There's
a Quickie Mart near my house run by Jordanians. I've been popping
inside for so long now they know my name. I don't know their true
Arabic names as they all have adopted cute American ones. The guy in
the evening behind the register definitely isn't a “Bob” and
doesn't look like one either, but that's what everyone calls him.
There
was a much older man who ran the place on occasion, dressed in his
country's natural garb. For three days I'd see him in a row, ordering
the usual pack of Marlboro lights and Coca Cola. On the fourth day,
he couldn't keep quiet.
“My
son...these products you purchase...they are not good for you. Your
body is Holy. Christian holy too...both are the same!”
“Yeah,
I know, can you put them in the bag anyway?” I say.
I
know he had my best interests at heart. Muslims tend to steer the
hell clear of caffeine and nicotine. So do Mormons for that matter.
Ever see a sick Mormon? They all look like incredibly healthy
Boy/Girl Scouts with rose colored cheeks and ejection fractions of
Olympic athletes. You know, I guess some of these practices do have
a payoff .
But
that isn't the funny story I want to tell. Here's one where everyone
else thinks I'm old as dirt now.
I
had stopped in one night, probably tired and limping a bit and bought
TWO bottles of Coke and I schlepped it towards the door when all of
sudden I feel someone yank the bag from my hands. My first thought
was, “Shit, I'm being bag snatched!”
Nope,
it was the young, barely 20 Something Jordanian who was running the
store that night. He had grabbed my bag and brought it to the car,
opened the back door and placed it on the seat. He turned around with
a mile wide smile and I stood there, sort of shocked. I then pieced
it together about what happened.
“I
will help this poor, old, decrepit, broken down, near-death old man I
will!” this kind hearted kid thought.
“Uh,
thanks...” was all I could muster up to say.
He
kept smiling like those smiles you see on foreigners who don't know
any other way to communicate. I drove off, kinda miffed that he
thought I was that lame. But with the deepening crow's feet I have
and blinding white mop of hair, I guess I do look like 91 years old
to a 19 year old kid.
Every
generation thinks they are the first to discover everything.
So did mine. I'll hear a young person tell me, with great enthusiasm,
about a new club, restaurant, place or whatever to me like they were
the first White Man to step on Antarctic ice...and
especially to me do they tell it because I'm too infirm to
go out anymore apparently.
“Ron,
there's this place near the beach, it's a Hippie Commune thing, full
of gifts, art work, even farm animals. It's called The Umbrella...”
“Factory.”
as I finish her sentence.
“You've
been there? When?” She asks with surprise.
“Oh,
30 years ago I think” I say.
“30
years....” she trails off.
30
years ago, to these kids, is when Woodrow Wilson became president. To
me, it was a few months ago.
I
better get used to this. There will only be more of it.
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