Most of my loyal readers will recall that I have a Wednesday morning club advice hour, when I dole out the wisdom that I have accrued over a long lifetime to mems who have problems. These can range from the home front to the everyday goings-on at the club and all and sundry found throughout life itself. My helping hour has acquired a nickname: “The Queue.”
When I arrive at a few minutes before 10, there is an anticipatory buzz in the senior reading room that can be heard from as far away as the reception desk. But when I take my seat in the green wingback chair by the bay window all fall silent as I scan the faces of my fellow club members, who have formed a line stretching back along the fireplace wall.
Recently I was surprised to see Sherman Sorbet as my first customer, rubbing his hands as if starting a fire. He looked like anxiety itself. I nodded quickly at him and he shot into the chair opposite me like a frightened sparrow. By the look on his face I knew this would take some time and so put all thought of an early martini from my mind.
“All is sacred, eh, Major?” he whispered.
“Sacred,” I replied. Of course he wanted to know that whatever he said would be kept between us. I nodded that I understood an 84-year-old chap might not want it spread about, whatever it was, and straightened my grey flannels for emphasis. I formed my fingers into a church roof, stared at the ceiling and waited for him to speak.
“The Internet”, he blurted.
I was not surprised. Many club mems have started their discourse with me by saying the same thing. It is an early 21st century cri de coeur, at least within the “elderly set.” I remember one chap who complained to me that he answered a friend’s e-mail by calling a mutual acquaintance a fathead, only to discover that he had pushed “Send all.” Apparently this “fathead” was one of the “all” and took great exception to the public name-calling. There was hell to pay, I can tell you. It was one of my earliest cases and took some time to smooth the waters. An enormous amount of alcohol and apology were required.
In the case of Monsieur Sorbet, he had placed himself on a website called “The Last Round-Up” in order to meet the woman of his dreams. No one under 75 need apply. He had been anxiously checking his e-mail every few minutes for nine years hoping to come across said woman and all for naught.
He had gone out on a number of dates because the pictures had seemed promising, only to find that there can be a wide chasm between photographs and real life. He simply could not understand why women would modify their image when they knew that one day they would have to pay the piper, as it were, namely meet Sherman in the flesh, when all would be revealed as a fraud.
I asked to see the photo he posted on the site and he produced one that must have been taken 20 years ago.
“You are all at it,” I pointed out.
Sorbet huffed a bit at that “Cheap advice”, as he called it.
“Yes,” he said, “but at least it is a photo of me.” He went on to say that most of the women had substituted images of actresses and crowned heads of Europe, rather hoping their prince might have cataracts or be confused rather than angry.
I could not help but bristle at that and shut down the engines. I looked at my shoes in anger. Sorbet grasped that I had gone to my special place in response to his rudeness and quickly ordered a double martini for me.
“And another,” I stipulated. I will stand for no nonsense during my Wednesday morning of sage advice.
Once I had my silver yum-yums, I explained that at his age he should be looking for a pleasant companion, not someone from Hollywood – a person he could enjoy his last years with before walking towards the glittering light.
He sat up and said he knew just the female to fit the bill. He had met her a few years ago, nice to talk to but had a funny nose. He would look her up if she hadn’t passed, as that happens a great deal at The Last Round-Up. Some expire before one can get to them, very unsettling apparently.
He left with a smile. I do my best, you see.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2015.
Leave a Reply