The sun would set, the moon would rise and HaroldBogtrotter would mark another day of existence off the calendar to mark the passage of time. He was a man past his prime, well into his late 60s, and it was surprising to him how each stage of life followed a pattern that shaped him and moulded him into the man he was today.

The birth of HaroldBogtrotter had been nothing remarkable, outside of his mother and her parents, no one really seemed that bothered about it. His father had been hoping for a daughter, so the disappointment of the drunken bastard was evident not just on the day of Harold’s entry into the world, and also every moment the old man could fit it into the conversation. But HaroldBogtrotter was loved, in a weird and slightly confusing way.

Once he was old enough to be let loose in the neighbourhood HaroldBogtrotter would join the other local boys, playing baseball, kickball and just causing a ruckus in the streets of the city. They’d hear the sharp whistle from one of the mother’s and rush home with shouts of “Tomorrow!” and “Helluva run, Jimmy!” the whoops and sounds of joyful youth, not letting on of the dangers and reality that laid behind the doors of each house in the utopia they experienced in the freedom of the streets.

The teenage years saw to some big changes, drinking, smoking, women… it was a revolution for them all and they had to find their place in the pattern of how things would work. Wanting desperately to be seen as men, without the correct amount of braincells to be taken seriously.
Long dates, holding hands, desperate kisses turned to lights on porches being turned on and running away from disgruntled fathers, youth was drawing to a close in the most exciting of ways.

The first job, with a manager who only saw the profits you drove. The first love that broke your heart and left you discarded. The parents who aged at a speed you weren’t expecting. The friends who moved away, married, died. Life was a circle that kept rolling and HaroldBogtrotter struggled to hold on while everything changed at a pace that seemed to increase with every year that passed.

But HaroldBogtrotter was in his seventies now. It seemed that while life had less to offer him in surprises, it did seem to slow down. Harold couldn’t be bothered to be angry about things, get riled up about politics or people. He’d existed long enough; he was happy to give the younger generations a chance. He hadn’t tried to change the world, instead he just held on tight and went along for the ride.

When he was approached about joining something different, HaroldBogtrotter was surprised that the voice inside his head didn’t encourage caution, but instead reminded him of the feelings of running the streets, holding hands with a pretty girl and finally getting the best of his old man.

And so past his prime, he was about to try proving himself once more in a world that he had nearly no knowledge about. But what a helluva way to go out, if anything.