It happened this morning. Turned another page in the life thing.
At the convenience store for my morning caffeine – Mountain Dew, if you must know – the tall clerk looked down at me and said, “Good morning, young sir.”
You’ve heard the same sort of thing, I’m sure. My mother is called “young lady” by one of the waiters when we visit. She’s flattered by it. He’s a handsome waiter.
I’m not sure I’ve reached the feeling-flattered stage, just yet. The Quik Trip clerk didn’t say “young sir” in a condescending tone; in fact, it rolled off his tongue as if I really was the ten-year-old street urchin I imagine myself to be. On the inside, I’m the Artful Dodger – only without the shoplifting and pickpocketing part. Street-wise and ready to take on the world.
Trouble is, at some point I turned into the old guy who enters the store and has the door held open by a young gang member. He had tattoos that had tattoos. His ball cap had a bill that looked the size of a carport and was shifted slightly to the side, probably to help him get it throught the doorway.
Maybe he held the door open because he recognized the Artful Dodger in me, except I’m guessing he wouldn’t recognize a character from a Dickens novel, if young Jack Dawkins led Oliver Twist right out of the book and they both picked his pocket.
The whippersnapper sacker at Reasor’s asked if I wanted to have him help me carry out my purchases – two little bags that could have easily been one medium bag. “I think I can manage,” I said, suddenly unsure.
There is bound to be an up-side the the whole aging thing, and I’m hoping it is more than the senior discount at Taco Bueno. I once thought that over the years I was storing up wisdom, but it turned out to be an after-effect from the tacos.
At least we (the Dodger and I) can laugh about it:
Mo Info: