The old man
stepped inside through the front door of Snuffy's, the local malt shop, and was
inundated by the tantalizing aroma of seared hamburger and crispy french fries.
His mouth started watering immediately. It was Thursday afternoon and, like
every other Thursday in past memory, he made his way to the front counter.
"Sit anywhere, Gene,"
Larry the manager greeted him from his customary position by the cash register,
"You've almost got the place to yourself."
The old man laughed, "Yeah, I
can see that. Too bad for you, right?"
"Well, we need a break. It was
packed in here earlier. You know, for the lunch hour."
"Never hurts when you're making
money though, right?"
"Exactly," Larry smiled,
and waved him through to the seating area.
Gene grinned and made his way to the
far wall and sat in the booth half way down, the same booth he always sat in.
He took off his jeans jacket and lay it on the bench next to him. He was dressed
in a plaid flannel shirt, worn blue jeans and work boots. He was nearly bald
and sported a trimmed gray beard. He patted his jacket and then took stock of
his immediate surroundings: booths along the two walls, windows on one end
overlooking the parking lot, tables and chairs in the center, old framed photos
on the walls taken of the malt shop both inside and out; all the furnishings of
the homey little restaurant he'd come to know and love.
When he was satisfied that
everything was as it should be, he took out a pair of reader glasses and put
them on with the careful and measured movements of one who had devoted many
years to the practice. Then he reverently picked up the plastic two sided menu
and began studying it, reading every line, the movement of his lips barely noticeable,
his eyes moving rapidly, missing nothing.
Joyce, one of the afternoon waitresses,
had noticed him come in and grinned, happy to see this particular regular
customer. She brought him a glass of ice water and silverware wrapped in a
paper napkin and set them down, "Hi, Gene, good to see you. Having the usual?
Half a chocolate malt and half an order of french fries?"
Gene looked up from his reading,
"You hit the nail right on the head, Joyce. Chocolate malt and fries it
is. Same as usual."
Joyce smiled and didn't even bother
writing it down, "Sounds good. It'll be coming right up." She fought
back an urge to pat the old guy lovingly on the shoulder. She liked him a lot;
he kind of reminded her of her father.
Gene returned to reading the menu,
and Joyce went back behind the counter to put in the order and make the malt.
Clare was the other waitress,
"How's he doing today?"
Joyce reached for the metal blender
container and scooped in ice cream before adding the malt mix and chocolate.
She turned and gazed at the old guy with a look of compassion bordering on
affection, "Fine. He seems good. He ordered the same thing."
"Chocolate malt and
fries?"
"Yep, same as always."
"You'd think he'd change it up
every now and then, wouldn't you? Maybe get a strawberry shake and onion rings,
something like that."
"Don't hold your breath. He and
his wife used to always order what he's ordering now. I don't ever expect him
to change. Ever. Not while he's still alive anyway." Joyce switched on the
noisy blender bringing their conversation to an end.
Clare was relatively new to Snuffy's,
only having worked there for a few months. After the malt was mixed, Joyce put
the container on tray and set out a tall glass. Clare tapped her on the
shoulder. She'd heard the story before but asked anyway, "When did she die
again ?"
Joyce set out a straw and a long
handled spoon and then leaned against the counter, thinking, "Two, maybe,
three years ago? I don't recall exactly. It's been a while, though."
"And a chocolate malt and
french fires every Thursday since then?"
"Yeah. He likes the afternoon
discount, the 3 to 5 Early Bird Special. Both he and his wife did. They'd order
the large chocolate malt and the full order of fries and split it. Now he just does
the half order."
Clare shook her head,
"Weird."
Joyce looked at the young waitress
with her dyed black hair and ear piercings that wouldn't quit and offered her
own wry comment, "Well, at least he's not home feeling sorry for
himself."
Clare looked at the old man's booth.
He was bent over the menu, still reading it even though he'd already ordered.
"You're right about that, I suppose."
Joyce had worked at Snuffy's for
over thirty years and had waited on all kinds and types of people. Gene and his
wife Julie had been two of the best. They were polite and friendly and not
demanding; easy customers to deal with. Now, with Julie gone, she continued to
feel a genuine fondness for the nice lady's husband and was glad he still came
in for his weekly "Treat" as he called it. She knew full well that
his treat was really a sort of homage to his wife and her memory. It was
element of his character she felt was actually very sweet.
"Order up," Johnny the fry
cook called out.
"Got it." Joyce turned, picked
up the plate of fries, put it on the tray and brought it out to the old man.
When Gene saw Joyce bringing his
order, he set aside the menu. He was feeling pretty good with himself. It had
been his policy over the last two years, seven months and fifteen days since
his beloved Julie had passed away to try to keep himself mentally fit. He knew
he was getting old. My god, he was seventy-nine for christ's sake, but that
didn't mean he had to become a doddering old fool or a dithering old idiot, did
it? No, of course not. That's not what Julie would have wanted for him and neither
did he.
To that end, along with his morning
household chores, he took a long walk in the afternoon for fresh air and
exercise. He also worked on his memory. Part of his memory work entailed memorizing
these kinds of things: his favorite sonnets of Shakespeare; paragraphs from
books he enjoyed reading; short articles in magazines and the words to his
favorite songs. Stuff like that. He also challenged himself try to memorize the
kinds of out of the ordinary things that people didn't usually pay any
attention to: like the ingredients on the back of boxes of cereal, or the items
on a menu in a local malt shop. It was a fun to test himself, and he believed
it helped to keep his mind from turning to jello.
If your asked him about it, Gene
would be happy to say that so far his plan had been working out just fine,
thank you very much. For example, he could tell you every single flavor of malt
Snuffy's made, from chocolate banana fudge to vanilla cream pie; all thirty-seven
of them. He could also list the eleven different hamburger selections they
offered as well as their various toppings; from your basic cheeseburger to the
Snuffy Burger with everything on it. So there.
He might be old, and he might be
slow, but he could still drive his little red Prius to the malt shop from his
(and Julie's) home seven miles away in Long Lake. He could still walk from the
car and get to a table. And he could still order a little treat for himself,
his chocolate malt and fries. Like now.
Joyce came up to his booth and set
his order down, "Here you go Gene," she said, "Should I pour?"
"Yes, absolutely. You're the
expert. I'd just make a mess." Sometimes the thick ice cream would get
stuck inside the container and then fall out all at once in a big glob, sliding
over the edge of the glass and onto the table in a sticky puddle. It wasn't a
pretty sight.
Joyce did the honors and expertly delivered
the malt into the tall glass, "There you go." She turned to leave and
then thought, To hell with it, and turned back and patted him on the shoulder. "Enjoy
your..." She stopped herself from saying "treat" and said,
instead, "...meal."
"Thanks, Joyce. You're a
peach," Gene smiled at her. Then he watched as she walked back to the
behind the counter. Nice lady, but then again they all were here at Snuffy's.
That was one of the reasons he and Julie had kept coming back for all those
years; why he kept coming back now. It never hurt to be around friendly people.
Then, happy with the success of his
memory work, Gene added catsup to his plate and dug right in, savoring every
bite of his fries and every sip of his shake. He took his time, too, like every
other Thursday, making the experience last as long as possible. And if he had a
little memory chat with Julie while he enjoyed his malt and fries, well, so be
it. He wasn't hurting anyone.
Later when he was finished Joyce
brought him his bill, the same amount as always. He paid for it, cash, as
always, along with the same twenty-percent tip he was happy to leave, as
always. He put his money on the table, took one last look around, and said to
himself, "So long, Snuffy's, see you next week."
Then he stood and made his way past
the counter on his way to the door, saluting Larry as he went by, "See
you, Larry."
Larry saluted back. "You bet."
Then he turned to the waitresses. "Good
bye, ladies," he waved to Joyce and Clare, "See you next Thursday."
"Bye, Gene," Clare said.
"Always good to see you, Gene. Have
a good week," Joyce added.
They both watched as the old guy
went out the front door to the parking lot. Then they went back to work, Clare
filling catsup bottles and Joyce wiping down tables.
Feeling good about the day, Gene
paused next to his car and breathed deeply. Ah, it was the beginning of May and
spring was in the air. Soon the gardens would be in full bloom. It was one of Julie's
favorite times of year, and, because of that, it was one of his, too. He
paused, thinking for maybe the one-hundredth time that day about his dear wife,
his fond memories swirling like so many butterfly's fluttering around so many
fragrant flowers. Then he shook himself out of his happy and nostalgic reverie.
Time to go. Time to hit the road.
He reached into his front pocket for
his car keys, and his good mood vanished in an instant. His hand came up empty.
They weren't there. Damn. He checked again. Nope, nothing. Shit. Where were
they? They were usually right there, right in the front right hand pocket of
his jeans. He quickly searched through his other pockets, front and back, until
it became obvious: the keys weren't in any of them. They weren't anywhere.
Suddenly he felt an undercurrent of
panic. Oh, my, god, what's going on? Is my memory starting to go? Am I losing
my mind? His heart began racing, pounding like a sledgehammer. He pressed a
hand against his chest to slow it down. It didn't help.
Feeling faint, he sank against the
fender of his car. What's happening to me? His breath was short and came in
gasps. Am I having a heart attack?
The next voice he heard was Joyce's'
"Gene, Gene. What's wrong? Talk to me."
Joyce had been watching out the
window as he walked to his car, just to make sure he got there alright. She'd
seen him pause as he searched his pockets. "What's going on with him?"
she wondered. When she'd seen him fall against the side of his car she'd run
outside.
"Are you okay?" She put a
comforting arm around his shoulder. "Maybe you should come back inside and
sit down. Catch your breath a little."
Embarrassed, Gene waved her off, "No,
no. I'm okay." He had no idea what had happened, but after that first rush
of panic his heart had unexpectedly returned to normal; its rapid beating slowing
considerably, almost down to where it should be. Maybe it had been a panic
attack over the lost keys or something like that. He'd read that those kinds of
things could happen sometimes.
Just then Clare ran up carrying his
jeans jacket."Gene, you forgot this. It's your jacket. You left it inside.
I thought you might need it."
Gene reached out, "Clare, thank
you so much."
As she handed him his jacket he could
hear a familiar jingling in the pocket. He smiled to himself as he suddenly
remembered. That's right. He'd put the keys in the jeans jacket pocket when
he'd gotten out of the car, not his pants pocket like he normally did. He
gratefully took his jacket and removed his car keys, jangling them in his hand
as he did so. Mystery solved. Whew. A simple mistake, that was all it was.
"Good thing I'm not going nuts," he thought. In fact, he was starting to get back to
feeling like his old self again.
Joyce and Clare stayed with him,
though, just to make sure he was truly alright. Even Larry came out to check on
the old guy.
Gene appreciated everyone's concern,
he truly did, but in his mind it was much to do about nothing. He was feeling
good, back to how he'd felt a few minutes earlier when he'd walked outside into
the mid spring afternoon after a satisfying meal of a chocolate malt and french
fries. With that kind of meal under his belt how could he not help but feel on
top of the world? Well, he certainly did now.
After
talking with the caring employees for a few more minutes he told everyone he that
he was in good shape and feeling fine and that he really had to get going. He
said his final good-byes, got in his car, started it up and drove through the
parking lot to the exit. Heck, it was just a little memory lapse, that's all it
was.
But when he was getting ready to
leave the parking lot, he had a sudden idea. "It's so nice out, maybe I
should do something to enjoy it." He pondered for just a moment.
"It's a perfect day to go for a drive so why not go for one?"
And just like that he made a snap
decision. He flipped on his turn signal. Instead of turning to the left to go
home, he would turn to the right instead. Today, he'd go on a little journey.
Maybe he'd head out around the big lake nearby, Lake Minnetonka, and check out
the scenery. "It wouldn't hurt, would it, to do something a little out of
the ordinary? To shake up the routine a little? Doing different things was
supposed to be good for the mind, right? A good way to keep one's brain active.
Besides, it was a beautiful spring day so why not?" In fact, he was pretty
sure Julie would for sure think it was a good idea, and that's what sealed the
deal for him.
So, instead of going left to go
home, he went right.
Back inside the malt shop, Joyce had
been watching from the window. She saw him take his right turn onto the busy
street. As he did, she had a vague recollection. Hmm, didn't he normally go to
the left? She thought for a moment. Oh, shit. Yeah, he always did go to the
left. Damn. Something must be the matter.
She turned and yelled, "Guys, I
think Gene's going the wrong way." She grabbed her purse and started
running, "Larry, I'm going to be gone for a while. I've got to check to
make sure he's okay. Clare, cover for me."
Then she was out the door and sprinting
for her car. What she was going to do if she caught him, she had no idea. All
she knew was that she had to do something. She started her car and sped off,
hoping she'd be able to catch him. Hoping the old guy wouldn't do anything to
hurt himself. Hoping she wouldn't be too late and she'd find him and he'd be
alright. Years ago, her father had driven off a few times and got himself lost.
He'd even gotten into a couple of accidents, too, before the end. She didn't
want that to happen to Gene. She liked seeing the old guy every week. She wanted
to see him, too, next Thursday, like always. She wasn't ready to lose him just
yet.
She gripped the steering wheel and raced
out of the parking lot to the right and sped down the busy street, scanning
frantically the cars in front of her. A minute later up ahead she spied a
little red one. "Was that Gene's car? It looked like maybe it was. Yeah,
it definitely was."
Joyce breathed a huge sigh of
relief. She wasn't going to be too late. It looked as if she was going to catch
him. He was going to be alright. Just to be on the safe side, though, she
pressed herself to go faster.
A week
later, on Thursday afternoon, Clara came upstairs from getting some much needed
supplies: catsup, mustard, relish and paper napkins. She noticed that Gene had
come in for his usual malt and fries. Joyce was standing next to his table, and
they were talking and laughing. "Good," Clare thought to herself,
"All is back to normal." She watched as Joyce patted the old guy on
the back and made her was back to behind the counter to put in the order.
"Half order of fries, Joey,"
Joyce called out. She saw Clare, "Hi. Get those supplies?"
"Yep. Right here."
"Good. I'll get started on
Gene's malt."
"Chocolate?"
Joyce smiled, "Nope. Not this
time. He's breaking tradition. He's going to try the blueberry crumble."
"What?" Clare was visibly aghast.
Not his regular chocolate? Is he okay. He hasn't lost his mind, has he?"
Joyce laughed, "He's perfectly
fine," She began to scoop ice cream into the blender container and put the
malt together, "He told me he just wanted to shake things up a bit. No pun
intended. (Clare grimaced.) He said that he felt he was getting into too much
of a routine, and that his routine was turning into a rut, and that being in a
rut wasn't good."
Clare laughed, "Sounds like he
thought about it a lot."
"Yeah, I guess he did," Joyce
grinned in agreement. Then she added the rest of the ingredients, put the container
in the blender and turned it on.
While it ran she thought about what
had happened a week earlier: how she'd raced after Gene to make sure he was
alright. He was of course. He'd stopped for gas at a nearby gas station shortly
after Joyce had spied him. She'd parked and walked over to him and, after he'd
gotten over his initial surprise, they'd talked. Turns out that Gene was doing
great. He'd just wanted to go for, as he had put it, "A little drive to
check on the scenery." It was about then, talking in the parking lot of
the BP gas station, that Joyce had realized she had made a mistake thinking
that Gene was in the same condition her father had been. It was clear that he
wasn't. He was cognizant and mentally sound. If he was just a little forgetful,
so be it. She was, too, sometimes. She should be happy for him that he was
doing as well as he was. And she was. She just needed to back off a little and
readjust her thinking.
"As long as he doesn't hurt
himself or put himself in harm's way," was how she thought of it at the
time. And she still thinks like that. "It doesn't hurt to care, though. I
just need to give him space." And that what she intends to do.
When the malt was blended and the
fries were ready, Joyce put the order on a tray and took it to his booth."Here
you go, Gene," she said. She poured out his malt, "Enjoy."
Gene rubbed his hands together, grinning from
ear to ear, "Oh, yes, indeedy. I certainly will."
Joyce smiled, turned around, and walked
back to the counter, dispensing with the shoulder pat, remembering to give him
some space.
Clare was still curious, "So, why
do you care so much about him? He's just an old guy, right? Sure he's a regular
customer, but we have lots of them."
Joyce took a moment and then said,
"I don't know. There's just something about him. Sure he reminds me of my
dad, but there's more. Maybe it's because of how he and his wife were together.
I thought it was pretty sweet." She was quiet for a moment, watching Gene
sip his malt and savor his fries. "To be honest, I really don't know."
Just then some more customers came
in and Joyce pointed to them, "Ah,
forget about it. Let's get back to work."
And they did. Gene, for his part,
enjoyed his meal. Especially his malt. The blueberry crumble was extremely
tasty and a nice change from his usual chocolate. He hadn't told Joyce, but
he'd decided that every week for the foreseeable future he was going to try a
different flavor. They had thirty-seven, after all. With the blueberry crumble
and the chocolate out of the way, he was down two and had thirty-five more to
go. After that he'd move on to the hamburgers; he had eleven different varieties
to try. That would easily get him into the following year and that was good. He
liked coming to the friendly little malt shop. He liked the employees (even if
Joyce was a little overly solicitous, that was alright. It was nice that she
cared.) He liked the fries. He liked the malts. But, more than that, he liked coming
to a place Julie and he used to enjoy. He liked to remember all the good times
they'd had at the malt shop, because even though she was gone, she really
wasn't. Not in his mind anyway. She'd always be with him.
After he finished his meal, Gene
paid his bill, said his good-byes to Joyce and Grace and went out to the
parking lot . He took a moment to enjoy the sun on his face. It was another
beautiful spring day. Another good day to go for a drive. In fact, it was a
good day to head for the lake. He got in his car, started it up and drove to
the exit. When he got there, he hesitated for just a moment and then turned to
the right.
From the window Joyce and Clare were
watching.
"Must be going to the
lake," Joyce said.
"Yeah, looks like it,"
Clare said.
"Okay, then. Let's see about
cleaning up those tables."
The two of them turned and went back
to work while Gene went for his drive. He'd be back in a week to try another
flavor of malt: strawberry swirl cheesecake this time. His mouth started
watering just thinking about it. He was already looking forward to it.