Two Old Geezers Have Lunch

Gordon calls, wants to have lunch. I’m all over the idea. Food is one of the few pleasures left to old men. He suggests Goldberg’s Deli. Says he’d kill for a corned beef on rye. Says he’ll buy, says I bought last time. He forgets…he bought the last three times. We avoid score cards and rely on brains. Only fools use sieves for the repository of such profundity. I avoid confusion and agree.

I remember lunches with George and John. They’re not fools. They’re rich and keep score. Maybe that’s why they’re rich. We go to the same French restaurant located next to a Department of Correction’s parole office where recidivists practice panhandling skills. We sit at the same table in our assigned chairs. It never changes. We order the same thing: Hawaiian chicken salad in hulled-out pineapple halves. We eat early. Regularity is important in old age.

Women keep score by simply asking for separate checks. Waiters know this, so they avoid groups of ladies. Women ask each other, “What are you having, sweetie?” They share and no one dares order the same thing. Men don’t give a kevork what anybody’s having and share nothing. To eat from another man’s plate is to risk loss of an arm.

Back to now. “When?” I ask. “Today,” he says. “What time?” I ask. He thinks. “Pick you up at 11:20,” he says. “Why so early? Is there a run on bagels? Besides, I just finished a cardboard cereal breakfast,” I add. “Fiber’s dangerous,” he warns. “I know a man who ate part of a tablecloth for fiber. Things got ugly fast.” I knew… I tried it once.

He arrives on time, gets out smiling holding a bulging white garbage bag. “What’s with the garbage?” I ask. “Gift for your cute assistant,” he says. “She has me,” I say. “That’s garbage enough.” He agrees, but still gives her the bag. It’s filled with giant pine cones. “Christmas decorations,” he says proudly. She says thanks. But the truth is not in her today. She’s an actress.

The restaurant parking lot’s packed. For appetizers we joust with a blonde in an SUV on a cell phone for the last parking space. It’s a stand-off. Nobody moves. She curses us. We surrender when we see the pistol. She thanks us with a finger, still talking on the cell. We park somewhere near Mars.

We beat the crowd. Gordon grabs the waiter and demands a corned beef on rye. I order lox and eggs. He assaults the sandwich like a ravenous animal. We get heartburn discussing the economy. His eyes drift. “Who you looking at, man?” I ask. “That lady. Look!” he drools. I warn him not to let his eyes take him on a trip his body can’t handle. His eyes re-enter the body.

We finish. He demands a to-go container for his scraps. It’s clear plastic. He fills it with pickles soaked in brine. It weighs a little less than ten pounds. “Where’s your jacket, Gordon?” I ask. “I forgot it,” he says. He finds it lying on the floor. It now looks like a bad oriental rug. He puts it on!

We get in line to pay. Two high school girls stand behind us. They’re a little younger than last week’s news. Gordon starts up a conversation. I warn him there’s a prison term for such reckless behavior. He ignores me. The girls are mortified mutes. He asks if they’re thinking about college. They look at one another, wishing they were invisible. I tell Gordon they are not thinking, they’re praying. They’re begging God that their friends won’t see them. They’re thinking how to vindicate themselves if they’re spotted talking to geezers. They remain mute in the dilemma. I consider they may also be deaf.

The cashier, a little smaller than a tank, growls at Gordon. “That’ll be twenty extra bucks for the pickles, pal. Say? I think I know you. Empty your pockets. Are you the one stealing the Splenda and sugar packets? And is that our oriental rug you’re wearing?” I pretend not to know him and ease on out.

Gordon looks for the exit of the parking lot. After four attempts he finds it. A policeman taps on the car, asking if we’re lost. I pretend to sleep. Somehow we arrive at my office without further incident.

We shake hands and plan another lunch. “My time to pay,” he says. I let it go, thankful to have hungry and forgetful friends.

Bud Hearn
October 28, 2010