September 5, 2019--At Moody's Diner

A friend asked me to repost this. It appeared first on May 31, 2016 and is set in one of Maine's iconic diners.

Down at the end there were two seats at Moody's counter. Moody's in Waldoboro is a Maine diner legend. In season, a slice of their blueberry pie is worth a detour.

And so is the turkey salad, at least according to Rona. I agree as long as we also order some well-done French fries.

It was perfect timing, therefore, to find ourselves in the vicinity when in the mood for a turkey salad on rye and maybe a slice of pie.

"Let me make room for yuh," a bulky man who looked about 45 said, "I'll move down one seat and cozy with Shauna here. My lady," he winked.

Excited just to be there, I uncharacteristically said, "No need for that. It's chilly out and you look like someone good to cozy with."

"You mean I'm fat?" he said, pretending, I happily saw, to be offended.

"No, only . . ."

"It's OK. I just playin' with yuh," he said to assure me, deciding to stay perched on the stool next to where I lowered myself. "Truth is, I am fat and a lot older than I look." He pulled his tee shirt up to show me his considerable belly. "Shouldn't be eatin' this corn bread." He held it up for me to see, crumbles falling onto the countertop. "But they give it to yuh if you order the chili. Which I recommend."

"We're here for the turkey salad," Rona joined in with an extra-friendly smile.

"And the French fries," I said, "Well done."

"And a slice of blueberry pie," Rona added to make sure he understood we weren't dieting and that he wasn't the only one eating a lot.

"I know what you're thinking," he paused then added, "A grease monkey."

"No, I . . ."

"That's OK. No need to pretend with me. 'Cause that's what I am. No shame in that." He held up his hands so I could see the full extent of the grease that covered his hands and forearms like a second skin.

"Workin' on his transmission," he said nodding toward another over-size person at the very end of the counter. He too was woofing down a huge bowl of chili and didn't look up in acknowledgment. He kept stirring the bowl to distribute the corn bread he had crumbled on the chili as a topping.

"Where you guys from?"

"From three places really," I said. But for the next five months we have a place down at the Point, Pemaqud Point."

"Nice out there," he said, "What about the other two?"

Rona looked at me as if to say, "You need to be talking about this over-privileged lifestyle to someone who's an auto mechanic?"

Picking that up, I stammered, "Well we . . . I mean . . ."

"I'm cool with that," he said with a wave, "Shauna and me are thinkin' about our version of the same thing. I'm doin' pretty well and we have a nice house here in Nobleboro and a little place not far from the water--a lake actually--in Kissimmee."

"Florida?" I said, "Not that far from Orlando?"

"Right you are," he said, and slapped me hard on the back. "For the winters. It gets real cold up here and I have no love for snow. Never did, never will. But all my family's here. Been here nine generations. One of the first families. I mean of white people. When my great, great, great whatever showed up from England there were plenty of other families around. But not white ones, if you get my meaning."

"I do," I said, "There were lots of Indians around. From what I've read, they had no problem with feeding themselves what with giant oysters that you needed two hands to lift and, standing on the shore, fish you could scoop up out of the water. No need for nets or anything."

"There are lots of stories about that that were passed down in my family. Some been written down in dairies from the early 1600s. One so extensive and detailed that it's down there in the Smithsonian collection."

"Wow," Rona said.

"Pretty good for a grease monkey," he said thumping his now puffed-out chest. "And if you're wonderin', there are two governors, Maine governors in my family--Benjamin Ames and Joshua Chamberlain. You wouldna guessed that about me, would yuh?"

"I wouldn't have thought that about anyone," I said, feeling good about taking what he said in stride and not stereotyping him. "I mean, how many people have two governors in their families?"

"Mitt Romney's kids, for example," he said, "And to be fair and balanced, Mario Cuomo's."

"And that dopey Brown family in California," the fellow at the end of the counter mumbled, still shoveling in his chili. "Governor Moonbeam."

"I guess it's not so rare," I said.

"You're being silly," Rona said, "Even though these are good examples it's still very unusual."

"No need to give him a hard time, ma'am. We're just getting to know each other. By the way, my name's Dana," he said, thrusting his right hand at me. As I reached to take it, he pulled it back, "Look at me, covered all in transmission fluid and I'm thinkin' to shake hands with you who are about to eat a sandwich." He began to wipe his hand on his shirt. I kept my hand extended toward him and finally he took it and we shook hands, smiling broadly at each other.

"I guess that makes us friends," he said looking me straight in the eye.

"I'm Steve," I said, "And this is Rona."

She reached across my chest with an extended hand and without hesitating Dana took it, saying, "Nice to be your friend, Ro, Ro . . ."

"Na, Rona," she said.

"Like Jaffe and Barrett?" he asked.

"Yes, but hardly anyone knows those Ronas anymore," Rona said.

"The novelist and gossip columnist," he said. "I seem to remember readin' some of her stuff. Rona Jaffe, I mean. Wasn't she ahead of her time? Wrote a lot of racy stuff from a female perspective?"

"I'm ashamed to say," Rona said, looking down, "that I've never read anything of hers. But, yes, I think you're right. Sort of a Helen Gurley Brown type."

"I think better than that," he said, "She was a real writer. More like an Erica Jong."

"Sounds right," Rona said.

"Changin' the subject," he said, "You folks followin' the election?"

By then our sandwiches and fries had arrived and rather than risk spoiling our lunch and the thus-far warm conversation, not wanting to get into a harangue or argument, we both took big bites to fill our mouths so we couldn't be expected to talk.

"Minimally, whatever you think, it's been entertainin'. Seems these days no one pays attention to anythin' serious unless it's entertainin'. I mean Trump, hate 'em or love 'em, is fun to follow. I mean, to tell you the truth, I'm more in the 'hate 'em category,' but almost every night when I tune in to Fox and MSNBC he's good for some laughs."

Releived, still with a full mouth, I nodded.

"He's like one of those fools in Shakespeare. He speaks his mind and because no one in the media at least takes him seriously but  have to admit that some of what he says is true, politically incorrect, he gives folks permission to laugh at things they don't feel comfortable saying out loud or in public. It's kind of embarrassed laughter. You feel a little guilty admitting you are paying any serious attention to him but can't help yourself and laugh at what he has to say. Which I suppose is what a lot of entertainment is about. Comedy at least."

"I agree with all of that," I said after swallowing my half-chewed turkey salad, "So, who . . ."

"Can't say I have a dog in that fight. At least not yet. Maybe never will. Sad, but I'm feelin' I don't trust any of 'em. I mean, you can't believe a word Trump says. He sometimes contradicts himself twice in the same sentence. I've seen him do that. And, he's not wrong to call her Crooked Hillary 'cause that's what she is. I mean she's smart and all that and has a big resumé but tell me one thing she's said about herself that you believe?"

"She does have that problem," Rona said.

"Forget all the stuff when she was the First Lady. That's old news, though there's plenty of smoke from that time. I'm talking about where her and Bill's money comes from. Goldman Sachs? Give me a break. And all that hanky-panky with their foundation--forget her continuing to put up with his philandering--and the email business. To me that's a big deal. A very big deal. Everyone knows she's lyin' about that. She knew what she was doin' and put a whole lot a people at big risk. Then I fear if she wins she'd be looking' for an opportunity to show how macho she is once she's commander in chief. I have problems with all of that. Also what Trump would do with the military really scares me. So . . ."

"So what about Bernie?"

"Another liar. Different kind. I agree with him about the rigged economy and government but the lies he tells are about being able to carry out any of his policies if by some miracle he gets nominated or, God help us, wins. He knows practically nothin' about the world. Only a little more than Trump, and there is no chance of getting Medicare for all through Congress much less free college tuition. First of all the federal government doesn't have any power to tell the Univeristy of Maine what to do and even if he could get all he wants it would, what, double the deficit. I'm not antigovernment like most of the knuckleheads around here, like old Jim over there, but I do care about controlling spending and worry about the deficit. What is it, 19 trillion?"

Jim had finished his chili and was now listening to what Dana had to say.

"So, like I say, I have no one to vote for. If Ralph Nader was running' maybe . . . But he's a jerk. 'Cause of him we got George Bush. W, not HW. That puppy has a lot to atone for."

"At the moment, I'm with you," I said with a shrug and sigh, "At the moment, I'm considering not voting in November. Maybe that'll change. Maybe there'll be a real miracle and Hillary will be indicted and someone like Joe Biden would get in the mix and somehow get nominated and . . ."

"Now you're talkin'," Dana said, "He's my man! Flaws and all. He can also be a jerk. But that sort of makes him authentic. And wasn't he right about the Middle East? Iraq for example? Let it become three separate countries? But that's for another day. Got to get back to Jim's transmission. Next time we're all here, I'll tell you about my meetin' Ronald Reagan."

"Really? Where?" I really wanted to hear about that.

"At the White House."

"Fantastic!"

"I was among a group invited there to get our Silver Stars from the president. I told you I'm older than I look. It was one of the highlights of my life. Not that I thought that much about Reagan. Irangate and all that. Hey, I'd love to hang out more with you guys but a transmission awaits. I'm here with Shauna every day. Down at the end of the counter. So if you and Miss Rona want to stay friends, you know where to find me."

With that, he hoisted his considerable body off the stool and shuffled toward the cashier. Rona and I got up as well and followed after him so we could get in a couple of more handshakes.

August 31, 2018--Midcoast: Bucket List

"I'm 51 years old and afraid I don't have enough saved to retire before I'm at least 90."

A crew of arborists were at our place to remove eight dead and dying pine trees. They arrived with what seemed like an army of heavy equipment, including a huge tractor, a cherry picker, and a chipper.

"Really, it scares me. I thought for awhile that I'd be OK, but what with the cost of things going up by the day, I don't know."

This was Walt whose responsibility was to drive the tractor, especially to scoop up the chain-sawed tree parts that he then would then stack in towering piles.

"First of all," I said, "We're both much older than you, I really mean  I'm much older, not Rona, and we worked hard for many years and were careful savers. And we more or less followed my father's advice. He used to say that there's no freedom without economic freedom and so, he advised, earn as much as you can for as long as you can, save as much as possible, and live below your means. That is, until you retire."

"That sounds pretty smart," Walt said, "You did that? I mean, follow his advice?"

"Pretty much," I said, "And so now we're fortunate to be comfortable. We still watch our spending and Rona has been a smart money manager."

"I don't know," he said, "I pay into Social Security, my wife works three jobs, and driving heavy equipment pays pretty decent. But I worry."

"You're still young," I said, "There's a lot of time left for you to increase your savings. Even a few hundred dollars more a month, over time if you don't touch it, can make a big difference. But I get your point. We know a lot of people in their mid-sixties who had good careers but didn't save enough and now feel vulnerable. So it isn't easy, considering the rising cost of things, to feel secure. But, again, whatever you're doing now, like everyone else, you can do better."

"Enough about this depressing subject," Walt said, "Let's talk about how you guys live. I see you have a nice house here and a great garden, that I'm sure takes a lot of work to maintain, but it feels like you have a good lifestyle."

"We do," I said, "We're very fortunate."

"May I ask if you have a bucket list? Things you want to do before you can't do them any more? I hate to sound morbid." He shrugged.

"That's OK," I said, "I don't have that kind of list. I prefer to let things happen and to keep everything on the simple, spontaneous side."

"I have a thought," Walt said, smiling broadly, "See that cherry picker over there? With Mike in the bucket--that's what we call it, the bucket. It can raise him to 70 feet, high enough to get to the top of most trees, though you have here a few as high as, I'd estimate, maybe 90, 100 feet. Those suckers are pretty tall. I think one even has an eagle nest in it." He pointed to the top of a towering spruce.

"It's quite a contraption," I said.

"So how'd you like to take a ride in it? It could be on your bucket list, pardon the pun, even though you don't have one." He winked.

"I think I'd like that," I said, "I love heights and from the bucket I could probably have a view of the entire Point, including the Pemaquid lighthouse."

"Let's make it happen! Don't forget to take your camera."

With that he shouted to Mike to lower the bucket. Mike waved to signal he would bring it down to ground level. Its long extension arms telescoped into one another and then the two bulging arms folded one atop the other.

"Hop right in." Mike said, a little breathlessly, "Walt'll help you. It's a little tricky even for someone half your age." 

I thought he too was thinking bucket list. "Grab hold of him, Walt," which he proceeded to do, almost lifting me off the ground by holding onto my belt and easing me into the bucket. 

I'm not as balanced or steady on my feet as I used to be and having this sure-handed help made me feel secure and provided just the assistance I needed to finally tumble into the bucket.

"Good job," Mike said while at the same time getting the arm of the hoist mechanism to unfold and extend itself as we rapidly ascended. 

I looked down to where Rona stood, sensing she thought the three of us were crazy. Maybe a little, I thought, just a little.

Up in the air to the full 70 feet of the extended arm I could indeed see all the nearby houses, including ours, and off in the distance, about half a mile south, there in fact was the lighthouse. I'm not much for taking photos but this time I did to share what I was seeing with Rona and as evidence that I really did this.

After about 15 minutes of rotating the bucket as much as possible so I could get good views in all directions, Mike, with visible reluctance (he too was having fun) began to lower the contraption. 

On the ground, Walt moved quickly to help me get my quivering legs out of the bucket and then back on my own two feet.

"That was amazing," I said, "So much fun."

"Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have a bucket list after all," Walt said. "Like maybe including skydiving?"

"That actually does interest me," I said, "Maybe for my upcoming birthday. It's a big one. I remember President Bush doing that up here in Maine, a few years ago. Maybe when he turned 90. I have a ways to go before that. But maybe you're right--I should make a list. In truth, it would be a list of things I probably won't get around to doing."

"Now you're sounding morbid," he said, But back to what we were talking about earlier," bringing me back to reality, "About retiring."

"I remember that," I said, truthfully not wanting to bring myself down from feeling so exhilarated and full of life.

"If all else fails my plan is to die on the job."

"What?"

"One day, a beautiful day just like today, I plan to keel over into a pile of brush. Simple as that."

January 8, 2016--Snowbirding: Checkout at Walmart

"Them sons-of-bitches they cut me this year."

We were on the checkout line at Walmart in Boynton Beach with a cart full of staples for our place in Delray.

"Can't trust a one of 'em." Muttering to himself was a bent-in-half old man--at least 90 by the looks of him--just ahead of us with a half-filled shopping cart.

Ours contained gallon jugs of bottled water, beer, soda and juice, various paper goods, and other essentials that would help get us started during our three months in Florida. His, a few comestibles, some shirtsleeved shirts, underwear, and two six-packs of Bud.

"Sons of bitches," he said again. "Wish there'd be somethin' I could do 'bout it," he spit through missing teeth, this time in our direction.

"Like I said, they cut me."

"Cut you?" I said, with Rona signaling behind his back that I should mind my own business.

"Them bastards in Washington. My social."

"Your social?" Tired from the drive of more than seven hours from Beaufort, SC, it took me awhile to figure out what had got him so riled up.  "I get it. That is I think I do. You're talking about . . ."

Rona continued to be annoyed with me.

"Like I said, my social." He turned away from us, to Rona's relief, as by then he was first in line.

"Help me out here, would you?" he said to the cashier.

"Anything I can do," she smiled.

"How much is this one here?" He was holding up a blue plaid shirt.

"Let me scan it for you." She did. "It's on sale. It says," she pointed to the screen. "only $9.95."

"OK," he said, "You can ring that one up. Now what about this one?" This time he showed her a seven-pack of jockey shorts.

"They're on sale too. Just $4.95."

"Easy for you to say," he snapped.

"Sorry, sir. I'm just trying to be helpful." She continued to smile at him.

I could hear him grumbling, not appreciating her cheery spirit.

"Maybe we should change lines," Rona whispered to me.

"All the other lines are filled with even older people," I exaggerated. "Let's stay where we are. He's almost through."

"How much are the beers goin' for these days?" he asked, "On sale too?"

"Sorry, no. I think those are $6.95," she said. "Want me to scan 'em?"

"I'd rather you total up what I owe you this far. I mean for the shirt, the shorts, and this here beer."

"I can tell you that. It says $21.85. Not including tax. Want me to calculate that?"

"Not necessary, though what they do with the tax is beyond me. Don't do me no good. But that adds up already to more'an I got," he again spat. "Let me put the shirt back. I'll take the shorts. I'm runnin' out of underwear. That way I can get them and pay for the two six-packs." He again looked over toward me, shaking his head.

I nodded back at him. Directly to me he once more said, they cut my social, them sons-of-bitches."

"I think I know what you mean," I said. "They also cut my Social Security this year. I used to get . . ."

Rona jabbed me in the back and I shut up.

"Tell the truth, you don't look like you'll miss it. You got that cart all loaded up and she's quite a looker, your niece or whatever she is."

"My wife," I said softly.

"They're making me pay more for my Medicare and won't even pay to have these choppers fixed." He opened his mouth wide and pointed to all his missing teeth. "Can't any more eat a goddamn apple. Worked all my life and this is what they do to me. I should say, what's left of me." He paused, sighed again, and said, "Not much. Not much is left of me."

"A lot of people feel the same way you do," Rona said, breaking her silence.

"Tell the truth that's no comfort to me. Only makes things worse."

"What do you mean?" Rona asked, even more empathetically.

"Everythin's gottin' worse. For everyone. Tell the truth I don't see much hope. Maybe 'cause I'm so old and bent like a pretzel that I can't see anything good coming along. A good day for me is if I don't fall down flat on my face in the parking lot."

"I wish I could . . . ," Rona stammered.

"That's awfully nice of you ma'am.  Sorry to have upset you. It's a nice day, the sun's out, you're here to have a good time. Don't let the likes of me upset you."

"That's OK," Rona tried to assure him.

"But as I said," I thought he winked, "Them sons-of-bitches. . ."

January 5, 2016--Snowbirding: Adieu to Balthazar (Concluded)

Early-Bird Special

Ten days later, with my mother still very much alive—actually quite recovered with many months and possibly many more years to live (so said her team of doctors)--after catching an early afternoon movie at the local Regal Multiplex, the 3:00 p.m. show of True Grit, which we were surprised to see played to a house two-thirds full of seniors with no one munching on anything and no one talking to the screen in a loud voice, still with no return tickets to New York and no plans to purchase them—Alice suggested that rather than eating leftovers at our rented condo by the ocean, maybe we should try the Chinese restaurant, the China Diner, at an adjacent shopping plaza.

“But it’s not even six o’clock,” I whined.  “No one eats dinner that early.  Other than my mother and her friends.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alice said, “Half the people down here eat at this time.  You know that.  We’re hungry, right?”  I sheepishly nodded, “So stop pretending we’re back in Greenwich Village and let’s see if we can get a table.”

“There should be no trouble with that,” I offered in a mocking tone.  “It’s so ridiculously early.  For God sakes it’s still daylight.”

In fact I was quite wrong--there were no tables inside and even all the seats at the sushi-bar-like counter were occupied.  “This must be at least a decent place,” I said, “to be so busy so early.” 

Alice looked at me as if to say, “You’re so naïve.  We’ve been here long enough for even you to know about early-bird specials.” 

But there was an empty outdoor table, and even though it was situated virtually in the shopping plaza’s parking lot, and since we were in fact hungry, we slid into the last available seats. 

“I’m sure we won’t run into anyone from New York.  It would be terrible if the word got out that we’re having dinner this early,” I said, and, just in case, slipped lower in my seat and hid my face behind the plastic-sheathed menu.

“You’re being silly,” Alice said, “Just look at the specials.  They sound quite good.  There’s steamed sea bass with scallions and ginger and one of your favorites, Singapore Chow Mei Fun.  Though I wonder if they’ll use enough curry.”  She looked around at our neighbors as if to indicate that considering the age of the other diners it would likely be tamer than I would prefer and am used to when we order it at the Big Wong back in New York’s Chinatown.

The waitress appeared, smiling broadly, to ask if she could bring us something to drink.  “Just tea and ice water,” I said.  “I see you have pu erh tea.  It’s our favorite.”

When she returned with our beverages she asked, “When did you get here?”

“A few days ago,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”  It seems like a strange question.

“I mean this afternoon.  I mean here this eve-n-ing.”  She pointed at her watch and the table.

“Oh, you mean at the restaurant.  I don’t know.  Maybe 15 minutes ago.”

She smiled broadly, “That good,” she said, “Still early-bird time.  You can have soup or an egg roll with your order.  No charge.”

“But we don’t want that,” I said, “We’re interested in the steamed fish and . . .”

“It all comes.”

“What comes?”

“Before six you get soup or egg roll.  For free.  It comes.”

“Thank you.  That’s nice.  But we just want the sea bass, the Singapore noodles, and also some Chinese eggplant with mushrooms and water chestnuts.”

“No soup?”  She scrunched her face in a look of puzzlement.

“No, just that,” Alice said, sharing the responsibility for our seemingly unusual order.  Actually, our mutually-agreed-upon decision not to participate in any Florida freebies.

“You can take home later,” she persisted.

“We’ll be fine.  But thank you for suggesting that.”

The dinner turned out to be quite good.  Not exactly Chinatown quality, of course; and, as expected, the Singapore was a bit tame for me, but it was much more than just respectable.  Not what one would expect at a Chinese restaurant called the China Diner in an unprepossessing shopping mall right next door to a nail salon.

As she cleared the table, the waitress seemed happy that unlike the other customers we had eaten virtually everything on our plates with chopsticks, not forks.  Smiling broadly, she asked if we wanted the pistachio ice cream that came with the dinner.

We both rubbed our distended stomachs and simultaneously said, “No, but thank you very much.”

“You sure?” she asked, again looking puzzled, “It comes.  No charge.”

“Really, we’re stuffed,” I said.  “Just the check, please.”

As she turned to get it for us, a 70-something woman at the next table called out, “What about us?  We want our ice cream.  Pistachio.  I love pistachio.  It’s my favorite with Chinese food.”

The waitress, once more taking a long look at her watch, responded curtly, “You had the soup, yes, and the egg roll, no?  Both.  I make exception for you. You just get two. Not three.” 

The woman, ignoring that, more insistently demanded, “I want my ice cream.  Pistachio.”

“But you had egg roll and wonton soup.  I told you it comes with either one.  But you wanted both so I give to you.”

“What about them?”  She waived her bejeweled finger in our direction.  I was cringing, sorry I no longer had the menu behind which I could hide.  “You told them they could have pistachio.”

“They had no soup.  No egg roll.  Neither.  Not even one.”

The woman tapped her husband on the arm.  It looked as if he had fallen asleep over his dinner and when she poked him he jolted into consciousness, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.  In an even louder voice she broadcast, “She says they didn’t have the soup.” 

“The what?  What did you say?”

“She says they didn’t have the soup or the egg roll.  And now she says we can’t have ice cream.  Though she wants them to have theirs.  Talk to her will you.”

But before he could, to our great relief, the waitress said, “I’ll bring you two orders of ice cream.”  So as not to be misunderstood, she wiggled two fingers in their line of sight.  “Two.”

“Morris doesn’t eat ice cream.  He has cholesterol.  So bring two scoops for me.”  The waitress, expressionless, nodded and turned abruptly to get our check and their two scoops of pistachio.  She had clearly seen it all.

Witnessing this exchange, I wondered again about the wisdom of eating so early.  But the food had been excellent and I sheepishly said to Alice, “If we come back for another dinner, we should be sure to arrive after 6:30 and take our chances that they’ll still be open.” 

“And,” Alice said, “we’ll remember to ask them to make the Singapore Chow Mei Fun spicier.”

To that I wondered out loud, “But what will we tell everyone back at Balthazar?”

January 4, 2016--Snowbirding: Adieu to Balthazar (Part One)

Adieu to Balthazar

Breakfast at Balthazar

"You're going where?"  This edgy query from Peggy Samson, the noted performance artist and Balthazar regular.  For the past five years, she and Alice and I and a group of others have been gathering for morning coffee and talk at this impossible-to-get-a reservation-at brasserie in Manhattan’s Soho.

"You know where."

"To do what?"  This from George Wyatt, architect to the very rich and almost famous.

"You know for what," I said feebly.

"And for how long?"  This from Sharon Short, the gorgeous and brilliant executive editor of one of America's leading fashion magazines who is best known in the business for being the first to take note of the flip-flop revolution.

"A week or two," Alice added quickly. "We'll be back before you know we're gone."

"Florida is where you're going," Peggy said, "Don't try to hide the truth from me. You know how intuitive I am.  You’re going to Florida where everyone is waiting to die."

"That's what Florida means in Spanish," world-class sociologist, James Hilberson chimed in with his faux British accent and the beginnings of a derisive smile.  He first became well know for his research on Bangkok rent boys. "'Waiting to die' is what ‘Florida’ means in Spanish.  The Conquistadors went there looking for the Fountain of Youth but instead discovered Medicare." 

Everyone, including Alice and I joined in the laughter.

"We're just going there to spend a few days with my 99-year-old mother,” I said.  “She had a small stroke.  One never knows about things of this kind for someone that old."

“You won’t be turning into one of those Snowbirds, will you?”

“What kind of bird was that?” George Wyatt looked puzzled.  He is not known to be much of a naturalist.  He spends all of his time indoors in chic cafés and 30,000 square foot houses.

“The kind of bird that goes south for the winter,” Sharon said.  Environmentally minded, she is a patron of the Audubon Society.

James added, “Like the Arctic Tern.  Except that Snowbirds fly south on Jet Blue.”

“Aren’t they extinct, like the Dodos?” George was showing off his erudition.

“Far from it,” Sharon laughed.  “Snowbirds are very much alive if you call going to Florida for the winter living.”  I chuckled along with her and the rest of our friends.

Looking to change the subject, Peggy still couldn’t resist saying, "And while you're down in Florida maybe look for a condo for yourselves.  You're not that young, Lloyd.  Alice, on the other hand is another matter.  She's still a child.” At that Alice nodded in agreement with her newest best friend. “And you have the time--you're between documentaries and Alice's job at the university doesn't require much of her.  She can telecommute. Or just like always continue to have coffee until 10:30 and then drift in for a few hours. Not like the rest of us who have real jobs."

"You call running around naked on stage splashed with paint a real job? " George said sotto voce but intentionally loud enough for all to hear.  But then, full voiced, looking directly at me, added, "If I hear that you're wearing a white belt and going to early-bird dinners I promise you I’ll fly down there and . . ."

"On one of your client’s private jets, George?" James needled him.  He thinks of himself as a man of the people in spite of his endowed chair and penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.

Ignoring that, with a flip of the wrist, George continued, "As I was attempting to say, if I hear that you’ve taken up shuffleboard, I'll be on the first flight to bring you to your senses and put you on the next plane north."

"Look, we hate it there too,” I was quick to assure them, “All those gated communities and shopping plazas.  Where everyone is hard of hearing.  Did you ever go to the movies in Florida? It's a nightmare. Everyone talking so loud you can't hear the soundtrack."

"Exactly,” Peggy gleefully chimed in, “I can hear them now talking to the screen--'What? What did he say?' ‘Who? Her? What did she say?' And they bring all that food with them.”

“In insulated tote bags,” I said.

“Sandwiches and fruit,” Sharon chirped.

“And cans of Ensure,” James added with a derisive grunt.

Again, we all laughed.

“Speaking of the theater,” Peggy whispered—we all leaned in close so that our heads were almost touching—“Is that Meryl?”

“Who? Where?” Sharon twisted in her chair to get a better look.

“Keep your voice down, will you. Yes her.  Meryl.  Over there in one of the booths.

“You mean across from Yoko?”

“She’s here too?”

“God I just love Balthazar,” Peggy said.  “I wouldn’t want to be caught dead anywhere else in the morning.  And where will you darlings be?” she asked turning back to Alice and me.  “I mean in Florida.  The coffee is just awful.  It must be all the chlorine in the water.”

“As I said,” Alice said, “we’ll only be there for a week or ten days at the most.  Remember, she’s in a coma.”

Annoyed, I corrected her, “That’s not true.  She only had a small stroke.  That’s hardly being in a coma.”

“But Lloyd, doesn’t this mean that you’ll be missing the TriBeCa Film Festival?  Aren’t they showing one of your things about the Beat Generation?  And isn’t Bobby De Niro going to introduce it?  I mean,” Peggy said, “if your mother’s not in a coma can’t you postpone your trip.  I mean, Bobby will be there.

Mother Sterling In the IC

Later that day Alice and I were sitting at my mother’s bedside in the neurology ICU, sipping watered-down coffee from a paper cup.  She was sleeping, snoring loudly enough to blot out the sounds of the beeping telemetry devices and the incessant chatter on the hospital intercom.

“Do you think she knows we’re here?” I asked, speaking softly.

“How could she, she’s in a coma.”

“I don’t know why you keep saying that.  I spoke with her doctor and he didn’t say she was in a coma.  She just had a stroke.  A small one.”

“At her age, 99, there is no such thing as a small stroke.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Well, we’re scheduled to be here for a few days, but one never knows . . .”

“Again, you keep saying that.”

“And again you’re in denial.”

“And?”
“And, I say, if she wakes up, I mean,” Alice quickly corrected herself, “when she wakes up I think we should tell her we’ll stay in Florida for as long as she’s in danger.  And—listen to me calmly—considering her age and condition, I think we should tell her we’ll be staying here indefinitely, not put a time limit on it.  Until she, until the . . .  Do I need to be more explicit?”

“But . . . ?”

“I know you hate it here.  You never seem to tire of reminding me about that.  You hate everything, including the coffee.   But coffee isn’t the meaning of life.” 

She saw me  staring into my cup.  “Well, I admit it, it’s important to me.  Both literally and metaphorically.”

“You and your metaphors.  And I know you can’t stand all the driving.  You’re so addicted to taxis and restaurants.  We’re staying in a nice place on the beach.  And we drove by a few restaurants that look halfway decent.  Look,” I kept peering at my coffee, “how long are we really talking about?  She’s been a wonderful mother to you, to both of us.  Neither one of us would have a problem being away from work for a few more weeks, so why not make her last days happy?”

“Is that you, darling?”

“What?  Who said that?”

“I know you’re hard of hearing. It’s your mother.  I think she’s rousing.”

“Come to me my darling.  Come here.  I am breathing my last breaths.” 

I turned to her bed and, pushing aside the numerous wires and tubes connected to her so I could get closer, took her hand and with a voice expressing deep concern, said, “Yes, it’s me mom.  Lloyd.  We’re here to take care of you.”

“Do you get anything to eat?” she asked in a voice made husky by the tube in her nose.  “They tell me they serve brisket in the cafeteria.”

“This you heard while you were in a coma?  I mean while sleeping.”

“You wouldn’t believe what you hear when they think you’re dead.”

“Please don’t talk that way.”

“I heard that the end for me is near.”

“No, no, Ma.  You must have been dreaming,” Alice assured her.  “You look fine to me.  You have good color.”

“You must need new glasses,” my mother said, brushing aside Alice’s attempt to make her feel better.  “Take a good look at me.  I look like a corpse.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” I said as gently as possible.  I took another sip of tepid coffee, made a face, and handed the empty cup to Alice.  “The doctors say you had a very, very small stroke and should make a full recovery.  You don’t even have slurred speech and you’re not drooling from one side of your mouth.”

“For me a full recovery means they get me ready for the cemetery.  So I’m happy you made it here so I can say a final goodbye.”

“We just got here, mom.  No need to be saying any goodbyes yet.”

“You are not using your eyes.  Look around.  What do you see?  Someone who’s 99, on her last legs, and who looks like a corpse.”

Ignoring that, Alice moved closer to the bed and, taking my mother’s other hand, with as much love as she could express, with tears in her eyes, said, “Ma, Lloyd and I have made plans to stay here for as long as you need us.”

“You mean you’re not racing to the airport like you always do when you come for what you call a visit?”
“No, we do not even have return tickets,” Alice fibbed, “As I said, we’re here for as long as you need us.”  I nodded in agreement.
Gasping for breath, my mother panted, “Considering my condition . . . that shouldn’t be very long.  If I were you . . . I’d call Jet Blue this afternoon to book return tickets.”

We ignored that as well.  “And remember,” she said as we tiptoed toward the door, “promise me you’ll eat something.”  And with that she fell back to sleep or into a . . .

End of Part One . . .