With Age, Comes Stuff

With Age, Comes Stuff

Recently, I’ve become – oh, I don’t know – cranky, for lack of a better term. I can’t tell you exactly when it happened; somewhere around my fifty-seventh year, I guess, but I’ve noticed a definite attitude shift toward “easily annoyed.” I liken it to a male version of menopause of a sort, except I didn’t feel anything. No hot flashes. No mood swings. No nothin’.

The first time I actually became aware of it, I was overnighting a check to my out-of-town bank. It was the middle of the afternoon; a rainy-gray, dreary day that frequently dampens the best of moods. I walked into the overnight express office to find I was their only customer. My mood picked up.

Man, this is great, I thought. No waiting behind some old broad while she roots through her purse for exact change a penny at a time.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Yeah. I need to overnight this.”

“Yes, sir. If you would just fill this out.”

He handed me a multi-copy form and retrieved a large red-white-and-blue cardboard envelope with a picture of a jet aircraft and the company logo. I filled out the address information and handed the form back to him. At that point, he turned to a young boy that looked to me to be about twelve and started explaining how to enter the information into the computer.

“New guy?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “First day.”

I smiled and realized what it must feel like to be a guinea pig.

The older one continued to instruct the kid. “Now, just enter the address here and print the label.” The new guy asked him: “What does this say?” pointing to my doctor-like scribble. The older one gestured toward me. “Ask him.”

The kid turned to me and, in a whisper, said, “Wha doe diss soe?”

I stared at the kid incredulously. He was speaking foreign language, at least as far as I was concerned.

“What?” I said. “Speak up, son, and stop mumbling!”

Traumatized doesn’t quite cover it. If he wasn’t insecure, timid, unsure, apprehensive, anxious, unconfident, withdrawn or scared to death before, he was now. He repeated his question with appropriate volume, annunciation, and terror. “What does this say?”

“Much better,” I said, and then I read my chicken-scratching back to him. As I walked out of the store, I initially thought I did a good thing. I taught him to assert himself, hold his head up, do his job with pride and self-confidence. Then it occurred to me that this young man might not ever leave his room again. I wondered to myself what it was that caused me to bark at the kid like that.

“Aw, who knows? It’s probably the weather,” and I didn’t give it another thought.

A couple of days later, I was working on my house installing a set of bi-fold closet doors when I realized that they were too big for the opening. Foolish me. I thought this closet was the same size as all the other closets in the house. So, in an effort to correct this recent dilemma, I ran to the local do-it-yourself store to get a set of a smaller size. I knew they made them smaller because it said so right on the box.

It was the middle of a bright and sunny day in the middle of the week, and I just knew the place would be devoid of other do-it-yourselfers. I walked into the bi-fold closet door department looking for the proper sized doors. After searching through every freaking rack and looking at every freaking door, I concluded that they didn’t stock the size I needed, and that I would probably have to special order the damn thing. To do that, I needed to speak with a store associate, which is this year’s politically correct term for salesman. I walked directly to the nerve center of the bi-fold closet door department, a virtual hub of activity on weekends, looking for an associate; my head swiveling on my neck like a praying mantis looking for something to eat.

Nothing.

I began searching the aisles for any sign of life that was wearing a red “Ask me anything” vest. The longer I looked, the more aggravated I became. This store does want to sell stuff, right? I circled the area like a buzzard waiting for something to die, and when I reached the point from where I had started my search pattern, I spotted “the associate.”

“Hey, got a minute?” I asked, fully knowing that he did since I surprised him with his little finger buried up his nose to the second knuckle.

“Sure,” he said, running the entire length of his forearm across his left nostril. His mother would have been proud. “What can I help you with?”

I started to explain, and when I saw the blank look on his face, I decided to take another approach. He was about nineteen, so I thought it might be time for “Show and Tell,” something I was sure he would be familiar with since its fun, like recess or lunch. I lead him to the area where the doors were. I got the feeling that he’d never been there before by the way he was looking around trying to spot landmarks. I pulled out a set of doors and showed him the marking on the box that stated the different sizes. I explained that this was not a misprint, and that the manufacturer actually made them that way on purpose, but the store didn’t stock the size I needed.

“I need to order a set in this size,” I said, and pointed to the big red check box on the carton that read “77 Inches.”

When I saw the look of wonder and awe cross his face, I realized that I knew more about his job than he did.

Good grief. “Look,” I said. “These doors come in two lengths. I need the shorter ones.”

“Oh. Okay. Let me go get the product guide.”

A ray of hope. At least he knew what the book was called.

He searched through, at my last count, three books without a clue while I became increasingly impatient sitting on an uncomfortable, four-legged, cold metal shop stool, that was specially designed for valued customers to wait on.

“Ya know,” I said, “I have to go to work in the morning. Do you think you’ll find it by then?”

He didn’t even look at me when he picked up the phone, paged a guy named Archie, and left.

When Archie arrived, he spent all of thirty seconds finding the proper size, and another thirty ordering it. Concluding my business, I headed home. I thought about the kid and realized that the patience that used to be my virtue, no longer was. “What’s going on?” I asked myself. “Why am I so intolerant, lately?”

“Aw, who knows? It’s probably the weather,” and I didn’t give it another thought.

So now, I need milk and cigarettes. Going to the local supermarket was far too inconvenient, and the drugstore down on the corner sold that stuff. Even if it cost a little more, it was worth it. I’m in, I’m out, and I’m back. Or so I thought.

With milk in hand, I step up to the only open counter. The cashier was a young girl; high school age. That would have been okay, except that there were three other high school girls in front of me. And even that would have been okay, but they all knew each other. And even that would have been okay, but they all knew the cashier. One would talk to the cashier while the other two decided on what kind of sugar-laden candy bar could give them the greatest sugar rush and the most pimples.

Then, they swapped roles. They rotated, changing places with each other like ants on an anthill and all the while, the cashier completely forgot that she was – a cashier. They giggled and talked and giggled and talked and I was determined to be patient. So much so, that when I saw another register open up for a gal that arrived after I did, I stayed in my line behind the giddy teenagers.

When that cashier finished with her customer, she walked toward the young cashier. She was obviously management because the young cashier got down to business and actually did her job. The three girls paid, left, and I stepped up, seeings how it was finally, my turn. I placed the gallon milk jug on the counter.

“Three packs of Marlboro, please.”

The youngster brought back the cigarettes and I asked: “Friends of yours?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“And you all go to school together?”

“Yes.”

“Boy, how did I know that?”

“Birfdate?” she said.

“What?” Teenagers have a language all their own.

“Birfdate.”

I looked at her, then at her boss, and then back at her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“I need to enner your birfdate,” she said.

“You mean my birth date?”

“Yeah, your birfdate.”

“You’re carding me for cigarettes?”

“Well, you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t think I had to, gray beard and all.” I looked at her boss. “Is she kidding? She doesn’t think I’m old enough to buy cigarettes?”

Nothing.

I looked at the young cashier. “You’d better stay in school. And never take a job that has anything to do with serving booze.”

My patience exhausted, I left the milk on the counter and went to the supermarket. It finally registered to me on the drive home that it didn’t take much to annoy me anymore, and I had reached a point in my life where I had officially become – a curmudgeon.

As defined by Merriam-Webster: Curmudgeon - a crusty, ill-tempered, and unusually old man.

Unusually old? Naw, I’m only fifty-seven. Ill-tempered? That was my father. And it’s funny, I don’t feel crusty. Oh sure, occasionally I could be curt, direct, and ill tempered; but wasn’t everybody?

After I got home, I open the mail and found yet another application to the A.A.R.P. I started for the trashcan when suddenly, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. James?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Conrad’s office, calling. We see you’re due for your five-year check-up.”

“My check-up? Already?”

“I’m afraid so. When can you come in for your colonoscopy?”

Those five years went by like five months. Suddenly, I felt the need to own a sweater vest and a Buick.

“Well, I may as well get it over with. What’s the earliest you can see me?”

“We have a cancellation for this Thursday at 9:30. Would you like to come in then?”

“I wouldn’t 'like’ to come in at all, but that’ll do.”

“Great! Do you remember what you need to do before you come see us?”

“Oh, yessss!! The Fleet suppository that keeps me within a ten-foot radius of the toilet for an entire day is one of my all-time favorite things. Sometimes, I even use it when I’m bored – just so I'll have something to do.”

“That’s nice. So, we’ll see you on Thursday, then.”

The cheery nature of her voice made me want to strangle her. I bet she’s only forty. Brat!

That night, I sent my boss an email saying I was taking Thursday off for “personal reasons,” and called my daughter to see if she could drive me. It’s bad enough that total strangers have access to my “exit-only,” but not being able to drive myself adds insult to injury. The one positive – they give me Demerol.

So the appointed day arrived. Dani picked me up and we were off to Annapolis.

“Wadda ya goin’ in for, Dad?” she asked, making small talk.

“Nothing you’d be interested in knowing about.”

She grinned at me. “Colonoscopy, huh?”

I hate smart-aleck kids, even if they are mine.

So, she dropped me at the office and went to do some shopping to kill time while I was being “probed.” The antiseptically decorated waiting room was nearly empty; just a few patients sat and read magazines ignoring each other. It was apparent none of us wanted to be there. I registered and took a seat.

A few minutes later, a frail gentleman that I estimated to be around seventy-ish followed his walker into the room and up to the receptionist. Since there was nothing to do but wait, I eavesdropped on their conversation. It was hard not to, the old guy was so loud. I thought of it as listening to a radio talk show.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Humphrey. Did you prepare yourself like we asked you this time?”

“Yes-yes-yes! All the crap is out. Do you think you’ll be able to do this, this time? I don’t want to have to come back again next week, too.”

“If you followed our instructions, Mr. Humphrey, you shouldn’t have to come back again until next year.”

“You people are always wasting my time,” he grumbled, turning to find a seat. “Probably have to wait all damn day, too. Won’t I?”

Oh, joy. In a room full of empty chairs, he’s going to sit next to me.

His walker inched forward and then he caught up, and his walker inched forward and then he caught up.

At this rate, I might be finished before he actually sits down.

He positioned himself in front of a bright orange, formed plastic chair one over from me. Then he hovered for a second or so and just dropped. Mumbling to himself, he began looking around. He spied the magazine rack, and as luck would have it, I was closest to it.

“Hey, Sonny. How about you handing me that magazine over there?” he said, pointing with a boney finger.

Sonny? You talkin’ to me? “Sure. I’ll get it for you.”

Begrudgingly, I got up, walked the four feet to the rack and picked one out.

“NO! NO! NO! Not that piece of crap! The other one... on the left. NO! Not that one! The one on the LEFT, fer Christ’s sake!”

I finally picked up the right magazine, walked back, and handed it to him.

“You kids,” he grumbled. “It’s like talkin’ to a damn wall.”

You kids? Talk about a curmudgeon.

It was that moment I remembered everything is relative; especially age. And it seemed – as far as curmudgeons go? – I was still a novice. It became crystal clear how I must have made those kids feel last week. I didn’t care for talking down to, and I’m sure they didn’t either. And I don’t know why this particular thought crashed through my mind at that particular time, but I suddenly remembered being five years old. I was sitting next to my mother in the theater. On the enormous movie screen was a quite glade on a dewy morning surrounded by towering oaks and the sounds of a peaceful forest. A young rabbit and a young deer, still with camouflaging white spots on his fur, were playing. Suddenly, an authoritative female voice interrupted their conversation.

“Thumper? What did your father tell you this morning?”

Thumper hung his head as children are apt to do when corrected. “If ya can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Good advice still; especially in today’s world. Wisdom is something else that comes with age, and considering the recent look into what could possibly be my own future, I decided to invoke that most revered of virtues, and take the advice of a child.