FACING FACING 50

We ventured home in silence, navigating Bonny's mother's stolen Yugo along busy, two-lane roads. We drove past a thousand depressing new subdivisions in what was, until the day before yesterday, open lake country.

I began to wonder how anyone raised in America in the 1950's actually got to be 50, given the fact we had so much to overcome.

War. Riots. Former President Nixon. Boone's Farm. The Singing Nun. Shopping malls. Former President Johnson. Pabst Blue Ribbon. Fabian. Muzak.

A thousand questions crossed my mind as we passed a dozen or so beer stores, two of which did NOT sell lotto tickets.

How did any of us get to be 50?

Why do most of us still act like we're 18?

Will we change by 60? Or 70?

I remembered how my friend Rich had once said, "You know, Trout, I don't expect to have my first mid-life crisis until I'm around 70 or so." He wasn't kidding, either.

Like most people I know, Rich is one of those American War Babies who decided quite early in life to never "grow up." He still wears capes and has grown a striking gray goatee that manifests from beneath his chin, drawing attention, also, to a bell and a nice little gong that dangle in melodic juxtaposition from his right ear lobe, ringing in his every motion, creating a sound much like the pretty cacaphony one hears when a customer walks into a small bric-a-brac shop.

A regular Mr. Bojangles, Rich is my link to a hippie past I promised to never forget.

"You're going off the road," Bonny said. "Let me drive."

"I'm OK. I was just thinking about ... about facing 50. I think getting older really spooks some people, while others, like me and Rich, seem to be able take it more in stride. I don't know. Maybe we just never realized we were supposed to grow up. Rich told me he isn't going to even flinch when he hits the wall called 50. He said he's gonna' be 70 before he ... before he ..."

"Which Rich?"

"Rich, rich, banana-nanna, bo-bitch, phe-phi, bo ... bo-bitch ... R-rrrrrr-ichhh."

"You did grow up in the '50s, didn't you?", she asked. "Once again you've dated yourself by the material you summon up. You've got all those dumb old songs in your brain, whatever's left of your brain."

"Not really," I answered. "Sure, I was there in the '50s and the '60s and the really stupid '70s and the pointless '80s. But I can tell you with authority, I did not waste any time trying to grow up."

"You sure you don't want me to drive?"

"No, I'm all right," I said, trying to be kind. "But you know, somehow, that experience back there at Bozo's Bar&Grill really shook me up. I guess as a writer, I can't help myself. It's almost as if I feel likeI own 50 now ... now that I've made it this far. Fifty is a huge goof, isn't it? It seems everybody's laughing at 50. Look at me, I'm laughing, aren't I?"

This gorgeous woman, this angel in khaki who had the guts to see in me what no other woman saw before and therefor, decided to marry me and join me in dutifully siring a bunch of wild children to call ours, slid over in the seat and put her arm on mine.

"You really had that barmaid going," she said. "That was a scream. I think she just played along with you to fuel your ego."

"What ego?," I asked. "And why?"

"The small amount of ego you have left over from living in California," Bonny said. "She stroked you. She played you. She knew you were 50. She just wanted to have fun with you."

"Tell me," I asked. "Is it me or is it 50? I really want to know, right now, ya."

Bonny turned up the radio.

"Take me to the river," I continued to sing. "Drop me in the water. What in the hell is going on here?"

"So many people are facing 50," my smarter-than-usual wife began, "some ... one ... is ... going ... to ... have ... to ... do ... something ... about ...it."

I considered what she said. What else could I do? She phrased her point carefully. I knew my answer would shape the rest of our days together, possibly even our mutual hereafter, based on the probability that, yes, there must be an afterlife and, yes, she and I will probably be there in that Great Buy and Buy together, if not in body than at least in polyester.

"Someone needs to write a book," I said. "Who should do it?"

"The person would have to be a writer and would have to be 50, but just barely," Bonny answered. "They should be able to speak from experience. Ideally, they would have studied the issue. They would have time to pursue the project. Maybe get a grant from some Middle Eastern think-tank. The book wouldn't have to be long, necessarily. Just poignant. You could handle it."

"Sure, except I don't have any extra time to write another book now. You know that better than anyone. Between my Mom and Dad's needs, our boys, my job, my recordings, our gardens, our friends, our neighbors, my aunts and uncles, it's just not happening, honey."

"You can make the time," Bonny said. "I'll pick up the slack with the kids. Your parents will understand. Drop music for a while, take some time off work and just do it. If you don't, no one will. And that would be a crime."

"Why?"

"Your whole generation is hitting 50. It's a big deal. Think about how un-done your friends were when they hit 20, then 30, then 40. I mean, your age group is composed of some pretty emotional people. Hitting 50 is gonna really nail 'em. They'll need help. Something to ease the transition. I think we're talkin' destiny here. Someone needs to write this book. Someone like you?"

"You believe that, don't you?"

"You do, too."

"I can do it but I don't know if I can ... do it."

Bonny slipped a little closer. "I think I know what you mean."

"I know you know," I said. "It's not about energy. It's about time."

"You've got to turn energy into time. You can do it." Bonny was rolling now, reminding me of why I married her. "That's the bottom-line. Turning energy into time. You should try it."

"The ultimate irony, it seems, is that "facing 50,' or being 50, provides that passage," I told her. "Age helps with the mental struggle. A younger voice in your mind says trying to raise a family, hold down a job and write a book is impossible. Too complicated. You either listen to that voice or you hear another voice. One that says, 'Yes, you can do it. Why? Because you're 50. You are dynamite. You are both young and old and, therefor, you're the one.'"

"You're right."

"I'm right and I'm committed. Either that, or I should be committed."

"You just crossed the center line," Bonny said. "Let me drive."

"No, I'm all right. My life just changed, that's all. An entire generation needs to know that facing 50 isn't really that hard, as long as you have a good guide book to see you through. The media has convinced people becoming old is a traumatic experience. And it's not."

"Not what? Fatal?"

"No, not traumatic. Not if you don't want it to be. I mean, I'm 50 and I've never felt better in my life."

"Get real. How about when your grandfather invented plastic."

"That was my grandfather's neighbor. My grandfather played semi-pro baseball. He didn't save a dime. Didn't need to. His house was paid for. His radio worked."

"And you ended up poor."

"Poor but happy. After all, I got you, babe. Incidentally, will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Will you marry me?"

"I already did."

"Will you do it again?"

"Only if you ask me again."

"I just did."

"Did what?"

"Asked you again."

"Asked me what?"

"Asked you, 'What am I waiting for?'"

"I don't know. Start writing. You're already in a trance. Just make it snappy."

"I'll need to lease a mouse."

"Lisa Mouse. Dana Disk. Marlene Megabyte. I'll be here when you're done."

"I don't know, there isn't enough time in the day," I argued, before lapsing into contemplation.

"There is no getting around the truth," I began, after we had driven past another 30 or so mediocre new housing developments.

"Fifty is bigger than Lenin's Tomb. It's huge. Larger than the nose on Lincoln's face ... on Mt. Rushmore. Bigger than all the pyramids in Costa Rica. Fifty is so awesome now, with the Baby Boomers getting on-board and all that, it's gonna' grab our culture by the huarachees and send everyone into a major tail-spin, unless, of course, someone does something about it."

"What do you propose to do?," she asked, smug and serene. "I'd say the ball's in your court."

"You know I hate that phrase."

"OK," she agreed. "The thoughts on your tube. You're the writer. You're the one who turned 50 recently, not me. You faced it. You did it. You found out it's not that hard. All you have to do is wake up one morning and not drop dead on the way to the coffee machine. You proved it can be done. Now I think destiny has in mind that you should be the one to write about it."

As is often the case, she was right. Right that I had to write.

I told Bonny she could forget about seeing me around for the next few months. I had a project. I would write THE guidebook for the 76 million American yuppies who will soon be climbing up onto the cliff called Facing 50, then spilling over into the next chasm, known as Seeing 60.

"Destiny," Bonny said, acknowledging that my absence would create immediate problems for her and our boys, beginning with the question of who would turn over the compost pile while I was writing my guidebook for former hippies-turned-taxpayers.

"We'll make do while you're gone. Just remember where you live when you're through. We need you here."

"I appreciate your support," I said. "You may be younger than me but that doesn't make you any prettier. Of course, I know you're beautiful."

"That's all that matters," she said. "That and writing a great book."

"A done deal, babe. Capeeeetch!"

"What's that mean?"

"It's Italian for, "I must be crazy."

"We've got the papers."