Like many other seniors, I live alone. That means housekeeping alone and cooking alone.
I can afford to have somebody come in once a month to clean up my
place, but hiring someone to cook is another matter. Hence, I eat most
of my meals out, and the most important of these to me is the first of
the day.
Breakfast gets our human motor running, and prepares us for the
hazards and emotional potholes that lie in wait in Real World 101. But
you can't eat breakfast just anywhere. It has to be someplace special.
To me, that means a table in a quiet corner where I can read the
newspaper while enjoying my coffee and toast, or
peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, without the tumult of garish music or
loud voices to disrupt the ambience of my little hideaway. Even my
tinnitus cooperates, being relatively subdued at this early hour.
Most of us are creatures of habit, seeking out our favorite spot to
begin the day, and I'm no different. Thus when I discovered a little
haven in a remote section of the Jewish Community Center in Cherry
Hill, I adopted it as my own.
I'm not a hermit, nor is my little haven a cave. A brief nod or a
hello to a familiar face is sometimes required. A chat with a friend
may occur, but, for the most part, it has become the perfect place to
get things started. That first swallow of coffee, that first bite of
peanut butter and jelly, is the fuel that gets my machinery going.
Until recently, this cozy cafe, sewn neatly into the fabric of the
JCC and away from the bustle of Cherry Hill, has been insulated by
virtue of its obscurity - like a small, intimate park in a large city.
Enter the specter of modern technology.
I'm certain that many customers who share the cafe with me carry
cell phones. However, either by accident or plain good manners, none
had used them in my presence. That was about to end.
He came out of nowhere - a stranger - like the lost traveler who knocked on the door in Wuthering Heights.
He wasn't a regular, and to give him the benefit of any doubt, perhaps
he wasn't in tune with the feng shui of my breakfast retreat. He had
the phone to his ear when he walked in, and it was still there when he
left 20 minutes later.
But worst of all was his voice. Why do some people find it necessary
to shout into their phones? They're sensitive instruments and don't
appreciate being shouted into; they pick up soft voices just as easily
as loud ones.
Some of us, of course, just want to be heard. Whatever the reason,
this guy never let up. Through his entire breakfast, which consisted of
juice, toast, margarine and coffee, he rambled on.
As it turned out, Mr. Loud was "confiding" in a coworker about their
firm's problems: People were leaving, replacements were inexperienced,
commissions were being slashed, and clients were complaining.
"Our necks are on the block," he lamented. "Chicago's tightening belts, and I don't want to be next."
On and on it went in the same vein. Loud voice aside, it was an
eerily fascinating conversation to overhear. I felt like an insider to
classified information.
It reawakened in me the blessings of being retired. No home offices
to satisfy, no more deadlines to meet, no more sales goals, no more
arrogant superiors who suddenly become 12 feet tall, and nobody to
overlook the 20 positive things that I'd accomplished and instead come
down on my lone mistake.
So much for the past. For the present, my nice, quiet breakfast had
been ruined - shattered into tiny peanut-butter-and-jelly-covered
crumbs. Whatever perils the day had in store for me would have to be
faced without the calming effects of a secluded breakfast.
I was tempted to ask this guy whether he was planning on coming
around every day, but I held back, not wanting to ignite any latent
indoor road rage.
Up until now, he hasn't returned. Where he came from, and where he
went, I have no idea, but I wished him and his associates the best of
luck. I know what it's like to be out of work. Been there, done that.
It can be traumatic. I don't wish it on anyone.
All the more reason to start the day without the snap, crackle and pop of life.
Sidney B. Kurtz writes from Pennsauken.
