WHICHEVER way one looks at us old geezers, there’s always that inescapably-tugging feel that we could explode at any moment. At least, that’s what I just learned recently during one small talk with a member of a mall food service crew last Sunday. “We half-expect most of our senior customers to be naturally-grouchy”, one had told me as she brought my coffee. Oh really, and then I thought, shame, shame (as in Game of Thrones). Count me out however, while I admit that I already belong to that stratum, I can say I don’t belong to those male versions of what-in-the-States-they’d-call a Karen. My mate even accuses me always of being a goody-goody flirtatious fart (and at that, I cannot tell a lie).
At the mention of mall coffee shops and spaces, just try to observe, most of these mall watering holes have now been lorded over by silverbacks, er rather silver-haired peeps. Resting them tired legs, I reckon or admiring the pre-Christmas parade of people, suddenly free of the suffocating indoors. Last Sunday’s scene was even quite exaggerated because the whole stretch of the coffee shop area situated under the escalators looked as if all the customers had suddenly been snowed over. White Christmas anyone? At that instance, I had noticed it a bit too late; I had already ordered my brew so that, it’s only in this context that I can say I belong, and be counted among these most distinguished silverbacks.
Going back to our chat about a special group of grouchos, the lady who served my cup said that it has always been part of the job, although I do not, even in the slightest, agree. Service crews always get the short end of the stick, as I like to say, and I try my best to be extra kind at all times. Even now, I still feel a little uncomfortable whenever I hear them say “sir”, because that seems to mean (as my dear friend Connie would say) “slave I remain”.
I fondly remember our singing days at the Hobbit House in Ermita, when the little people waiters and their kin had always been our close friends. We have likewise become regular teammates later on, as we began to play friendly 8-ball matches against other teams from an Australian pub every Sunday.
In the end, I wish our conversation had been much longer because I really would have wanted to share all these and more. I would have also liked to tell her about my own batch of golden geezers who celebrate with me our fiftieth anniversary this year since that last high school graduation. With that much time behind anyone, erupting geezers might have already become quite rare and I wish they all could sit here one afternoon under the escalators to prove me right. Who knows, it is the season and that could perhaps be another reunion, if the legs permit.
HONORING MY MOTHER
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