Tonight, at the deli, my very last table was a very old couple who comes in about twice a month. They are crotchety and argumentative and bicker at each other the entire time they're there. She is frail, in a wheelchair, until he helps her into her seat, and he is also getting to the point of being frail, but not quite there yet. His voice is gruff, and hers, well, about the same. Tonight, she had painted her nails and put lipstick on (properly, mind you, not all over the place like some would do). Her hair is done, and his is combed-over.
The first time I met them, they were a servers worst nightmare. Nothing was right, and not only was there nothing I could do to make anything better, but they were determined to make sure I knew it. Several times after that, I felt the weight of dread come over me anytime I saw them parking in the lot. I gritted my teeth through the entire meal, knowing that I would have to give them some kind of compensation for the sub-standard meal they were forced to endure. They were the epitome of a server's worst day on the job.
And then, one day, we got to talking. I learned that she had been a teller in a bank in Beverly Hills and that they had lived all over the country. She told me stories of famous people she would help at the bank, the most notable being Fred Astair. They had nice, loving stories to tell of each other and their life together. I was amazed at the fact that they hadn't written a book about their amazing journey in life. They became two of my favorite customers.
Tonight, they still bickered. Their first argument was because she was using a fork to get a pickle out of the jar, and he told her to use the tongs that were provided, and she finally told him to shut up and let her do it. I chuckled, but thankfully, they didn't notice.
She ordered her vegetable quesadilla. I knew already to write down that the veggies had to be chopped up and cooked well, so that I wouldn't have to hear, yet again, how ridiculous it is for restaurants to expect people to eat vegetables that aren't mushy.
He wasn't ready yet, and told me to put in her order while he decided.
When I returned, she asked for a cup of coffee, and then slid the creamer bowl to the end of the table and said "these are all dirty!" He made a comment about how the busboy must be sleeping, and I looked into the bowl to see that half of the creamers were opened, and used. I scoffed and said "why do people put used creamers back in the bowl?", intending it to be a rhetorical question.
He quickly replied "Because they're stupid! Stupid idiots!"
And I whispered to him "Thank you for saying it for me. I'm not allowed to say things like that."
I smiled, and they both smiled back.
This brings me to my point:
Everyone has a story. Just take the time to consider that.
Realize that there is a reason, or more likely, many reasons, why people behave the way that they do. There are volumes upon volumes of history behind every face, every action, of every person you encounter. You also have a story. Think about how good it would be if other people took the time to think about that. Take that cue, and always remember to think about the story.
The second point: I want to be those two old people when I grow up, if I grow up. They're honest, and don't hold back. They show their feelings and don't feel badly about it. They are kind and caring people. They have lived a great life adventure. Separately and together. And who can ask for more than that?
Life is an adventure, so take lots of pictures, learn from the struggles, relish in the good times, and be prepared to share your story.
And just for fun, speak your mind.
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