Old People
Old People
By
Matthew Henry
My grandfather died Saturday morning. We knew it was coming. He was ready. My grandmother died the year before, and he wanted to be with her wherever she was. He had a very good life, fought in three wars and was the head of the family for a good long while.
I drove down to my parents’ house that afternoon, expecting everyone to be there, if not mourning, then to at least just be there. Nope. It’s just my parents as if it were an ordinary Saturday. My father was out in the yard, and my mom reading a book inside. Neither of them seemed to really need me down there, but I stuck around because…well, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?
Dealing with personal problems at my own home, I didn’t want to go back just yet. My, for all intents and purposes, husband was in the middle of an oddly long process of dumping me, and being around my parents (and in some ways my grandparents) comforted me. I felt protected, child-like, being there with them. They quietly understood that right now I needed them more than they needed me, as I was grieving for more than just the passing of my grandpa. I mourned a dead relationship as well.
So I suggested we go to a movie that night. I thought that was less pathetic than asking if I could move back in and have my old room again. Although I had already seen it twice on my own, Clint Eastwood is one of my dad’s favorite actors, we all agreed to go see Million Dollar Baby.
At some point as we get older, you’d think eventually your parents will stop embarrassing you in public. This is the first movie I’d gone to see with them since…God, I think Cocoon was the last film we saw together in a theater. It’s safe to say that parents will never stop embarrassing you. Ever.
We arrive at the theater, and the lines at the ticket counter are really long. I don’t think I’ve not purchased movie tickets online in years, and when I see that the theater had those self serving ticket kiosks where you can use a credit or debit card, I say, “Mom, why don’t we get our tickets from the machine?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, clutching her purse a little tighter as some baggy-jeaned teenagers pushed their way through the crowd. “I don’t like those machines. Pam uses those, but I don’t like them.”
“Yes, but the lines are shorter and moving quicker than the box office.”
“But then I have to use my check card and I don’t like using it,” she says.
“Then you stand in this line, and I’ll stand in line at the box office,” my father suggests, “and whoever gets there first buys the tickets.”
I’m not so sure I see the point in that. And neither does my mom: “Now, Ray, that’s just stupid. We can use the machine and I’ll have Matt do it.”
“Mom, it’s not hard, you just follow the instructions. It’s like an ATM.”
“Oh, I don’t use the ATMs.”
“Well,” my dad starts to get impatient, “while you guys are sitting there arguing, I’m going to stand in line over there at the ticket counter.”
We inch up in our line. He inches up in his line. Suddenly, my mom remembers…
“RAY! Don’t forget to get two senior tickets and one adult!”
“WHAT?” he yells back. “I’m not stupid, Karen, I’ll get three adult tickets!”
“GET THE SENIOR DISCOUNT! TWO of them!”
“Just TWO tickets? Is Matt going home?”
“NO, Matt’s not going home! GET TWO SENIOR TICKETS AND ONE ADULT TICKET!”
Mind you, this is back and forth across the lobby of the theater. Of course I got to the kiosk faster than my father got to the front of the box office, and with a boop-beep-boop-boop-beep, three tickets (two senior, one adult) pop out of the machine.
“See, mom? It’s really easy.”
“Mm. That’s how people get the identity theft. Connie sent me an email about it. Now where’s your father?”
My dad is up at the box office counter ordering tickets from some thirteen year old looking girl with glasses, braids and bad skin.
“RAY! WE HAVE OUR TICKETS!”
Holding up the line and scaring the heck out of that girl, he shouts back, “I thought I was getting the tickets!”
“NO, RAY! You saw us at the machine getting tickets. Why would you also need to get tickets?!”
“Why the hell am I standing in line then?”
Tickets in hand, we stand in line for popcorn, candy and sodas. I discover my parents are line jumpers. As we did with the tickets, they’ll each stand in a different line until they determine which line is moving faster. You blink once and suddenly they’re in a different line because now that one is moving faster. I’ve never seen old people move that fast. I swear to God, I’d glance away for a second and they were gone.
“Matt! We’re over here!”
–blink—
“Matt! WE’RE IN THIS LINE OVER HERE, BUT STAY IN THAT ONE JUST IN CASE!”
–blink—
“Where’s your father?”
–blink—
“Now where the hell did that woman go?”
–blink—
“If you get there first, your father wants a number one combo with—RAY! WHAT KIND OF SODA?”
–blink—
“No! Not that line! There’re kids in that line!”
–blink—
…and we’re all back in our original line.
As my dad layers his popcorn with salt and butter, my mom takes a sip of her soda.
“Oh, that’s—he gave me a lemonade with sprite in it.”
“Well, what did you want?” I ask her.
“A lemonade.”
“Well, take it back.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want to create a scene.”
Oh really? At all? You don’t want to create a scene? But you and dad will yell at each other across a crowded theater on a Saturday night as if you’re the only people here?
So this is my thing with older people: sure, they’re there annoying me by driving slow in the fast lane, or leaving their turn signal on for hours, or slowly blocking pedestrian traffic on a busy city sidewalk as they shuffle off to the store, or embarrassing their adult children in a movie theater…but they’re also there on a park bench holding hands, working in the garden, volunteering, and they’re up there somewhere reminding us, reminding me, that I’ll have that one day, what my parents have, their own strange little world. I want it, and I’m saying it here and now: I can’t wait to turn into my parents and embarrass the hell out of my grown children.
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