Jumble Story

8. someone feels like giving up; 7.  a 93 year-old woman; 4. an expensive restaurant; 4. after a big meal

Gladys Reginald sipped her water as quietly as she could. She liked to take big sips, although it wouldn’t do to gulp.  There was a big sip that came before a gulp that she had mastered in her 93 years, but the ice cubes in her water class were being entirely uncooperative.  She was already very unsatisfied.

She looked at the empty seat across from her.  Today Gladys was 93 years old and she had decided to treat herself to an expensive lunch at the only French restaurant in town, La Fromage Vert.   It was posh and modern.  The ceilings had fo-tin plates on them and the lighting was purple tinted.  She felt out of place.  She thought it would be a place where she would see other mature people but she saw no one over the age of 40 in the dining room.

Her waiter wasn’t more than 20, probably a college student trying to make money for booze and joints.  She knew.  She could tell his brown hair rebelled against the neatness he had combed it into and she noticed the hole in his ear.  She imagined the vulgar tattoos under his clothes and cleared her throat.

She looked down at the menu and was horrified–not that everything was in French–that everything was so small.  She couldn’t read the appetizers or main courses, or if they had an AARP discount. And she didn’t want to take out her glasses.

She had gone out for lunch to feel young and the exact opposite feeling occurred.  On her 93rd birthday, Gladys had never felt older and she was surprised at how much that bothered her.  She had never felt old.  She had always joked with her friends who were, for the most part, gone now that she was 60 years young…79 years young…85 years young. When she turned 90, she had a big celebration and had even gotten in the paper.   Now all her friends were either buried or in nursing homes with dementia.  And as she sipped her water she realized, at 93 years old, the next time she would be in the paper was when she was dead.

She almost didn’t hear the waiter.

“What did you say?”

“Are you ready to order, ma’am?”

“What are your specials?”

“Well, we have…”

“I’ll have that,” she snapped and handed him the menu before she had time to wonder what she just ordered and if she even liked it.

He left.  She sat for five minutes staring out the window.  When the waiter returned he set down a crusty mini baguette with a long serrated knife and a side salad in front of her.

She automatically placed the cloth napkin in her lap and started eating the salad until she crunched down and simultaneously felt and heard a crack in her mouth.  She spit out the half mashed salad and saw a dark brown walnut on her napkin.   She rubbed her jaw and right before she remembered where she was thought of taking out her dentures to investigate the damage.  She didn’t feel any loose pieces in her mouth but she could have spit them out.  She knew something had broken.

She looked up and around at the other tables but no one had noticed her spit.  She was grateful.  She pushed the salad away and sat waiting for the main course.  She had gotten used to dining alone.  It didn’t bother her anymore.  She used to bring books or magazines or reader’s digest with her to make herself look busy but she had long ago stopped doing that.  She had realized people didn’t notice her and she was fine with that.  She didn’t want any attention.  She knew that usually most attention from strangers was negative attention and could lead to unpleasant experiences.  The waiter came to the table and set before a plate he proudly pronounced as: “Pates au Fruits de Mer.”  She looked at it and vaguely nodded her head at him.  He left.  She sat staring at the food a long time. 

The waiter stared at the woman across the room.  He rolled his eyes.  Lots of people come in here who order things that sound cool but they really don’t like.  He always thought they were rather foolish.  He approached her. 

“Can I do something for you? Is everything to you satisfaction?”  he asked.  She stared at her meal. 

“It’s my birthday,” she whispered.  The waiter had a grandmother of his own.  He replied, “Oh, I’ll be back.”

Gladys wondered why she even bothered anymore.  Her husband was dead 28 years.  Her children had grandchildren and didn’t need her.  When she gave them mints from her purse she could tell they would rather have a check.  They were ready for her to be gone.

A interruption came to her thoughts in the form of a loud announcement,  ”May we have your attention please…please help us celebrate the birthday of…what did you say your name was?”  The waiter was holding a piece of tiramisu with a single candle burning.  He leaned down over her, his ear seconds from her mouth.  She gulped her name into his ear and heard him shout, “Gladys.”   There was some reserved applause and some smiles from the other diners.

Then to Gladys’s mortification the entire staff began singing some generic happy birthday song and clapping to the rhythm in french!   When the song was over she realized painfully that now she was expected to blow out the candle.  She was supposed to be grateful to this boy who had taken her bewilderment and saw it as desperation to be acknowledged and celebrated.

She sat at her small table, her meal still unconsumed, one glass of wine and an empty chair across from her, the center of eyes,  staring into the tiny flame, everyone’s expectations waiting to be gratified.  This was worse than if they had seen her spit.  Then she would have just been an old lady with bad manners.  Now she was an old lady celebrating her birthday alone.

What would happen after she blew the candle?  People would go back to eating. And she would have to eat this piece of dessert, alone, take her leftover home in a box, to a refrigerator, to be eaten by no one.

Gladys looked up at the waiter.  He looked at her and nodded.

She decided it wasn’t worth fighting for anymore.  She turned toward the candle, melted wax dripping on top of the delicate cake and puffed the light out.

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