Standing in the Shadow of an Icon

"The hardcovers are two dollars and the paperbacks a dollar," a gray-haired man about seventy said as I knelt down to dig through a box of books sitting on the ground next to an antique wood-burning stove that he was stuffing with newspaper and attempting to light. The brisk autumn wind snuffed out match after match, but he didn't care. He wasn't going anywhere.

To the left of the stove was a drop-leaf table, and sitting on top were a large cactus, a pile of mismatched dishes, some flatware, and a stack of white napkins. I picked up a napkin. "One dollar each. I warshed them napkins myself," he said between match strikes. "If there's one thing I hate, it's a dirty napkin sittin' on my lap, so I warshed'em." I smiled and told him I appreciated him washing my napkins and handed him four dollars.

I continued to look while he continued to talk. "That was when I was throwing heat for the reds," he said, but I had no idea what that meant, so I smiled and nodded. "That was before Nam," he continued. I smiled again. While he was fiddling with the stove, I walked inside his thrift shop so I could browse without chat. From the parking lot, he saw me staring up at a wall that was covered with framed pictures of sports celebrities. "All them pictures on the wall are signed with authentic signatures,"  he said now standing beside me. The fire was going strong, so he could devote all of his time to his one lone customer. "Yep, I pounded the zone back then," he said as he pointed to some object at a distance, but my focus was back outside on the cactus.

With the thrift shop owner by my side, we returned to the drop-leaf table. I heard him say "my brother and Johnny Bench" then he began to tell me all about the cactus. Huh? Wait a minute! What does his brother and Johnny Bench have to do with this plant? Why does he have so many baseball stars' autographed pictures? And what does "throw heat for the reds" and "pound the zone"mean?

"Where you a baseball player?" I asked as I studied the succulent.

"Yeah. I threw a few for the Cincinnati Reds in my day," he said.

"You were a pitcher for the Cincinnati Reds?"

"Yep!"

He now had my full attention. Cactus? What cactus?  Was I standing in the shadow of an icon, a famous baseball pitcher from the past? I thought about the hundreds, maybe thousands, of baseball cards Jason still has in his barn. I started buying them for him when he was just a toddler, thirty years go, thinking that possibly one card one day would bring a fortune. Is this our lucky day? I mean Jason's lucky day?

"What is your name?" I asked.

"John Strong."

Oh my goodness! What if we have his card? We could be rich. I mean, Jason could be rich. "Okay, I've got it," I said. "John Strong. Pitcher for the Cincinnati Reds.  I'll Google you as soon as I get home."

He stoked the fire in the stove and scratched his head. "Oh, I don't have any of them Googles left," he said.  "I gave them all to my children."

Huh?

So...what I just said about getting rich.  Never mind.

The Old Man and the Leopard Lady

"I'm going home with her tonight," he said as he sipped on his Martini. He was leaning against the bar at a wedding reception for his friends' daughter when he bragged about his plans with the bride's twenty-year-old maid of honor later that evening. With a confident grin on his face, he told the bartender, "Yep! A little evening delight headin' my way." He gulped the last bit of his drink, laid his glass down on the bar, and swaggered after the pretty young girl of his desires.  At fifty-something, but looking sixty-something, he did not have what the world (and the maid of honor) values: youth, beauty and, of course, money. If he had been filthy rich, he might have been excused for having succumbed to old age, and his evening might have turned out differently, but as it was he went home alone, again.

She looked in the bathroom mirror and sighed. Maybe it was the lighting. Surely, she didn't look that fat and old. She knew she didn't look eighteen anymore, but she didn't realize she had that many wrinkles and frown lines and gray hair and when did she get that spare tire around her waist? Everyone told her she looked young for her age, so there was definitely something amiss with the lighting. At forty-nine she was still thirty. At heart. And that's what she told everyone she met on Match.com.

Single, non-smoker, occasional drinker,

spiritual, sensitive but not overly emotional,

love puppies and kittens, anything "hearts,"

fluffy pillows and watching The Bachelor.

Love romantic getaways w/ that special one.

Young. Pretty. Thirty. At Heart.

His profile said he was thirty-eight and he appeared to be perfect. She sent him an out-of-focus ten-year-old picture, and arranged to meet him at Bubba's Bar the day after the lighting in the bathroom had gone amiss. Not to worry, though.  Botox would smooth out the wrinkles, the tanning salon would camouflage the age spots, Miss Clairol would cover up the gray, Spanx would trap the fat, and lots of makeup would disguise the rest. Besides, Bubba's was dark inside and after a few drinks, her great personality would blossom and win over Mr. Perfect.

"I'm NOT going home with her tonight," he said as he sipped on his Martini. He was standing at the bar scrutinizing all of the women and eliminating the ones his age as they walked by. He was looking for someone young because he was young. At heart. Dating younger women was perfectly normal for men in their fifties and beyond, he believed. Men were never too old to appreciate and desire youth and beauty.

Her hammer toes made it difficult to squeeze her feet into the 4" high black leather boots covered with pink heart-shaped rhinestones. It took longer than she expected, and it made her later than she had planned. But her tardiness would be excused once he saw how dazzling and sexy she looked in her form-fitting black leotards and leopard skin fake leather jacket that, when unbuttoned, revealed her enormous and natural-looking implants. It's true. She did look, well, incredible. Everyone stopped what they were doing and gawked as she slow strutted up to Bubba's bar. 

"I wonder who will be going home with her tonight?" he whispered to himself as he sipped on his third Martini. He had been waiting on someone, but now after seeing this beauty, he couldn't remember who. Since forty his eyesight had been failing him, and at a distance, the leopard lady at the other end of the bar looked liked someone he wanted to meet. 

She had been in Bubba's for only five minutes when a sixty-something man approached her and asked if he could buy her a drink. She looked around for her date--he would be the nice looking young man, thirtyish--but there was no one fitting that description in the room, so she accepted the older man's offer.

After he bought her her fourth drink he remembered why he was at the bar. He was meeting someone and she was late. Maybe she had come, had seen him sitting with another woman and left. He hoped that wasn't the case because upon closer examination, it was obvious that Leopard Lady was charming with a great personality and had been a real beauty at one time, but she was not as young as he preferred his women to be, and she was not up to his high standards. He wondered if he should excuse himself and go back to the other end of the bar and wait for his date.

She had been stood up, again. At first it was just moist eyes. Then the tears began to run down her face which she quickly blotted away with a napkin so her mascara wouldn't run and ruin her makeup that took an hour to apply. She knew better than to have that last Daiquiri. Four Big D's always brought up the sadness, even when she was happy, or thought she was. She laid her head down on the bar and began to silently sob. No one appeared to notice and when she sat back up she saw that the pleasant older man who had sat and chatted with her for the longest time was sitting back at the other side of the bar. "Just as well," she whispered under her breath. "Surely he didn't think I would be going home with him tonight?"

At midnight, after an entire evening sitting at Bubba's Bar, he decided his thirty-year-old on-line date wasn't coming. Now sober, he paid his tab and headed for the door. Leopard Lady was also leaving. They walked together but separately to the parking lot but when she stumbled, he hurried to break her fall. "Should you be driving?" he asked with sincere concern.

She got to the door of the bar at the exact same time the old man did. What bad timing, she thought. She didn't want the uncomfortable task of rejecting him--even though it was plain to see he had been quite handsome in his earlier life, she preferred younger men--should he ask to see her again. As they were walking to their cars she twisted her ankle and began to fall. The man quickly grabbed her arm and held on until she was able to regain her balance, but it was true. She probably should not be driving.

"Would you like me to take you home?" the older gentleman asked.

"Are you sure it's not a problem?" Leopard Lady answered.

"Not at all. I have no plans. My date never showed up tonight, so I'd be happy to get you home safe and sound."

"My ride home didn't show up either, so that would be very nice of you."

So off they drove, into the night, the old man and the leopard lady. Through the dark and empty streets they continued where they had left off at the bar. Their conversation was comfortable and the humor and laughs came easy. When she pointed our her house, he pulled his car into her driveway and walked her to the door. They shook hands, bid each other a good night and never again did their paths cross.

The Port Holes to Their Future

(Read yesterday's post Like Two ships first)

They just know. I don't know how they do it. I have put myself in their place, taken myself back decades to when I was young like them and have tried to remember if I did it, too. My long-term memory is fine; it's my short-term that's get me in trouble--"What? I missed an Ebay bid at 3:00 and you reminded me at 2:30? Oh, shoot! I really wanted that chamber pot for my outhouse."

Where was I?  What was I talking about? Was it "pot?" No, that's not it. I don't smoke pot. I ate it in a cookie once, though, and that didn't turn out well. Where was I? Oh, I remember now. I want to know how some young folks can tell that a person is old (and someone to avoid) without actually looking at them? How did that young man on Main Street pass by me and not see me? So I went back in time to when I was young, and with my excellent recall from my youth I can say without a doubt that Yes, it's possible to discern many things through our peripheral vision. Back when I was young when I had peripheral vision, I did it all of the time. But I didn't use the outer edges of my vision to avoid just the elderly. Oh, no. I avoided a lot of people for many reasons, but I don't remember why now. No, really I don't. Okay, I do, but I'm not telling.

So why do some members of the younger generations "pretend" they don't see us older folks? My ninety-five-year-old mother-in-law says old people are invisible and ignored, but I never listen to her. We are not invisible; they know we are here. I believe when we lose our youth, vitality, sex appeal, and what our society deems "cool" we lose the interest of those following behind us who place an enormous amount of value on exterior beauty.

But here's the real reason why they look away from us. We are the port holes to their future. By avoiding us, they are avoiding their destiny. In a blink of an eye, they will be us. The young man who passed me--the only other living soul in downtown Franklin--without acknowledging me will, day after tomorrow or so it will seem, spot an attractive young woman on a Main Street somewhere in his elderly travels, walking toward him. He will smile and say, "Hel...lo?"

"Oh, I'm sorry sir," she will say, without even looking at him. "I didn't see you."

Like Two Ships

"Oh, sorry ma'am. I didn't see you," the young man said after walking past me a while back in downtown Franklin.

For the past several years, local merchants have tried to revitalize this small, picturesque town located near the great smoky mountains in southwestern North Carolina. Franklin, with all of it's history, beauty, quaintness, southern hospitality, and 1950s feel, hasn't been able to attract much attention to its one block long, 19th century Main Street. And it was early one morning on that very same empty street, devoid of all living souls, no one but me, walking all alone, when I saw what looked like another human being. It appeared to have arms and legs and a head. Yes! Yes! It was human and it was walking toward me. As the person came closer, I could tell it was a young man about thirty. It was just the two of us, all alone, no one else in sight. We were like two ships passing in the...like two ships passing in the...how does that saying go? It's my memory, you know. Not so good anymore.

All that separated us were an empty park bench, a cafe sign advertising sandwich specials, and ten crack lines in the sidewalk. Ten, nine, eight, seven cracks away--he's getting closer. Oh, my. He's a handsome young man. Six, five--I swallowed hard a couple of times, cleared my throat, spit out my gum in my hand, and licked my lips in preparation for our cordial greeting.  Four, three, two, one...we're mere inches apart now. I gave him my best smile and said, "Hel...lo?"

Huh? How could he not have seen me? It was just the two of us all alone together on an empty street. We were like two ships in the...uh...like two...

"Oh, I'm just fine, thank you very much! And you?!" I said to the young man (he wasn't that attractive up close) who looked away two seconds before passing the only other person in town: me.

Without breaking his stride or turning around, the young man, who was quite unattractive upon closer examination, apologized for having not seen me. Really? He didn't see me? How could that be? I know I'm old, but am I also invisible? We were the only two people in town, alone on empty Main Street, the homely young man and me, passing each other like two..like two..

oh, never mind.

A Reason to Yell and Scream

From the book "Raisin' Jason" 

copyright 2008