RELEVANT here in this century’s Abhorring Twenties.

A member of Generation Z had deemed me interesting enough to interview.

I was flattered.

M looked at his phone. Minutes ticked by. He texted a flurry of messages to his fellow Zoomers, his thumbs fluttering like bee wings until they dematerialized before my very eyes. Was M text bragging to others about the interview he had just landed?

Minutes ticked by.

Finally, M glanced up at me again. He looked surprised to see me still standing there. He freedived again into the fathoms of his text missives, his phone an escape hatch from actual face-to-face human interaction.

Minutes ticked by.

I awaited his ascent. He would need air soon. I was patient. I didn’t want to appear needy.

I assumed M wanted to interview me about writing. It’s why I exist. Perhaps his intent was to unravel why I have dedicated decades to my craft only to remain deeply mired in obscurity.

If that was his intent, all M really needed to do was read a cherished passage that my son wrote in a foreword of my latest self-published humor column collection, “Quietly Making Noise” (available in car trunks near you): “Dad spent many of our formative years sailing across his own mind, seeking his sea of sentences, often lost within a prospective column even when physically present. I never begrudged him this distance, as even then, I recognized his devotion to his respective craft, his need to relieve himself of creative pressure and exorcise the day’s demons. Humor is his solace, his shard of sense among senselessness, a space of order and peace within the world’s chaos.”

If anything, his three sentences represent the perfect epitaph.

M resurfaced. Quickly, I said, “Ask me anything you want about my so-called writing life. My life’s an open book—albeit a self-published one.”

M chuckled nervously. “Oh, no, no, no . . . it’s nothing like that,” he said. “My assignment isn’t about your writing. My assignment is to talk to the oldest person I know. That’s why I picked you. You’re the oldest person I know.”

YOU’RE. THE. OLDEST. PERSON. I. KNOW.

Norman Mailer’s pugilist masterpiece, “The Fight” came to mind, in particular, a passage containing vivid, first-round details of the iconic boxing match between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman, Zaire, 1974, The Rumble in the Jungle: “(Ali) drove a lightning-strong right straight as a pole into the stunned center of Foreman’s head, the unmistakable thwomp of a high-powered punch. A cry went up.”

I was the chump who suffered a hell-bent thwomp from the champ. Instead of an Ali punch scrunching my skull, it was M’s comment that sent me to the canvas for the count.

YOU’RE. THE. OLDEST. PERSON. I. KNOW.

From flattered to flattened in 60 seconds.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The laughter of my son, who overheard M’s remark, revived me like smelling salts. “Ouch,” he quipped. “Dad. Burnt like toast.”

YOU’RE. THE. OLDEST. PERSON. I. KNOW.

Never before had I heard such a ludicrous statement. My ego fizzled, deflated, like a pinpricked, farting balloon.

“I’m only 60,” I said. “How can I possibly be the oldest person that you know?”

M escaped to his phone again, unaware of or unimpressed with the mental thwomp he’d delivered.

It wasn’t writing prowess that merited M’s interest in me. Apparently, all I needed to be interview-worthy was a pulse. Is there anything more patronizing than a lifetime achievement award?

If M resurfaced, I planned to say: “I’m 60, kid. I’ve forgotten damn near everything that’s happened. I call you M because I can’t recall your first name in full. Here’s all I know. Years grow heavier, not lighter, dude. Soon, you will hit the big 2-O! POW! Then you hit 30. POW! Then you hit 40. POW! Then you hit 50. There’s still a pow, but not one deserving of uppercase treatment. Your body starts its revolt in your 50s. Now then, kid, let me tell you about 60. You don’t hit 60! 60 HITS you! POW! Hard! Like a lead pipe to the kneecaps. POW! Like an errant cue ball to the lips. POW! Soon, you find yourself down for the reverse count: 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69. Let me up, I’ve had enough! And what, then, of the unimaginable 70? POW! Ding. Ding. Ding. That’s what. Death knell. Coffin nail. The bell will ring – and toll for thee. Pick up your teeth, it’s time to go home. I can’t imagine making it to 70. I’m not sure I want to.”

When M finally did look up, I said, “Fire away with your questions.”

M said matter-of-factly, “I didn’t mean I wanted to talk to you now.”

His thumbs tremored then blurred as he reconvened correspondence with fellow Zoomers.

Am I at that rusty age when kids start showing up with their tape recorders and questions, flapping in like a fearless flock of apocalyptic buzzards? Much like I did with my elderly grandparents.

Gen Z meets Gen Metamucil. Bumble in the Jungle.

Hear it? That haunting sound, like tentacles stretching out from the hills and hollers?

O, Death, sings Ralph Stanley.

The dirge of cemetery shovels slicing deep into the soil, digging a transitory hole, the battle caws of black birds overhead, a boneyard awakened, the descension into the big dirt nap.

O, Death, sings Ralph Stanley.

I wanted to shake M’s arm, no longer ashamed to display neediness, if only to part with this nugget of wisdom: If you die with perfect hearing and eyesight, then you haven’t really lived. No one should die with a full tank of gas.

We better do that interview soon, kid, I wanted to say. Before time runs out.

The minutes ticked by.