To start out, my wife is technically an early year Gen X’er, and I am technically a late year Baby Boomer. We are on the cusp of each of our respective generations, often not identifying with either generation in one way or another. Anyway, a few years ago, it happened! We casually walked into a Starbucks on a hot summer day and felt the hint of a chance of a possibility that an ominous evil force had somehow crept into our lives and we would never be the same. Somewhere along the line, we got… old!
We saw a small group of sweaty young teenage boys crowding around one of the tables… in our safe place. They were fumbling with their skateboards, each with only a free plastic cup of cold water on the table. I instantly thought to myself, “Who let then in here? They’re drinking free water, and taking up the space of paying customers.”
As I walked past these “youngsters,” I suddenly remembered a hot summer day in 1976 when I was a sweaty young teenage boy.
It’s the seventies. Some friends of mine and I are riding our noisy metal-wheeled skateboards on the hot asphalt on our summer break. Scooting around our 1950’s era tract-home neighborhood all afternoon, we are very thirsty. One of us gets the idea to walk into the restaurant on the corner and ask if we can have some water. I object. Getting free water at a place like this is usually a futile effort, since most places at this time refuse to serve loud and obnoxious hoodlums, unless we are with an adult… and they buy something. There are no self-serve machines with small plastic cups for free drinks of filtered refrigerated water. No. Most places want a nickel or a dime for a glass of water… and it might not even have ice.
I think that if we are smart, we will rethink this decision and hit the elementary school. There we have a better, unmolested, water option. The open germ ridden drinking fountain that shoots a warm yet painful jet of water six feet into the air, because the redheaded bully (who must not be named) jammed a lead number two pencil down its spout, so as to provide us with an enlightened experience of the personal and social injustice of how the fountain of his life is just one day of jetting pain after another.
The restaurant manager (short, fat and sporting a bad toupee) sees us—these hot, sweaty, thirsty teenagers—and happily blurts out, “Come on and sit at the counter, boys. I’ll get you some water.”
I wonder, “Sit at the counter? Without an adult? Like a real person?”
My friends and I cautiously walk up and lift ourselves onto the high chairs at the long counter.
As I settle in, I wonder to myself what to do with the heavy skateboard I’m carrying. What do I do with this?
Here, I’ll lean it against my leg. No. I wonder if I can put it up on the counter? No, it’s dirty. What if I stick it between my legs and pinch my knees together? How about I hold it on my lap wheels-up upside-down? No, I can lean it against the counter.
I look over at the rest of my friends to see what they are doing with their skateboards. They are having the same dilemma. Each has settled on one option or the other. We look like skateboards have attached themselves to us in awkward ways and we don’t know how to get away from them. We are like a bunch of hairy proto-humans trying to figure out what to do with loose hunks of tree bark that are magnetically attracted to us.
One of us grunted. It may have been me. Okay, I grunted. I thought of doing everything, including of sticking it my mouth and biting it to see how it tastes. It tastes like dirty wood used on stairs and tart rubber converse high-top tennis shoe bottoms, with a hint of bubblegum and a bitter oak aftertaste. I slide my board to the floor and put my feet on it, so it doesn’t roll away.
The manager quickly deals out little square napkins on the counter, one in front of each of us, and then places ice filled glasses of water in front of us. Ice filled! I pick mine up and take a sip to wash the dirt-rubber-wood taste out of my mouth. It is a very satisfying glass of ice cold water.
As I am enjoying my water, and the new nice old person who served it, I notice my friends start to look over their shoulders at the people who are sitting in the booths behind us. I turn and look too.
There they are; the grumpy old people I know from my neighborhood, sitting at tables with food and drinks they paid for, glaring at us as though they just smelled rotten eggs. At once, I don’t feel welcome anymore and turn to suggest we leave. But one of my friends, the redheaded one (who must not be named), shouts at these old patrons, “Just grow old and die already! We’re not leaving!”
We left.
Back at the coffee shop, I remembered I swore that day that I would never treat a young kid like me with the same attitude as those old farts. I would never grow up to be a grumpy old man. I would be wise, and fun, and happy, and welcoming, and neat, and totally cool.
Nonetheless, there I was in the coffee shop, looking at these teenagers… looking at myself, really… with the same attitude the grumpy old farts had way back then. I had come full circle. An ominous evil force had crept into my life. I had grown old.
Thank the Lord; my wife bailed me out of the moment. Whispering out loud but under her breath, “Why are they here?”
“Now honey…” Of course, I took the moment to reveal my wisdom. “They’re just riding their skateboards on a hot day and need a cool drink of water.”
She looked at me and had the same realization I had. “When did I get grumpy?” She pursed her lips together in her cute way. “They’re in my special place.”
I giggled. “I know, honey, but look... "
She looked back at them.
"... that’s us back in the seventies.”
A sweet smile swept across her face as she connected with her youthful and exuberant childhood too. They didn’t smile back. They became awkwardly aware and visually uncomfortably with the suspicious weird old fart (me), and sweet pretty lady smiling at them.
I didn’t tell my wife, until recently, that I had the same reaction she did as I walked in that door. After all, she thought I was wise, and fun, and happy, and welcoming, and neat, and totally cool.
