On Watch

A  LEARNING LESSON

 

My tush has just touched the wooden chair in my favorite lunch place. No matter how busy the place is, nobody rushes me. They know I am a writer. Clara knows I'll tip her well while I wait for just the right group to be worthy of my time. Today I hit the jackpot. Mannie's lunch crowd isn't here yet. I have my choice of any table I want. Clara knows me and already has a cup of hot tea waiting on a paper doily. I'm funny that way, don't like to eat on a bare table and, if necessary,  get extra paper napkins to make my own doily.

 

Two Bik pens ready, my sloppy but important thoughts starred in my writing book, I look hastily towards the front door. One gargantuan man walks in alone. His bald head is too big for his body, actually it's freakish. I have to take a deep breath, turn my head so as not to embarrass the poor soul. Without waiting, he seats himself at the end of an empty family table, big enough for 10. His glazed eyes wander around, notice me, and he looks the other way.

 

Clara stops by my table to ask if I want the usual tuna melt. I tell her 'Not yet. Just bring me a steaming cup of English tea.' I am so full of what I am seeing, I know I must get started, get my lead character down on paper. The tea doesn't work. I do not relax and have to scratch out the first paragraph that already has spots of tea on it. Those light glassy eyes surely see me writing. Perhaps he looks my way because he is just curious. He does not accept the menu from his waiter nor does he wear dark glasses. His strong entrance,  stretched powerful long legs extend into the aisle. He moves them as someone approaches. If his eyes are bad, his hearing, feeling floor vibrations work for him. I write. I order just a scoop of tuna salad, tomato slices and slaw.

 

Customers, mostly seniors, come in slowly. I follow each. A white haired man, glasses on the end of his reddish nose, a determined look on his face, walks in and stops at the ogre's side, pats him on his back. They shake hands  and the newcomer takes the chair across from him. He is wearing white cotton slightly soiled pants. Straining my ears doesn't help. Not a word can I hear but their mouths move constantly.
Steaming coffee is brought to each. My tea is cold so I signal Clara and am quickly given a fresh cup. Other customers have crutches, walkers, a few are youngish, cab drivers, salesmen. Two more men stop at the table that is the object of my attention. They too shake hands with the big man, nod to the other one. A light begins to waken my brain. They all are wearing white tennis clothes. Before long all the chairs are filled. Tennis sweaters are tied around shoulders. Laughter rings out.
The big man's feet reach into the aisle and I can't help but see his tennis shoes and white socks.

 

These men are pals, buddies, for years. They are definitely seniors, every one at least eighty five. They have not curled up waiting to die but hold on to their joie de vivre. How lucky, how wise they are. Together they leave, all but the one big man who, unbeknownst to him, is now in my story book.

 

I try to keep busy, fake my writing, wait for him to leave. He needs no help, is not in a hurry. When he finally decides to rise, he straightens his chair, smooths his shirt and walks over to my table, extends his hand and introduces himself as Dr. Walter Jessup. 'My dear young lady,' he says. ' I have had my eye on you watching me. You are very attractive and I would like to take you to dinner perhaps this week-end.' Words lock in my throat. The fiction writer that I am elicits a reply, a stupid one. 'Dr. Jessup, thank you, but I am a married woman and my going out with you for any reason at all would not be approp- riate.'
A simple 'Good day,' from him and he leaves me wishing I have his spunk and similar friends when I reach his age