Friday. January 2, 2015.
Still at McDonald’s. One of the members of the senior breakfast club arrived ahead of everybody else. Got himself a coffee and sat down in a nearby booth. Tall, trim old man somewhere north of seventy but the smoothness of his face, sharpness of his jawline, brightness of his eyes, and the lightness of his step, the lightness of his mood, and the obvious lightness of his heart made it hard to judge how far north. One of those old people the word spry was invented to describe and then describes inadequately. Making the effort, though, to keep his back straight. Glasses. Coffee with cream skin. A black ballcap with a Nike swoosh on his shaved head. Wearing a new plaid flannel shirt, maybe a Christmas present, tucked neatly into pressed jeans. Bright white sneakers. Came away from the counter singing not loudly but audibly and unembarrassedly along with the song on the PA. The Ronettes. “Be My Baby”. Seated, coffee stirred, and tasted, he gets on his cell, calling somebody near and dear who is not as near in miles as he would like. Key part of the conversation:
“I’m buying a sectional and a pullout bed for the living room. I want you to come down here and spend a weekend with me. We’ll have fun down here. I want you to go fishing with me…”
Call ends with, “I love you too.” Then he goes back to singing along with the music on the PA. This time, this song: