Life of Wry

[I’m goofing around with fictional prose.  This piece has no beginning nor end.. and I probably won’t return to it.  The characters are based on a couple I watched today at lunch.  I made up a bit of a story to go with them.  For a visual, I grabbed a photo of a pair of older folks… I met them in Brazil last December.  They don’t really fit the bill, but it’s better than no picture at all..]

Jack was an elderly man.  He moved through the restaurant with an unsteady, uneven gait.  His eyebrows, gray and woolly, deepened into a ‘V’ above his eyes, which were trained on an object somewhere ahead.  His right hand stiffened into a shape that was part claw, part fist, and in his left hand he clenched a wad of keys. Walking required so much effort, Jack seemed unaware of how unnaturally he held his arms, and how curled — more out of habit than necessity — his shoulders were.  Indeed, Jack looked as though he were shoring his entire body against gravity itself.  He was irritated with the hostess, who had greeted them warmly at the hostess stand, but who had swiveled so deftly through the densely packed tables in the dining room that she was now completely out of sight.  His wife, Bea, was at least a few turns ahead, and he was about to lose her, too.  Jack was more than annoyed.  But this was not unusual.

Unlike her husband, Bea was not above using a walker.  In fact, she loved her walker, which she sometimes referred to as her magic carpet.  She admired her husband’s determination and his noble, if not stubborn, fight to remain independent of the tools of old age — the walker, the magnifying glass for reading, the diapers, the Lifeline cord in the bathroom.  But at the same time, she grew tired of his futile grasp at youth.  She took pride in her effortless glide through the dining room, moving swiftly between the tables, her head held high — maybe a little too high.  Part of her felt like she was on display to people who might look pityingly upon a pair of 80 year olds, and part of her was showing off for her obdurate, willful husband, always a few body lengths behind.

Arriving at last at their table,  Jack didn’t have the energy to protest the fact it was not the booth he’d requested when making lunch reservations a week earlier… reservations that were, in fact, unnecessary for a Tuesday at 11:30.  He sat down heavily, letting gravity do most of the work, and then quickly righted himself and got straight to business like a cat that’s fallen off the edge of a step.  He rearranged his place setting, relocated the salt and pepper, and put his Pontiac key ring on top of the napkin dispenser. He didn’t suffer indignities well, but he put a good face on them.

Bea was all smiles, too many of them, Jack thought.  Her eagerness embarrassed him.  Though, really, if he could be honest with himself, he was less bothered by her eagerness, and more weary of his own crankiness.  More and more these days he felt like a spoiler.

Bea was always excited to be eating out.  She enjoyed the chance to fuss with her makeup, wear a little extra jewelry and put on some perfume.   She looked forward to wearing something other than her well worn housecoat. Today she wore a pair of yellow slacks that were generously cut and held up with a thin, red, faux leather belt.  She wore a floral blouse and a pair of red, patten leather loafers.  She did not like sensible, rubber soled lace-ups; her shoes were her personal stand against the dowdiness of aging.  The more she clip-clopped through a public place, the happier she was.  Especially if she clip-clopped at a rapid pace.  Her fashion signature was her propensity to wear silly socks.  Her choice this day was a pair of white ankle socks with musical notes on them.   She knew they hardly matched the pink, yellow and red flowers in her blouse, but she quite enjoyed them anyway.

Jack was oblivious to all of this, but he was not oblivious to her enthusiasm.  On some level, it saddened him that he could not be a better companion.   Bea was not deterred.  She took a few moments to carefully park her walker and place her sweater neatly over the handle.   Then she took her seat in a chair to Jack’s right, as was their habit, so she could speak into his good ear.  She quietly gestured to him to remove his sunglasses.

The hostess, satisfied that her customers were at last situated, placed menus on the table in front of Bea and Jack.

Jack ordered two Manhattans without looking up. In his prime, he was accustomed to issuing directives. This was as much a part of his young man’s persona as stubbornness and impatience defined him now.  These days, he clung to the trappings of his younger, surer self like someone overboard clings to a line, often to Bea’s bemusement.  The hostess, also without looking up, replied that their waiter would be along to take their drink orders.  She removed the extra place settings and left.

Jack rearranged the salt and pepper.

Bea breathed deeply and fluttered slightly in an unconscious effort to get things back on track.