Just lookin-round, easy-like, when the lady behind the opposite counter catches my eye and smiles. This's a friendly place. An engaging bunch. The kinda place where they put a bowl of cellophane-wrapped mints on the counter.
"Good-Morning, Carol. I bin been buuhaving real good. How 'bout one a-yer mints?"
Carol shoots me a quick wink and crinkles her face into a warm smile: "Don-know, Bob. You're lookin like truuuble ta me, this morning. Those're little-kid mints. Takes a-note from yer mother. . . ."
I reach over, all sneaky-like, as if I don't know she's watching, and take a mint anyway. It's one of those kinda-soft, round numbers that melts in yer-mouth, if you can keep from crunchin-it-up the moment it slides through your teeth. Takes real grown-up discipline to let it slip on through to my tongue. But I do.
Then I take another one when Carol turns her head. But I don't stick it into my mouth just yet. I stick it into the pocket of my levi jacket for later: "You think I look like trouble! Wait'll you meet my mother!? Usedta beat up all my teachers if they ever dared treat me mean."
Carol's all cute now: "Well Then: Have yerself a few more mints, if you please!"
Right away I just know she missed seeing me hook that second one.
I reach into the bowl and pocket two more. I lay on my farm-boy, hick-talk: "Dooon-miyynd-if-I-do! They serve big-time-good mints in this-here Monitor Township Hall, I tellya. I keep frog-gettin' to pick-up som-a-these-here-mints when I'm in Meijers gittin-ma-gross-rees."
She shakes her head at my mischief and smiles. I grin and nod: "Thankya kindly, Carol. Reckon they's no-need tellin' Ma on-ya."
Now she's laughin'. "Your ma's still around, she's over a hundert! I know I kin take-her."
Big phony-groan, hand to the sacroiliac: "She's hundert&32! I been afeelin' a hundert, some-times lately ma-self. Got-me the oohl' lum-bay-go. . . . "
Carol waves me off: "Yer a-caution. . . ." Her phone cuts us off. I take the occasion for another quick raid on her mint jar. Lift another four. Shove three into the pocket of my levi jacket. Bite the cellophane off the fourth and pop it into my mouth. Running-up a big score for the old guy.
That's when I start paying attention to them. Hadda be late-eighties at least. He has that careful-step, slump-shouldered, old-guy-shriveled-up posture. His hand and wrist poke through the crook of her arm. Holding on for dear life. He's grinning all big. Looks all perky-upbeat. Squares his shoulders and stands up all straight as we exchange smiles.
She crooks her elbow and shrugs, pulling him closer. Clearly, she's younger. Watches out for him. Hugs his arm in all close and rocks softly into his shoulder while they're waiting.
Easy to see she'd been a beauty in her day. She turns toward her lover, tips her head back, and smiles up into his face. Her silky-orange scarf hangs loose across one shoulder of her brown corduroy jacket.
And with her head back, her neck looks almost young and smooth. Lovely profile. Iridescent, pure white hair. Windblown, but full. Stylish cut -- layered high in the back, tapered to her chin-line. Stylish! That cut, her trim slacks and mocassin-toed walkers, loose-fitting-scoop-necked sweater and light-fall jacket announce jauntily: Here's a woman who's always taken care of herself. No wonder he doesn't let her get outa the house alone.
She scrunches in closer to him, reaches her left hand up and brushes his cheek fondly. And when he leans slightly forward, she stands on her toes a moment and whispers something into his far-side ear. As she turns slightly, her tiny nose vanishes behind his as she busses him lightly on the right corner of his lips.
She settles back square onto her heels to catch her balance: "Whhheeeeeee!" With that sweet, quiet exhalation, she turns towards me. When our eyes meet a split-second, she smiles, and wrinkles her nose at me. By now I'm thinking, Maybe newly weds? Second-chance widow-widower? Could be!?
And then, when she clutches his elbow with her left hand, I catch a glimps of her fat-wide, well-worn wedding band. She wiggles her shoulders, releases a long sigh, and winks at me all coquettish. Murmurs something quietly that sounds like: "Kinda like him. . . ."
He grins and winks at me that lucky-guy grin I know so well, even though my own wife's gone these three-years past. They do a little-dancey, inside-light-shoulder-bump-squeeze. The more I watch them, the younger they get.
Now he slides his forearm and hand down through the crook of her arm, lifts her hand and kisses it lightly.
That looks like practiced theater. Still, my heart flips over twice. I sense their performance is for me and Holly. But they're so sweet and practiced that's okay by me. I wink, rock back on my heels, cross my hands over my heart, and laugh out loud for sheer joy.
I know. I KNOW! I'm such a sucker for a love story that turns out right.
Just then, the guy our-side of the window gathers up his papers and receipt, and vanishes quickly through the door into the front parking lot.
Now the lovers're tucked in tight together at the window, backs to me. I see their heads bob sweetly as they talk to Holly. Quiet-like with their private business.
Corduroy jacket rummages in her purse. I hear mysterious papers rustle. She leans closer to Lover-Boy, shakes-out her hair and slips on her reading glasses. He reaches inside his jacket and produces the tax bill.
All through the transaction Holly is warmly polite. Engages them in an easy sort of conversation about the changing weather, the still-clear roads, the little-bit-bitey wind the past two days. Like that.
All the while I feel like it'd be fun to join the conversation. But I can't see how I can -- them all jammed in close together at the window. And their private business going on.
But it's okay. I shrug -- and bite the cellophane off another mint and pop it into my mouth.
And I'm thinking: Of course! Old's they are, they're still living independently in their own home. Boy! There's a blessing.
I can't help it -- the thought crosses my mind: Nuthin' real soon, dearGod. Maybe a dozen more still-spry years and slip 'em away some night together.
Over her shoulder, I watch Holly smile. She's animated and engaging. Clearly, she's enjoying their exchange.
I grin all to myself thinking: OhmaGod! I've got a crush on all THREEuvEm!
They talk and talk. Papers are exchanged. I hear a quiet Whap-Whap! as Holly stamps their bill and hands it back to him. He smiles, folds it neatly and hands it to his wife, who tucks it safely into her purse. I can see they're a well-oiled team. He knows who's boss. They talk some more.
She's asking after Holly's boss, Sue: "I suppose we kin come back and catch up with Susie another time."
And it dawns on me that this is one of their important errands. The errands that get them dressed-up and outa the house. Those well-planned little visits here-and-there, round-about. Visits that give them opportunities to keep in practice with social-talk, and like that. Mid-to-late eighties. Their kids're off wherever -- probably retired somewhere south. And most, if not all of their friends've gone on ahead. This really is an important visit. And Holly knows it. She sees me waiting. Hopes I'll be patient. Right then and there I think about Carol, too: how she knows my name, picks up on my silly humor, takes an interest, and makes my visit fun -- best she can.
Now Holly's leaning close to them in the window, with her elbows on the counter. She doesn't wanna hurry them. But she knows I'm waiting and glances at me quickly with a smile. I know she's asking permission to continue speaking with these two lovely old-folks.
I nod and smile, shake my head reassuringly, raise my hands palms out below my chin and wink. So they talk some more.
Pretty soon she glances back and sees me there waiting. She makes a sweet gesture that seems to say: Oh-Me-Oh-My: we've run on so. I'm sorry.
But I make my open-hands-palms-out gesture and smile: "Sokay! M'not in any hurry. Reeeeally! So they talk a little more. And it really is okay.
I'm standing there feeling all Eagle-Scouty and generous. And then, as I pass my eyes over the back of her corduroy jacket I see the thing I missed before. The thing that makes me know I've done exactly the right thing in cutting this sweet old couple so much slack. The thing that makes me know they're just as special as they seem.
Right there below the waist-line of her jacket, where it breaks and flows down over her hips, I can see where her long-haired-white kitty's been taking a nap.
That very second I know all I needta know:
This lovely old couple: they're kitty-lovers --
well-worth a patient wait in line.
well-worth a patient wait in line.
No comments:
Post a Comment