Tuesday, June 08, 2004
The place: A Midtown outpost of a Burritorama (not its real name), on the ground floor of a glass-and-steel behemoth of an office building.
The time: Lunch, silly.
The players: Two attractive young office workers, mid-20’s, one male, one female, known in this space as, respectively, Malchik and Devushka, dressed in gender-appropriate office-to-dinner-to-club fashion-forward clothing. One not-so-attractive, not-so-young desk monkey, mid-30’s, known in this space as Your Bakerina, dressed in black pinstripe trousers and black Calvin Klein t-shirt that no one knows is really part of her husband’s stash of black Calvin Klein undershirts. (Or rather, no one knew it till now. Blast!) One gentleman, late-60’s-to-early-70’s, dressed in beautiful and mysteriously unwrinkled light linen summer suit, known in this space as Robertson Davies, because, really, the resemblance is striking.
The scene: Malchik and Devushka are moving down the cashier line with their lunches, chatting animatedly about Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. YB moves down the line behind them. Everybody pays for their food, then moves over to the kiosk where one picks up plastic forks and napkins. Because Malchik and Devushka are carrying on their conversation on either side of the napkin dispensers, YB pardons herself politely and reaches in between them.
Malchik: I know, it’s outrageous. I mean, you and I both remember a time when movies cost, like, five dollars…of course, that was really,really long ago.
Devushka: Well, even back when we were in high school, it was still, like, [Malchik joins her in unison] seven dollars.
YB (to herself): Well, that tears it. I am officially older than God.
YB approaches exit, feels tap on shoulder, turns to face Robertson Davies, who, unbeknownst to her, has been watching the whole scene.
Robertson Davies: I remember a time when it was cheaper to see a show on Broadway than to go to the movies. (smiles beautifully)
Oh, but Vicki, that’s the point of this conversation, and you should definitely enter it. I think it is human nature for us to feel old at any age—witness those youngsters reminiscing about the $7 movie, or my 25-year-old coworker muttering about how old she feels around college students. And I also think that no matter how old we get—unless you live to be 130 like those yogurt-eating Soviet Georgians—each and every one of us is a youngster to someone, viz Robertson Davies.
‘mouse, I thank you for the encouraging words. Would now be the wrong time to tell you I won’t be 37 until the end of November? 
But I like that naked cavorting idea, yes. Are you sure that the snake is who you really want to be? Think carefully before answering. 
You’re right, Ann, it was romantic, although not exactly *that* kind of romantic. In general I don’t get too crushy on men old enough to be my father (although I make an exception for David Bowie; have you seen him lately? Mrrrrrow.), but there was a certain storied aspect to that whole encounter. Usually real life is either mundane or disappointing: people hassle you, surrounding conversations depress you, a dozen uneventful things happen in a day. Occasionally, though, we get a surprise, in the form of a stranger springing to your defense (or better yet, your coming up with the perfect zinger, swanking the person hassling you), or the realization that you went to kindergarten with the guy in front of you at the deli, or a man who sees a look on your face that says “I am older than God” reminding you that, in fact, you aren’t. That, in itself is a kind of romance, and it’s one of those little random gifts of life that makes me glad to be alive.
As for you, orionoir, man of many handles (oh, for the love of Pete, I’m talking about nicknames, not lovehandles; will you please stop sobbing uncontrollably, please?), we all know you’re exaggerating the case because we’ve all seen you naked. Seriously, I know you, o, and I know that on this issue you are your own worst enemy; no one hoists themselves on that petard more roughly than you do. If it will cheer you up at all, yes, we do this, too, or at least I do. Lynda Barry even drew a funny cartoon about it, how women all know exactly how to stand to make our bodies look really good (back arched, tummy in, orchestra and balcony out), but it’s impossible to stand this way at the beach. ("For crying out loud, Myrna, sit down!” “I cannot, Bill.") Incidentally, as long as you’re headed to campus to open a case of trivia whoopass on the young’uns, can you pick up something from the ag school for me?
Page 1 of 1 pages
Commenting is not available in this weblog entry.
Oh, but Vicki, that’s the point of this conversation, and you should definitely enter it. I think it is human nature for us to feel old at any age—witness those youngsters reminiscing about the $7 movie, or my 25-year-old coworker muttering about how old she feels around college students. And I also think that no matter how old we get—unless you live to be 130 like those yogurt-eating Soviet Georgians—each and every one of us is a youngster to someone, viz Robertson Davies.
‘mouse, I thank you for the encouraging words. Would now be the wrong time to tell you I won’t be 37 until the end of November?
But I like that naked cavorting idea, yes. Are you sure that the snake is who you really want to be? Think carefully before answering. 