The Methuselah Gene by Jonathan Lowe Page B

label before opening it.   The scuffed bottle read: Bottled in Omaha.   I tasted it.   It was delicious, and oddly reminded me of the one Little League baseball game that Dad had taken me to when we were both limited to drinking things soft or purple.
    â€œYou only drink this,” I reminded George, whose reaction seemed the opposite of Jim Baxter’s, perhaps due to a lower dosage.   “Are you listening to me, George?”
    â€œI hear you,” George said, “but I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
    â€œNeither am I,” I told him.   Then I tried again to imagine my upcoming conversation.   It would be dicey, at best.   What would I say?   I took a long draw on the soda, feeling the pleasant foam of it bathe my throat.   On the wall a chubby red Santa seemed frozen, forever drinking Coke in the clock that hung over a shelf of decorative covered bridge miniatures.   It was ten twenty-two now, and still I hesitated.   What was wrong with me?   Was I going to justify delaying even longer, and play God with people’s lives?   Did I secretly want to know the effects of whatever might be in the town’s water supply, too?
    Resolutely, I set the empty bottle down on the glass display case with a loud, sharp rap.   Then I started for the front door.
    â€œWhere you going?” George asked.
    â€œTo face the music,” I told him, and braced myself for it.   But someone else made it to the door before me.
    The postmaster.
    He entered smiling, a sheath of mail fanned out in one hand, a blue carrier bag slung across one shoulder.   “ Hiya , George,” the postmaster said.   “How’s your mother?”
    â€œGood, Tom,” George responded.   “Where’s Stanley today?”
    â€œStan is huntin ’ quail over at Badger Creek with Willy and the boys.   He’ll be back tonight, though.   Who’s your friend?”
    I held out my hand.   The postmaster passed off a couple of what looked like utility bills to George first, before turning to face me.   “I’m Alan.”
    â€œAlan?”   He shook my hand abstractedly while his eyes narrowed in recall.
    â€œThe guy who was asking you about Walter Mills, at Box 16.   We need to find him, Tom.   It could be a matter of life and death.   Can you help us?”
    His bony hand held mine loosely, and was first to let go.   The skin of his cheeks sagged onto his skull like the paper thin tissue of an excavated mummy.   His bright gray eyes clouded with suspicion, then glanced at George and back.   “Us?” he asked.   “Where you from, did you say?”
    Hoping he was not under the influence of something, I fished in my pocket, and came up with a dime and two nickels.   “Lend me two quarters,” I told George.
    Mutely, George complied.   I walked over to the soda cooler as both of them watched me.   I opened the lid quickly, and dropped the quarters into the ancient metallic slot.   Then I slid an Orange Crush down the grid and into the chute, and jerked it up and out with a levering thump.   I opened the bottle by ratcheting the cap downward into the side opener, held the bottle up, and brought it back.   I gave it to the postmaster.   Postmaster Tom took it reluctantly, and held it gingerly, as though holding onto the back of a live crab.
    â€œThanks,” he said with some bewilderment.
    â€œI thought you might be thirsty.”
    â€œThis changes nothin ’, though,” the gaunt man insisted, not yet sipping.   He paused to admire the sweating bottle, with the little decorative dimples in the glass on its sides.   Then he looked up.   “I still can’t give out addresses for box holders.   What’d you mean, life or death?   Who is this man yer looking for, anyway?”
    â€œYou don’t know him, then?” I