Thursday, October 22, 2015

I’m at the auxiliary office, McD’s, relaxing, catching a little personal space with a Coke and a McChicken, watching NASCAR with subtitles. The sandwich is ESPECially goooood. I am thinking "Nummm” and apparently showing it. “Hey, are you enjoying that?” I look to my right. A large, expressive hand is pointing my way, attached to a weathered face with a gap-toothed grin set behind a black and silver Van Dyke beneath aviator sunglasses, crowned by thick hair swept back and tied in an impressive pony tail. A smallish, used-to-be blonde lady is sitting quietly to the gentleman’s right. They are drinking water and finishing cheese burgers. “Are you enjoying that?” “Yes, very much” (and I am not in a social mood which is why I am sitting here absorbed in my num num watching race cars of all things, not my usual). After a short smile I look up and away. “Do you like cookies?” OK. “Yes, I am fond of cookies” (are you offering me a cookie?). “Why did the cookie go to the hospital?”, he asks, intent, hands open in serious supplication. Hands gesture, come on, come on. OK. “OK, why DID the cookie go to the hospital?” Grin . . . “Because he felt . . . C R U M M Y.” The lady next to him remains expressionless. “So, do you have kids? Yes? How many?” I hold up three fingers. “Two, eh? Well, guess how many I have?” Ponder. “Fifteen”, I say. The lady raises an eyebrow. I’m getting somewhere. “I have eleven boys and seven girls from my first wife, and six with her! That’s twenty-five!” The lady turns to him and says, “He was a lot closer than anyone, guessing fifteen.” The lad pauses, mouth open but no words for a sec, then charges on . . . “How old am I? (He holds up his right hand) when I do this (thumb up) keep going, if I do this (thumb down) you are too far.” I take a moment and size him up. The lady puts one eye on me, one on him. “Eighty-two”, says I. He puts his thumb up. “Eighty-seven!" I blurt. Thumb still up. My last offer -- “Ninety-four!!”. The lady looks at him and says, “He was really close the first time. He said ‘eighty-two’”. Another pause. "People always think I am young! I was born in 1933! Do you know why I have so much hair? Because I was born in Casper, Wyoming, where it gets really cold! Plus I am Cherokee. That’s Native American. She (indicating his companion) is German. (Yes, that she definitely is). I’m not Latino or Hispanic or Cuban or anything like that. Want to know my name? What do the signs on the highway say, you know, the ones with the numbers? What is above the numbers?” “Speed”, says I. “Add a ‘y’ to that, that is my name!” “Speedy!” “Yes! Like the cat in the cartoon! You know, the one that drives a fast car and says ‘Andale, andale, yi yi yi yi yi yi yi!’ I created him! I WAS him! For many years. Then I was in the service for twenty-seven years in Oklahoma. I worked hard, but they didn’t give me any benefits when I retired.” The lady looks right at me and says, “He does not have any benefits.” “Now I give all my money to homeless people. I don’t need any money! All I need is my LIFE.” Some kind of happiness barges in here, the real deal. “I NEVER eat any food in my RV.” He points past me, toward the door of the restaurant. I look, and see, in a peculiarly clear way, a peculiar looking rig with a yellow dog sitting, peculiarly, in the driver’s seat. The dog is blondish, and is sitting completely still, somewhat Germanic. “See my dog in the driver’s seat? He never eats anything in the RV either.” I smile and say, “It must be nice, having the dog drive so you can relax.” “Yes!” He stretches back and puts both hands behind his head, and smiles. I offer, “I think your dog is day-dreaming. No wait, he just watched that person go out the door. I think he is looking for you.” The lady gets up, collects the leftover papers and napkins, and with a turn of her chin motions for the most interesting man in the world to come along now. He rises, steps toward me, and holds out his knuckles for a fist bump. I start bumping back, then he opens his hand as if to shake mine. I open my hand to shake his, and he closes his back to a fist. “I never shake hands! I always fist-bump!” So I make a fist and we bump. “Nice to meet you! God bless you!” he says, with enthusiastic warmth. “God bless you, too.”

1 comment:

  1. What a strange and wonderful encounter! I have heard many such life stories, usually in the produce aisle and involving artichokes.

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