#55

Two men ambulated through the door, clomping their walkers like tired cattle on a long drive. They moaned and sighed and laughed and creaked while settling their sagging behinds onto the high bar stools.

“Easier to get into than a dining room chair.” One said to me.

“Good thing we like to drink.” Said the other. “We will be stuck here for a while.”

I did not pay them much attention. I was busy writing a mean text to the person who should have been sitting where these old men now sat, next to me. And I was doing a good job, both of being angry and of ignoring them, until the bartender asked if they wanted another round. I turned when I heard the gravely noise that an old man’s voice makes when he is crying, like he has swallowed some buttons.

“I miss so many things that went away.” The first old man wept.

“The hotel.” Wailed the other.

“The Howard Johnson.”

“No, the Waldorf.”

“The Waldorf salad.”

“No, the Waldorf hotel!”

“I miss the salad too. Can’t eat nuts and apples with these teeth.”

I was hungry so I asked for the check. I wanted a salad, but not here. I was no longer angry, no longer wanting to be remembered as cruel.