Then it was my
turn.
I wondered where
I would feature in the cohort. Would I be one of the young and restless, who
only require a quick transaction so that their vivacious existence could continued unabated. Or would I be viewed as part of the geriatric crew, who
patently required a little friendly banter to help them struggle on through
until sundown.
I laid my milk
and bananas on the counter.
“How are you?
How are things with you today?”
I am old.
I shouldn’t have
been surprised. I am, after all, a mere notch off being sixty. My beard, this
morning, was un-mowed and tatty. My eyebrows windswept and pillow ridden. My
eyes glazed over from an abundance of Friday night slumber. Of course I was
going to be chatted-to. Of course I was going to be old.
I confirmed that
I was indeed as well as could be expected for a person in my condition and asked
for a lottery ticket. A Quick pick (with the plus). I have a curious
relationship with the lottery. Years ago, I cultivated six favourite numbers
that I played every week. They were good numbers. Once, a full five of them
came up and I collected a low four figure sum in cash at the post office, thank
you very much. But the recurring six figures became just another small burden to lug
around with me on my slow journey to the tomb so I gave them up. Instead, I started
avoiding all lottery results in case, by abandoning my numerical travelling
companions, I inadvertently discovered that I had made one of the worst mistakes of my life.
So now I just
play once a week, with randomly chosen numbers picked by the machine behind the
counter, which I ask for when I get my Saturday morning breakfast groceries at
the local shop. Just another old gentleman in the queue, seeking fortune and some
easily digestible fruit.
“Can I get a
Quick pick, please. Six Euro with the Plus.”
The girl went to
work on her machine.
“If you win,”
she announced, “I’m coming with you.”
This shook me a
tiny bit. I could just about bear the ‘old man’ categorisation, but I had no
idea I had suddenly grown so very non-threatening. I wasn’t sure what to reply.
“Thanks,” I said,
which, in retrospect, sounded quite wrong.
She handed me my
ticket, having ascertained that last week’s ticket was, as usual, a complete dud.
She looked at me rather intently as I filed the new ticket away in my back
pocket.
“What would you
do?” she asked.
“Sorry?”
“If you won.
What would you do?”
The queue behind
me shuffled. Either they were young and needed to rapidly restart their
glamourous lives or else they were old, like me, and just shuffled naturally.
I thought about
the question. Somehow it seemed more than one of those random old person
banter-bytes. What would I do?
“I’d quit work,”
I volunteered, “yes, I’d quit work.
“Oh, they all
say that,” she replied and I figured she meant all the old folk she
interviewed, because she clearly didn’t poll the young go-getting folk, “they
all say they’d give up work…”
She leaned over
the counter a little more. Her blue eyes were rather piercing. Perhaps she did
intend to run away with me after all, if I ever assembled sufficient money.
“What would you
really do?”
I am very rarely
at a loss for a couple of words but, this time, I was at a loss. I really was.
What would I do? Would I even want to give up work. I'm often restless after as little as a week off.
The girl quickly
saw that she had pressed the old geezer too hard. She had confused him and
caused him to drift away in his mind, probably to memories of the Great War or
Cowboy Times. She threw in a couple of suggestions, to try to kickstart my poor
old brain.
“Would you go on
a holiday, maybe? Buy a new car?”
I snapped out of
it. I had to. There was a rising mutinous aura coming from the queue.
“Yes, yes,” I
doddered, "I’d go on holiday and buy a car.”
She smiled.
“Good plan,” she
said.
Then I gathered
up my things and left, feeling twenty years older than when I came in.
As I walked to
the car, I could feel the effect wearing off. I became young again. My steps
got stronger and a dog, who was clearly thinking of messing with me, instead
turned tail and slunk away. I was restored.
But the question
lingered. It lingers still. What would I do? Give up work, take a holiday, buy
a car. Yes, yes, yes… But what would I really do?
The only
conclusion I have come to, as I sit and type this, is that I really don’t know
what I’d do… but I’d sure as hell like to find out.
So watch this
space. This week’s numbers look strangely promising.
All may yet be
revealed.