The Supreme Council of Old Farts

“Well, I’m the first one, as usual!” I thought to myself as I entered the doughnut shop. “Good, no one is at our table.”  I hurried over and dropped my hat and coat on the table while filling my coffee cup. They knew me here and let me get my first cup straight from the refill pot. The others would be here soon, and the Supreme Council of Old Farts (SCOF) would be in session for our weekly confab. 

I scanned the empty chairs and saw many years of faces and heard countless tales of lives well lived. Many had come and gone over the years. Some slipped away, while others left with great fanfare. But every week, 4-5 old farts would be here, ready to share, argue, listen, and care. Yep, SCOF was a constant in our lives, and few of us would miss our coffee time at that old table in the corner of the doughnut shop.

I looked up and saw Charlie walk in. He was a retired Used Car Salesman who still sold a “junker” or two from his backyard. Charlie loved to remind us that, “Social Security was just enough to eat on, but I want to live!” He always had a story but could not be bothered with politics. Everyone was a potential customer. Charlie had a good soul, gathered up joy, and made sure that we all had a good serving before leaving.

Old Simon was right behind Charlie. It was never Simon, always Old Simon. He was twenty years older than the rest of us and carried his age like a well-earned medal of honor. He never talked much about himself, especially after his wife of 60 years had died last year. He enjoyed sitting and listening. He quietly sipped his coffee and took small bites from his blueberry cake doughnut (“No frosting, please”). Occasionally, a couple of us would get all tangled up in a disagreement, and Old Simon would offer a gentle word to remind us that life was too short to let anger poison even one moment. But Simon had a lifetime of joy stored up in his years. It was a joy that withstood the great sadness that 8+ decades of living had thrown at him. But he still had plenty in reserve to share with his friends.

Old Simon and Charlie went to the counter and bought their coffee and pastry before joining me at the corner table.

Dave joined us, the only one of us who was still employed. He taught G.E.D. Classes at the local Community College. He was a gifted and caring teacher who hung in there. Dave grew up in a broken family and never had much. He still didn’t, but he didn’t let that steal away his joy in life. He and his wife raised two kids. They had a couple of grands with more on the way. Dave always talked about retiring to spend time with his family, but we all knew he never would. He would have to walk away from the larger family that filled his soul with joy every day; his students and grads of the G.E.D. Program. Dave grew a crop of joy every day and then harvested a bit to feed his family. He always had enough to share with the rest of us as well.

As Dave sat down, he said, “I heard from Spence. He is not doing too well today. The last Chemo kicked his butt. But you know Spence, he ain’t gonna let nothing keep him down for long.”  We all nodded. We all knew that Spence was just buying time, but his love of life seemed to sustain him when the rest of us would have given up. He needed our joy as much as we needed his. Dave added, “He’ll be here next week! He really wants to know what Charlie will get for that piece of junk Chevy.”  The Old Farts got down to business with a shared bit of laughter, solving the world’s problems and enjoying every moment.

Yep, that old table in the corner of the doughnut shop was important to all of us. It gave us something to look forward to every week. It made it easier to bounce with the “bad news” that filled the rest of our days. The Supreme Council of Old Farts offered a lot of joy that made life a little kinder and sweeter for each of us and the people we encountered every week.

I Don't Work Here Anymore!

It didn’t slam shut, but the door closed with more than its usual click. It was like a prison door closing behind the prisoner as he walked to freedom one last time. But this was no prison door. It was the door to an office where Bill had worked for 30 years. And all Bill could hear in those moments following that last click was, “I don’t work here anymore!”

His former co-workers wished him well and said they would be glad to trade places with him. But all he heard was, “I don’t work here anymore!” 

His old boss shook his hand and said, “We are gonna miss you around here.”  And all he heard was, “I don’t work here anymore!”

His secretary hugged him, saying how much she enjoyed working with him. And all he heard was, “I don’t work here anymore!”

After getting through the gauntlet of well-wishers, he made that last, lonely walk to the parking lot. As he started the car, he heard the engine come to life with the words, “I don’t work here anymore.” Bill had now entered his “well-earned” retirement.

Over the next few weeks, Bill had to face the eternity that stretched before him. The woodworking tools in the garage called out to him. The travel brochures on his bedside table beckoned him. His easy chair with that unread pile of books glared at him. His old briefcase, sitting in its place next to his desk, sat silent and empty. And with all those voices inviting him into a new life, all he could hear was the old briefcase saying, “I don’t work here anymore!”  He stared into an empty, eternal horizon.

A new voice shook him from his nightmarish daydream.

“When are you going to get over yourself?” 

These were the loving words of a loving spouse who had watched the love of her life wallow and whine for weeks. She had had enough!

“You retired from a job, not life! But you still have a life with me and the rest of the world. 

Bill wanted to scream, “My job was my life.” But even as the words began to form, he heard them as his wife would hear them. His soul began to sink. She was right, as usual.

“We are retired, together. We have things we want to do. We have lives to live. Trust me, my dear, I will not let you sit out the rest of our lives. That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Trust me!”  Those words shook his soul!

He had always trusted her. He knew he could count on her for whatever was needed that she could provide. It was not his retirement. It was their retirement. It was not all about him, and she had refused to be part of his singular pity party. Together, they would enter the eternity that reached out before them. They would count on each other as they always had. He would rely on the same trust that had gotten them through so much of the past. They would do it together.

Finally, the voice in his head began to change. “I don’t work there anymore! But we live here!”  And that made all the difference!

The PITA Down the Hall

I was deep in thought when I heard a soft [Knock] [Knock] on my door.

That knock had the familiar about it. It echoed with Andy, the PITA, down the hall.

[Knock] [Knock]

If I ignored him, he might go away. Even as the thought bubbled up from fantasyland, I knew he wouldn’t. He never did. 

 [Knock] [Knock]

With a whispered “#&%* (@,” I pushed my chair back and spoke a reluctant, “Just a second….” My words trailed off in equal amounts of anger and disappointment.

Andy was a nice enough fellow, but he was a real PITA (a pain in the ….)  There was no such thing as a short conversation with him. His stories were like a creeping, flowerless Morning Glory as it branched and forked its way into every moment of every endless minute. No blooms, only tangled vines of verbiage. I hoped he at least had something important to say as I shook my head once again. All I could think about was, “Why did he always come knocking at my door?” I did not want to answer that door, but I knew he wouldn’t leave until I did.

You know the old saying about not asking a question when you do not want an answer? Yep, I shouldn’t have “thunk” it!

As soon as I opened the door and saw Andy’s face, I knew something was up. His face lit up. “Bob, I have the most “wonderful-ist” news! Can I come in?”  (It was more of a declaration than a question.)

Before I could get back to my desk, Andy had launched into a story about a phone call he had received from his brother. He droned on and on, as he usually did, with unnecessary details about their relationship as kids and the ups and downs of the last few years. He barely stopped to breathe. All I needed to add was the occasional nod. As his story began to lose steam, he finally said, “… and he’s coming to see me! He is coming all the way from California. He is coming to see ME!”

The last sentence hung in the air like a flashing marquee. I knew something significant had just happened in my relationship with Andy! He told me something that I needed to know but never had the patience to hear. 

At that moment I saw Andy. Not just his face, but the soul of a lonely, isolated man who did not feel he belonged anywhere or with anyone. His endless monologues over the last year were testimony to his loneliness. The endless details of his day-to-day experiences were like hands reaching out to connect with someone, anyone, even a stranger in the office down the hall. 

“He is coming to see ME!”

I shared my excitement for him and said that I hoped he would bring his brother by the office so all of us could meet him. Andy beamed with pride. He turned to go back to his office, undoubtedly starting a list of things he had to do before his brother arrived. But before he closed the door behind him, he peeked back in and said, “Thank you. I had to tell someone, and you are the only one around here who I knew would give a %$@!”

As the door latch clicked, I began to think about how many times I had opened that door to Andy with resentment and anger. I never knew what a little patience could do to unwrap the gift of love in and for someone who had always been a bit of a mystery to me. 

“Why did he always come knocking at my door?”  Because he wanted to talk to his “brother”!

And I never knew I had a PITA brother down the hall!