The Oldest By Andre Plaut

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Part 1 Josefa “Ma Pampo” Romero is 131 years old. She is the oldest human still alive.

She was born in 1875 in Mexico. She left school to help her family develop the farm.

Every morning she would wake up at dawn in her small room and hard-mattress bed

to watch the cows, sheep, and baby goats skip across the smooth green field. She

would slowly stand, placing her flat feet upon the warm wooden floor and let the

blood rush from her head to the rest of her body. She’d walk across the room, which

would take less than a couple of seconds, and stick her head out the window. The

warm breeze would blow her long black hair, and like clockwork, the milkman, Peter

Rose, would march down their long dirt road to her front door. She would crack her

white smile and wiggle her toes as he walked closer and pretended not to notice her

subtle cleavage.

‘I’d be killed if my parents ever saw me,’ she thought as she waved and said

good morning to Mr. Rose.

After years of the same routine, she fell in love with him, and he in love with

her. They would constantly run away after everyone had fallen asleep to talk, kiss,

and make love behind the barn. When she reached the age of 17, he asked her

father for her hand in marriage. He was younger and much poorer than she was, and

was therefore promptly sent home to a good beating. She was also beat and told

repeatedly that she would marry an older man with a noble name. A week later, this

older man with a noble man was found and whisked Josefa away to Cuba. The man

was forty-eight and reeked of cheap perfume, cigars, and money.

They built a mansion together and she had four of his children. They had no

cows, sheep, or baby goats to watch in the morning. An old man who looked as if he

could have a coronary at any given time delivered the milk. Throughout the years,

she had many lovers, yet none as good, as caring, as sweet, or as generous as

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Peter. Once, during a lavish party thrown by her husband to his fellow buyers, she

was caught in her room with one of her many lovers. The guests were sent home

and she was beaten for the rest of the night. After seeing the cuts and bruises he

had caused, he sent her on a trip to America to apologize. She took a small plane to

a city called Miami, where she only spent a week because, according to her, it eerily

felt too much like home. On the short flight back, she met a gentleman who was

traveling to Cuba on business. They parted ways at the airport, but before she

entered the taxi, he quickly caught up with her to kiss her and slip his Florida

address in her pocket. Through the next five years, she traveled back and forth

between her Cuban mansion and Miami. It took these five years to finally make her

husband suspicious. These suspicions were proved correct when she became

pregnant once more, but now with her gentleman’s child. Her husband threw her on

the floor of white marble, which felt cold against her skin, and raised his arm to

deliver a cutting slap across her soft face when he had a massive heart attack and

died.

She acquired all of his land and money, but thought it best to give it all to her

son, Ramón. He was twenty-five at the time and was later killed by a rival drug

dealer. Josefa left her youngest child to her daughters to take care of and left the

mansion to live in a shack no bigger than her room on her father’s farm. She sat at

the window for what seemed like a thousand years. The Cuban Revolution came

along, she was eighty-four at the time. The older she got, the more the communist

party offered her. Yes, this does go against communist ideals, but then again, she is

131 years old. She denied them all. She did attend a few dinners hosted by El

Capitán, but gracefully rejected his fancy wines and foods. She ate, by tradition,

chicken, rice, and beans with a small glass of water or orange juice, if it was a

special occasion.

At times, tourists would stop by her house and take pictures of her and ask her

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to bless their child, dog, or car. It seems as if the older you become, the more

saintly you become. If this were the case, then she was a goddess. The tourists

came and went, but the most constant of annoyances was the Guinness Book of

World Records crew that would annually visit to renew her entry in the book. They

would come and take her picture and check if she was still alive. They would then go

to her next-door neighbor, who ended up being non-other than Mr. Peter Rose, the

oldest living man still alive. This was Ms. Romero’s life until now.

Then, there was Margaret Ann Harvey. She is 130 years old, the second

oldest human still alive. And she has a plan to become the first.

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 for 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

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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 tension. 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 also 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.

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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

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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 and 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.

Part 3

Julia Chaplin is 25 years old. She prefers vanilla milkshakes over chocolate,

and she has never had chicken pox. Her disapproval of the educational system lead

her to drop out of college and get a job at American Airlines as a stewardess. She

figured being a stewardess would be as good as any psychology degree. Then again,

this job was to be completely temporary. She thought she could take 2 or 3 years

and just travel around the world, getting paid to pour orange juice into small plastic

cups for strangers. It has been 5 years now, and she's up to here with turbulence.

Her sea legs are worn out, and she would rather crash into Mount Kilimanjaro than

pour another glass of orange juice, or serve another freeze dried meal, or hold

another child's hand while he vomits into the cold plastic toilet because his parents

are too fucking busy watching the end of Everybody Loves Raymond. Every five

minutes, she walks to the back of the airplane, places her elbows on the silver

pullout table, and rests her head on her open hands.

"I can't do this anymore, Jeanine, I just can't," she says, with her messy

golden hair draping over her face as a single tear covered in mascara runs down her

cheek.

"You just gotta hang in there, kiddo," said Jeanine.

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"You've been doing this for 20 years, Jean. How do you do it? I mean, you're

a fucking legend around here."

"It's called patience and Valium. Now, watch your language," she tilted her

head to the side to indicate what appeared to be a fairly large 10-year-old running

down the aisle with a paper bag.

"I think I'm gonna be - " and before he ever got it out, he vomited all over

the blue airplane carpet.

"Christ! These are brand new fucking shoes!"

Janine places her pointer finger to her lips. "Language, dear."

"Right. Sorry."

After changing her shoes, she moved to first class to check on her favorite

passengers. First-classers, as she liked to call them, were always comfortable to the

point where they would all either be asleep or tipsy enough not to care about

anything. The flight to MIA took a few hours, and today's first class was not at all

full. In fact, now that Julia took the time to really look at the faces of the first-

classers, she noticed something odd. On the last row, sitting in the seat all the way

to the left was a woman who could've easily been 100 years old. Little did she know

that this was none other than Margaret Ann Harvey. She then decided to sit next to

Margaret and strike up a conversation. Believe it or not, Julia had also become a

stewardess because she wanted to learn about people. This was all before she

learned that people are really not worth learning about, which lead to her phase of

sympathy towards historical European Dictators. Her reading of Mein Kampf did not

go down well with American Airlines.

"Hello," she said, crossing her legs.

Margaret quickly shut her folder filled with what appeared to be documents

and photographs and turned to Julia.

"Well, hello, dear."

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"I'm sorry if I'm interrupting anything. It's been a slow day. I just got puked

on, you see, and I felt like I needed a bit of human interaction," Julia said all of this

without looking at Margaret once in the eyes.

"Oh,"

There was a long pause. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a drop in cabin

pressure.

"Your folder is the most beautiful shade of blue. I've never seen that shade

of blue before. It looks like the deepest part of the ocean. That part that no other

human being has ever even seen," said Julia.

"Well, thank you, dear. It took me about three hours to decide between this

folder and a green one. I just held both in my hands at the store and waited for a

sign. I fell asleep for a split second, I then hit the shelf behind me. A pair of roller

blades came down, hit me over the head, and hit the green folder out of my hands. I

can see now that I made the right decision," Margaret said with a warm and friendly

smile.

"I'm sure the green one was just as lovely."

"Oh it was. They always are."

"So what are you doing?" said Julia after a short pause.

"Nothing," said Margaret in a split second.

"I meant with the folder and all."

"Oh, just, organizing things. Just making things right."

"I see. Do you have relatives in Florida, friends maybe? Is that why you're

going there?"

"Yes." This was starting to make Margaret uncomfortable. She had never

committed a crime in her life and this woman knows that she's up to something.

"You know, there was this one time I came to Florida, and the heat—"

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"Can you please leave?" Margaret interrupted. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be

rude. I believe that we are landing soon and I still have so more organizing to do.

I'm sure others need your attention right now."

"Alright. I'm sorry. I'll go. I'm sorry." Julia was incredibly hurt. She got up

and almost tripped on her way out.

Of course, Margaret felt bad for the poor girl, but this was no time for

sympathy. She continued to organize her folder, which contained maps, pictures of

Ms. Romero, and a small English-Spanish dictionary.

As the airplane lands, Margaret gathers her things and walks out. She

doesn't say a word to anyone. Julia watches her through the airplane window and

sees that, rather than getting off at the Luggage Pick-Up area, she walks to the

Connections desk.

'That liar,' Julia thought.

Margaret caught another airplane to Cuba. This airplane was much smaller

and the trip only lasted about 45 minutes. No one spoke to her this time.

Shortly before they landed, Margaret got an aerial view of Cuba. She never

understood why anyone would want to come to Cuba unless they had a specific

reason to. What kind of vacation is it, to watch other people in misery and poverty?

Margaret knew that as soon as her job was done, she would get out of this hellhole.

The airplane landed and she once again gathered her things and left. It had been a

long day and she needed to rest for tomorrow's event.

She caught a cab to her hotel, checked in, and went up to her modest little

room. As soon as she walked through the door, she placed her small bag on the floor

and went to the bathroom. After washing her hands, she took the time to organize

the miniature shampoo and conditioner bottles. She fell asleep through the process,

with her back against the wall and her head against the light blue carpet.

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She awoke to the knocking of the maid. She had spent the entire night on the

floor and she couldn't feel her face or legs. She tried getting up but it was no use.

The knocking went on for a few minutes, but the maid soon gave up and went down

to the next room. It took Margaret about 10 minutes to get any feeling back. It took

another 10 for her to stand up. Today was the day and she almost missed it.

She was behind schedule and called up a cab right away. She knew exactly what she

was doing. The cab dropped her off at the nearest gas station to Ms. Romero's

house. Margaret walked all the way to the cabin, not to seem suspicious. It was a

hot day and all her clothes consisted of heavy sweaters and wool skirts. She still had

a few miles to go and the heat started to take a toll on her. As she began to

hallucinate, images of her son appeared on either side of the dirt road. His mutilated

body was wrapped around the imaginary car where his life was taken 47 years ago.

Like a motor-vehicle collision test played backwards, he began to heal. His spine was

snapped back in place and his shattered face peeled off the dashboard. Margaret

could see the alcohol disappearing from his blood stream. Tears would appear on his

cheek and creep back up his face to his eyes as he placed his wedding ring back on

his finger. He then began to get older. His hair became grey and his skin began to

droop. His stomach grew out and a red blood stain appeared right where his belly

button should be. He became Margaret's father. He stood there, hunched over, with

both hands on his stomach.

"You wanted to see me?" he said, and fell over, only to be caught by a

hospital bed. Within seconds, he became a brittle old man wrapped in tubes and

wires. With every step, Margaret heard the slow breathing and even slower heart

rate of her dying husband.

"I'll meet you there, I'll wait for you," were his last words.

'Don't hold your breath,' Margaret thought.

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It took her much longer than she ever thought it would, but she finally arrived

at the small cabin. She sat in front of the door for a few minutes to rest her legs.

After a while, she stood up and entered the broken down cabin through the old

wooden door. The sun was on its way down and the house was perfectly lit for the

movie Margaret was sure they would make after she was long gone and this story

was told. She knew that Ms. Romero would be asleep by this time.

Margaret grabbed a pillow she found laying around the house, if you can call

it a house, and stealthily walked to Ms. Romero's bedroom. The room is covered in

religious statuettes and shrines. Margaret walked over to her bed where she rested.

Her breaths were slow and shallow and her hands were crossed over her chest.

Margaret got on her knees and held the pillow a few inches from Ms. Romero's face.

This was it, this was the big moment. She lowered the pillow inch by inch, and as

she neared the last inch, Ms. Romero's chest stopped moving. Her nostrils no longer

flared, her lips no longer twitched. Josefa "Ma Pampo" Romero died at the age of

131.

Margaret remained on her knees, shaking. All she could do was stare. She

placed the pillow below Ms. Romero's hands and began to stand when there was a

knock at the door.

"Hello? Ms. Romero? This is the Guinness Book of World Records. We come

every year, remember? Ms. Romero?"

Margaret's heart could have stopped there, but it didn't. She looked around

and dove into the nearest closet. She sat there among the old blankets and watched

through the slits of the closet door as the Guinness Book of World Records crew

broke into the house and found Ms. Romero lying dead on her bed.

"Oh, fuck," said a man with a large camera around his neck. He quickly

moved to the window and vomited. A younger gentleman with a large notebook

kneeled down next to the body.

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"Should we call someone? We should call someone, shouldn't we?"

"We should call Oren," said the third man.

"Fuck Oren," said the camera man by the window. "This isn't about the book,

don't you get that Steven? She's dead. This isn't about the book; it's about a human

life. It's about her life."

"Well it's not like she has much of it left. It's not like we can really do

anything about it," said Steven.

"Christ, Steven, have some respect. And as for you Jordan, relax. Let's just

deal with this," said the man with the notebook.

It went on like that for a while. The three men argued with each other for a

few more minutes until the police and ambulance arrived. They decided to keep her

body there because shortly after the police arrived, so did the press and Ms.

Romero's adoring admirers. Within a few hours, her cabin was surrounded by lit

candles and flowers. People cried and prayed. The night came to its peak during

sunrise when the crowd split to reveal a Mr. Peter Rose. He walked across the crowds

and into the house, where he stood and stared at Ms. Romero's body for what

seemed like an eternity.

This lasted for weeks. The admirers, the candles and roses. There was no way

that Margaret could leave that musty, old closet. The sad part was, Margaret's life

did not flash before her eyes on her last days. To be honest, Margaret couldn't

remember anything from her life. What flashed before her eyes was Ms. Romero's

life. Her loves and her struggles. Her wants and her needs. Margaret could barely

even feel the pain of her starvation. Her body was slowly shutting down and

becoming as numb as she had always been her entire life. It was then that she

realized that no one would be there to hear her last words, so she decided to leave

them in writing. She grabbed a broken piece of wood lying next to her legs and

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scrapped across the closet wall, "A wasted life, but now I am the oldest." Margaret

Ann Harvey died at the age of 130.