You ever feel so lonely that every day lasts a month of Sundays? That's me today.
My daughter set me up in an apartment the size of a shoebox, then filled it with enough furniture to open a store. I couldn't tell you why, seeing as I'm the only one who lives here. She's ten minutes away and never visits, and some days I feel like a pair of old cowboy boots shoved to the back of the closet, outta sight and outta mind.
She got me a smart television too, whatever the hell that is. It comes with five hundred channels, and I never watch four hundred ninety-eight of them. All I need is CSI and NCIS, mostly NCIS, on account of that Mark Harmon fella. Not in a sexual way. He's just a good actor, you know?
Now don't go rollin' your eyes. I know I'm moanin'. I do appreciate what Michelle's done for me, especially this recliner, which is the best thing in the place. It's just that I'm lonely, and I don't know a better word for it than profoundly.
My cellphone rings and I about jump out of my skin. It's shoved so deep in my pants pocket that it takes the jaws of life to get it out, and my arthritis ain't helping my fingers any. By the time I free it, the display says MICHELLE. Well, I'll be damned. I slide the green button over and say, "Howdy. This is a nice surprise."
She doesn't say much, and I grunt every now and then so she knows I'm listening. "Yeah, I ain't forgot," I tell her. "I'm goin' to Walmark in a bit. What's that? I don't care if I'm sayin' it wrong. All right, good hearin' your voice."
She called to remind me to pick up my meds, like I don't already know that. I know she means well, but hell, can't she spare more than thirty seconds? She gave me this fancy phone for Christmas, and it almost never rings except for things I already know, wrong numbers, and sales calls. The sales calls are my favorite. I let the fella, or darlin', I ain't sexist or nothin', rattle on about whatever they're offerin' and pretend I'm interested, anything to keep 'em talkin', because once they figure out I ain't buyin', I'm alone again.
Gripin' won't get me out the door, so I get goin'. It's gonna take a while, since a two-legged hound moves faster than me. My right arm has been actin' up extra lately, and it takes five minutes just to get my jacket on. Then it's another ten to walk to the truck, every step feeling like I'm walkin' on nails, thanks to the diabetes mucking up my feet.
I stare at the open door of the truck like I'm about to climb Mount Everest. I check that nobody's watchin', then hop up into the seat, turn onto my back, tuck my legs in, and roll into position. Phew. I'm worn slap out already, so I catch my breath, use my cane to pull the door shut, slip the key in, and adjust my glasses. I check my mirrors real careful, because I don't intend to run anybody over the way my son-in-law done, and when everything looks clear I ease on out nice and slow.
The Walmark parking lot is busier than a church on Sunday mornin', which means some sale must be goin' on. I got a handicap plate, though, so I cruise right up to the front and slam on the brakes. Well, looky there. A kid just pulled into the last spot and he's joggin' across the road toward the store. I roll my window down and yell.
"Hey! You ain't handicap."
He turns around and gives me a shit-eatin' grin. "I got a placard, gramps," he says, then disappears inside.
That egg-suckin' dog. I hope Walmark's got a spare motorized scooter, because then we'll see how much he's smilin' when I run his ass down. I end up finding a spot close enough that I don't spend all day crossin' hell's half acre, and I go through the same routine to get out of the truck that I did to get in. The automatic doors slide open and the cold air hits me so hard I feel it in my bones.
I step through quick, then stop dead in my tracks, because standin' in front of me is just about the prettiest woman I ever seen. She's got a face like an angel, hair as white as clouds, and a smile that makes me forget how much pain I'm in. She hands me a wagon and I stand there starin' with my mouth hangin' open like a fool.
"Thank you," I say, finally. Then I remember I'm wearin' my low-cut tank top, so I unzip my jacket a little to let her take a gander at my machismo.
She bats her eyes at me. "Welcome to Walmart," she says, and her voice is like a finely tuned motor, smooth but full of power. One step on the pedal and I bet she... Whoa, boy. I'm all tingly now, and I better put a stop to them thoughts, because they ain't very gentlemanly.
"What's your name?" I ask. She points to her badge. I take the wagon from her and tip my Navy ballcap. "Thank you, Bernadette. I appreciate your assistance."
She looks at the cap, then at me, and says, "Thank you for your service." I roll on past grinnin' ear to ear, and when I reach the produce section I glance over my shoulder and catch her lookin'. I can't blame her. I play it cool and give her a little smile, only a little, and keep movin'.
The whole time I'm shoppin' I can't think about anything but Bernadette. I rush through as fast as a man in my condition can, which ain't saying much, and when I get back to the front she's gone and some fella has taken her place. Dang it. My whole body slumps a little as I ask him where she went.
"Her shift's over," he says. "She went home, far as I know."
"She workin' tomorrow?" I ask.
He thinks about it, then shakes his head. "Today's Wednesday. She won't be back till Monday."
I thank him and push my cart out to the truck, drive home, and fall into my recliner. Gonna be a long week.
On Monday I get up real early, not because I want to but because I don't sleep much anymore. You know that shirt that says SHIT HAPPENS? It ain't just a vulgar saying, believe me, because shit does happen when you get old. I make myself breakfast, two turkey sausage links and a couple of fried eggs with a glass of milk, then put on my best tennis shoes, my cleanest shirt, and a pair of shorts. It's early, so I figure her shift is just startin' and she won't disappear on me again.
The lot is nearly empty, and I park real close. When the doors open and the cold air blasts me again, I laugh to myself, thinkin' that if I had any hair, I'd look like somethin' out of a movie with it blowin' all around. I ain't got none, but what I lack on top I make up for in... Okay, okay. Too much information.
I look around and don't see Bernadette anywhere. I don't see a greeter at all, which means I'm too early, so I turn to wait in the truck. I got nothin' else to do anyhow. I'm halfway to the door when I hear that voice.
"Hey, I know you," she says, and my heart starts racing.
She remembers me. I straighten up and pull my short sleeves a little higher, just enough to clear the biceps, because machismo takes some management at my age.
"Bernadette, right?" I say, playin' it cool.
"That's what the nametag says." She laughs and my knees go weak. "You got a name?" she asks, sarcastic but playful, and I like that in a woman.
"Roy. Roy Hammond," I say, stutterin' like a fool.
"Well, Roy Roy Hammond," she giggles, "nice to meet you."
We talk for a spell about our kids and the jobs we had in a past life. She drove a school bus for twenty-two years, she tells me, and she says it like a woman who could make forty kids sit still with a single look. She's not only easy on the eyes but easy to talk to, and every few minutes she pauses to greet a customer and roll out a cart. Eventually her boss comes by and gets a stern look on his face, and I take the hint and head for the door.
"Roy," she calls. I stop, and another blast of cold air hits me. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
I pat my pockets and think hard, but for the life of me I can't come up with it. My memory ain't what it used to be, so it's possible I did forget somethin'. "No," I finally say.
She puts her hands on her fine, curvy hips. "You didn't go shopping. I'd hate for you to drive all the way home and find out you forgot something important."
I smile, because ain't that considerate. "I got exactly what I came for," I say. "See you tomorrow."
"It's a date," she says, and I about trip over my cane.
For the next couple of weeks I show up every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, since those are her days. She talks and I listen, and we laugh about just about everything. I'm wise to her boss by now, so every so often I wander off and pretend to shop until he's gone, then circle back and pick up where we left off.
One Wednesday I'm standin' there tellin' her about the kid with the placard, how he took my spot and called me gramps, and she goes real quiet. Then she pulls a little spiral notebook out of her vest pocket and flips it open to show me a page with a license plate number on it, and next to it a date and a time. "Third time this month," she says. "The manager's heard from me twice already." I look at that notebook for a long moment, because I've been shootin' off my mouth about scooters for a week and she's the one who actually wrote the boy down.
On the third Monday I work up the courage to ask her out. We go for a cup of joe, and that's when things get romantic. But I'm a gentleman and I ain't sharin' much with you, so you'll just have to trust me when I say it went real well.
The next month is about the best I've had in years. We do somethin' together every weekend, and it turns out we got the same taste in movies. She likes westerns, and she likes that Mark Harmon fella too, says he's real cute. She holds a coffee cup with both hands like she's afraid somebody might take it, and I find out she don't eat dessert but will steal one bite off my plate every time and swear she didn't.
So I figure it's time to kick things up a notch and invite her to my apartment for dinner. Don't go gettin' ideas, because at my age a date at home ain't what it used to be. We got plans to watch some NCIS, and I'm cookin'. I was a cook in the Navy and spent some years in the Marriott kitchen, so I got what you kids call skills.
At six o'clock the doorbell rings. She's right on time, and I like punctuality. I open the door and can't believe my eyes, because it's Michelle.
"What are you doin' here?" I ask.
"Nice to see you too, Dad."
I apologize, tellin' her she caught me off guard, and let her in. She looks me up and down. "Why are you all dressed up?" she asks, and then she sniffs the air. "And what's that smell?"
"Whaddya mean? It smells good, don't it?"
"Doesn't it," she says. She's always correctin' me. "It smells great, I'm just surprised is all." I let it slide, since I'm in a particularly good mood this evening.
I close the door, and when I turn around she's already in the kitchen, lookin' at the pots on the stove and the table set for two with cloth napkins. She raises an eyebrow and smiles. "You have a date?"
"So what if I do?" I say, a bit more defensive than I mean to.
"I didn't mean anything by it. I'm happy for you, honestly. Kind of relieved. All this time I thought you were here alone and..." She stops, because the doorbell rings.
"Is that her? I'll let her in."
"You'll do no such thing."
"Fine. If you want, I can escape through the balcony." She laughs. She's always makin' jokes.
"You're fine right where you are," I tell her. "But it's my place, and it'd be gentlemanly of me to be the one who greets her." She shrugs and plops down on the couch to wait.
I open the door and catch my breath. Bernadette's wearing a white collared shirt with little gold dots under a cream button-down sweater, tan pants, and polished black shoes, and her hair looks like she took a cloud and set it for the occasion. "You look amazin'," I say. "As usual." She blushes. "Welcome to my humble castle." I hold her hand as she steps over the threshold.
She looks around, smilin', then spots my daughter on the couch. "Oh, you have company. I'm sorry, I can come back."
Did I mention how considerate she is?
"Not at all," I say. "This is my daughter, Michelle. She was just leavin'."
Bernadette looks disappointed. "That's a shame. I've heard so much about you, and I was hoping to get to know you better."
I'm standin' behind Bernadette shakin' my head at Michelle, and Michelle looks right at me and says, "I can stay, as long as my dad doesn't mind."
Brat.
"Of course," I say. "I can't think of a better way to spend the evenin' than with my two favorite ladies."
I rush around the kitchen like a hummin'bird, because I don't want Michelle tellin' embarrassin' stories while I'm not there to defend myself. When the plates are on the table I say grace, and we dig in. Michelle's eyes land on the pill organizer by my water glass, the seven little doors all open and empty up through today, and she looks at it a second longer than she needs to, then at me, and says nothing at all.
"Where did you two meet?" she asks instead.
"Walmark," I say. Michelle gives me that look, and I know exactly what she's thinkin', and I don't care.
Bernadette reaches over and pats my hand. "Say it however you like, Roy. Corporate has heard worse."
I sit back and listen while the two of them get to talkin', Michelle askin' about the school bus and Bernadette askin' about what I was like as a kid, which Michelle says she'll tell her about over dessert. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I fish it out with fingers that for once don't give me any trouble, the screen says UNKNOWN NUMBER. I look at it for a second, turn it face down by my plate, and pass the potatoes.
