Glorious, Hapless Age

July 6th, 2008

The stars conceal secrets amid their authenticity—secrets too careful for our mortal minds. I speak to them anyway. And oh ho ho, do they speak back. For exactly twenty years now, I have spoken and listened from the haven that is my garage.

Even in today’s Sunday sunshine, those same stars are out there. No sacred time for reading, though. I called Elmore earlier, telling him I could use some company at the Old Spaghetti Factory at 12:30 p.m. Six days ago, I had no need to count the remaining meals we might share. I wish that night’s stars gave other answers. Poor Elmore, asking about his lungs.

I wait outside under the brick building’s front overhang. Garlic cheese bread from the inside smells marvelous. This geezer had better get here soon with his sluggish black truck, or I am starting this meal without him. A spiffy T-bird like mine would upgrade any dull drive into a thrill. Even juicier with a babe slouched in the passenger seat—sunning behind amber shades and a turquoise-beaded necklace. If only Bev had agreed to come and meet me here today. Of course, I had tried calling her first. In her defense of saying “no,” we did watch dazzling fireworks together all night for the Fourth. In my defense of asking, I cannot get enough of her.

Hot dog, my pal is here! His truck with the rusty bowed rear bumper screeches into a parking spot. Elmore and I spoke this past Wednesday over the phone, but we have not seen each other since he left my garage-turned-reading room last Monday. My stomach grumbles. My sixth sense hums with alerts from the cosmos. And my seventh sense? An alarm that signals in proximity to Italian food.

“Elmore, my pal!” I swallow the feeble man into my frame with a hug. He thumps my back three times.

“Gee, thanks for the invite, Leo.”

I withdraw, grinning, and pat behind his bony shoulder. “I need some of that garlic bread, pronto!”

To escape the midday heat, we enter the Italian restaurant, packed full of local Fairfield patrons at this popular hour. Clinks of ceramic and silverware complement the staff’s bustling footsteps and murmurs of splendid conversation. As we wait for a table, I fold my lips when Elmore tucks his head to cough. Still better to do so in company, I say. Oh, how we all miss Elyse. Inseparable for thirty-four years of marriage, those two were. She never did chase me on the playground during our grade school beginnings. Only Elmore. And always Elmore.

After our hostess seats us, my stomach howls as my balding friend and I chat. The waitress cannot arrive soon enough. How many wholesome families are here together after mid-morning church service? Children’s laughter trickles into my eardrums, amusing but foreign as ever, aside from Elmore’s boy and my days as the honorary-uncle. Ah, sweet relief. Our waitress appears, and I request the finest plate of the Sicilian garlic cheese bread appetizer. We proceed with our main order, too: Pasta Classic with mushroom sauce for one, Spinach & Meat Tortellini with extra cheese for me. I grab our two menus and hand them over before Elmore interjects.

“Whoa, another bandage?”

“Oh ho ho, nothing major, my pal. I’ve been in my shop all weekend.”

“...working on?”

“Ah, Andre across the street just retired a couple months back. Says he was jealous of my rocking chair out front and wanted one for himself. I’m just about finished. And then he and I can wave to each other, rocking the evenings away.” I lean back in my chair and lift my right arm to practice.

Elmore chuckles. Only a few moments have passed since our waitress left, but where is my beloved garlic bread? Anyway, we talk about last week’s celebration of the Fourth. Nice of him to attend the town parade. I would have gone, but Bev wanted to showcase a new polka-dot swimsuit, so I followed her to the pool. And he claims he bought a load of fireworks, but was too tired to set them off.

With a shrug, he says, “would you take them for me? They’re still in my truck bed.”

I know why he asks. Before I accept his generosity, our waitress appears with our drinks and a holy plate of garlic bread.

“Hang on, pal.”

I dunk the nearest wedge into the center marinara sauce. With a few huffs over the glistening delicacy, I chomp.

“Yeeeowww!” I should have blown harder to cool this steaming chunk before scalding my mouth.

“Gee, dummy! You couldn’t wait just a minute, huh?”

To address the sharp tingle around my tongue, I snatch my pop and chug, certain to slurp an ice cube. The miniature glacier lingers inside my gritty smile across the table.

“Ahhh…yes. Crisis averted.”

My lunchmate perks his brow, unamused. For a couple of seventy-year-olds, Elmore is much truer to this glorious, hapless age than I am.

“Well…those fireworks are out in my truck bed, if you wanted them.”

“Right, right. Mmmm…I suppose this has to do with, well…your fear of my reading?”

“...Not fear, Leo. The stars told you what you needed to know. I can fill in the blanks myself…I know my body better than any brazen doctor,” Elmore says, fiddling with his crimson cloth napkin.

I sigh. “I’ll take them from ya, pal. Maybe Bev and I can ring in the New Year together…in your honor.”

“...That’d be swell.”

Our delightful lunch continues. I finally savor the combination of gooey cheese, crisp bread, and ripe sauce without scorching my mouth. And Elmore tells me about Andy and the upcoming vet appointment this week. That pup belongs in a Hall of Fame for comfort with his contributions to the Thomas family. Oh ho ho, remarkable pup. 1996 was a marvelous first Christmas with the Golden, but Andy’s twelfth hangs in jeopardy.

We lessen our words in the presence of our entrées. Elmore, deliberate with his bites, avoids any splatter as he consumes his pasta. That mushroom aroma smells delicious from across the table. As for me? I wind up with Alfredo sauce tickling my left wrist, and speckles of Romano cheese throughout my mustache. Kind enough to notice, our waitress places a spare napkin without comment.

With our meal nearing its end, I ask my longtime friend about the computer I gave him ten years ago. He reminds me of the cobwebs, having not touched the machine since the turn of the century. Next time I visit, I promise to investigate and get him to join me online. In exchange for my overdue gesture, he pays the full bill.

“You’re a good man, Elmore.”

“Thanks, Leo. Will you come get these hazards from my truck?”

“Right, right,” I say as we both stand to leave. “After that, what’re ya doing next?”

He straightens his oval glasses. “Well, I’ll stop by Blockbuster on the way home. See if any of Rowan’s favorites are available to check out.”

I run my calloused fingers through my curls, missing my pal’s late boy. We all do. Side-by-side, we old-timers amble toward the exit, and I grab his far shoulder for a side hug.

“Thanks for the company today. When’s a good time I can check in this week?” I ask.

“Gee, maybe Wednesday?” Elmore replies as we exit the building, the summer sunshine overwhelming our senior eyesight.

“Mmmm…Wednesday, eh? Care to meet me at Oscar’s Parlor around one? Corey’s shift starts then. Always puts extra pecans on the turtle sundae.” And I smack my lips before we exchange a grin.