I’m getting old. I can tell. I skipped over the men in their fifties hitting on me and went straight for the centurions. I’m still shaken.
There is a elderly man named Ron who comes to my show on Tuesdays. Not always, but lately it’s been regularly. Ron is 93 years old. Consumes 5 whiskey sours and drives home. Something scary about that … anyhow.
He’s kind of frightening because he looks exactly like the preacher from Poltergeist 2. No kidding, down to the hat and clothes. So keep that picture in mind as I tell this story.
Each week Ron comes in and gives me a hug. Today he asks, can I hug him a little longer because he’s had a bad day. Ah, I think, poor soul. Absolutely.. I embrace him.
He said, “You smell good.”
“It’s my laundry detergent,” I told him. “I make it myself. Everyone comments on it.”
“You know … I come here to see you.”
“Thanks, Ron, that’s sweet.”
“You’re a good looking gal,” He nudged me with his shoulder.
“Thank you.” Really, I was trying to do my job. I stared at the computer.
“I get around you know.” He winked.
“Of course you do.” I mean, really that was obvious, he drove to my show.
“Could use some company, can I call you some time and we can go around?”
So, I’m sipping my drink, thinking he needs me to help him grocery shop. He’s 93 years old. Probably doesn’t have any family. So, being the nice person I am. I told him. “Sure, I would love to go around with you and help you out.”
“Nice, very nice. That makes me day and give me something to look forward to.”
So, I’m thinking. I’m shining in the eyes of the powers that be. Brightening the day of a man nearing a centurion age.
Until of course he taps a my butt with his boney fragile hand. “Wanna let you know, I’m told I’m quite good.”
Clear throat. Reach for drink. “Um, uh, wow. Good to know.”
“When can I get that number of yours?” he asked.
“Um, I don’t have it. It’s a cell phone and I don’t know the number.” Yeah, that was it. He’d buy that story. Heck, I’d buy that story. I rattled. “Next week. Ask my son for it.” I brought my drink to my lips.
“And just so you know,” he said. “In case you’re wondering. It still works.”
I didn’t want to say anything. I wasn’t wondering … okay, maybe I was. Until he said.
“Yep, I work it out twice a day.”
SPLAT. Everything in my mouth voluntarily sprayed outward.
He chuckled, nudged me again and walked off. I stood dumbfounded. This was a true story. And I swear to God I’ll kick my son’s ass if he give him my number. I can see Drew doing that to be funny.