Cafeteria Man

My wife and I eat at a cafeteria sometimes. There, I've said it. It's all out in the open now and I feel the relief of an alcoholic stating he isne at his frist AA meeting. If this is the first article you have read of mine, you will forever have made an association between me and cafeterias. And I will have, in effect, become Cafeteria Man. No matter how hip, hilarious and scintillating my future articles may be, you will still envision me as this semi-comical figure, the typical person who eats in one of those establishments. To be specific, an old person, a geezer, senior citizen, gramps, pops, a wrinkle wrangler, a private in the Incontinental Army, a denture, the Viscount of Viagra, a staff sergeant in the Early Bird Special Forces.

This never bothered me 15 or 20 years ago, when I saw those old people eating at the next table. But now, now that I've shuffled across the threashhold of 60, now when I see an old person, then realize, with shock, that's it's a fellow high school alumnus, now that I've developed a phobia of mirros, now, I must accept the arthritic hand that fate has dealt me. I am a nearly-62-year-old man who eats in a cafeteria, and it doesn't matter if I do it three times a week or twice a year, I have become an archetypal symbol of that demographic, Cafeteria Man. I am no longer a disinterested or a sympathetic observer of their odd behavior, I am one of them now. I am the observed. Now, there are people in their 30s and 40s watching me, with the passing thought, "There goes me in 30 or 20 years, poor old codger." Or worse yet, unsympathetic guys in their teens or 20s, totally goofing on me:

"Get out of my way, you old goat!"

"Eat up, gramps, you're gonna miss your charter bus!"

"Who, everybody get back, it's a prune-loader."

"Hey, Methuselah, why don't you comb that ear hair over your head and cover your bald spot."

"Can I have your autograph, Mr. Vigoda?"

"Good thing you got varicose veins, Pops, or you wouldn't have any legs at all!"

"Good evening, Mr. Dent, this must be your wife Polly."

"Would you like me to pre-chew your food for you?"

"Move it, old man, I could make you disappear with a dust cloth."

"Do you really like wearing your pants that high or did your old lady give you a wedgie?"

Well, thank God, none of these remarks have been made so far, or maybe they have, and I'm just so out of it, I haven't noticed. I guess the best way to handle reality, though novel for me, is to accept it and deal with it the best I can. I'll be proactive and simply embrace what I've become, Cafeteria Man.

Tomorrow, I'm getting a whole new wardrobe: A pair of plaid pants, and checkered shirt to blend in, some Hush Puppies and white socks, and one of those tan all-weather hats. Then I'm goin to start going to the cafeteria 5 times a week, each visit preceded by an Early Bird breakfast at an IHOP. I'll drive there with my right blinker on and back home with the left one on. And when I get to the line, I'll go into a hacking cough fit, and I won't bathe for weeks at a time till I can get that good old person musty coffin smell going. And I'll slap young whippersnappers on the back and "accidentally" goose the young girls.

Just like Vince Lombardi, Guy Lombardo, or Gay Lumbago (arthritic female impersonator of the '50s), or some old guy said: "The best offense is a good defense", or is it the other way area? Who cares? I'm Cafeteria Man, hear me wheeze!