Lunch at Don & Paul's

05 Lunch at Don & Paul's second edit 2/29 10 AM

I looked at my wrist. Force of habit. I don't wear a watch anymore. I looked at my phone. 11:40. Good. It will be noon by the time I get there. I got up, grabbed my hat and coat, and headed out the apartment door and down the hall. Strange name, Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments. I wonder who that was? I have to remember to google that.

There's Mrs. Schiocetti. Guarding the front door and watching who comes and goes.

“Good morning again, Mrs Schiocetti. Going to Don & Paul's for lunch,” I said. Might as well just get it out of the way.

Mrs. Schiocetti hit the handicapped button and the door swung open.

“Do you walk all that way, Mr. Gibson?” she asked.

“It's not that far,” I said. “Only a half a mile.”

Half a mile. Sheesh. That's not far. I used to walk a lot farther than that. Why, when I was a kid we'd think nothing of walking the mile from Swayze Acres to the village. I did it every day in the summer to take swim lessons. A bus would take us... somewhere. I don't remember where. South Troy? Then the bus would bring us back to the village and I'd walk a mile back home.

Waterford began the “Learn to Swim” program because kids drowned in the rivers or canals every summer. Drowned like clockwork, they did. Then the village finally got smart and put a pool at the Fourth Street playground. Kids still drowned in the rivers and canals sometimes.

I used to love to walk. The view is real nice from the top of the hill. And then the road descended down into the valley. The valley. Ha. I sang the lye soap song to myself. Somebody named Johnny Standley sang it. I only know that because my mom had the 45, and Johnny Standley's name was on the label. I used to love mom's old record player.

You remember Grandma's Lye soap,

Good for everything in the home -

And the secret was in the scrubbing -

It wouldn't suds, and couldn't foam!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

Little Herman and brother Thurman

Had an aversion to washing their ears

Grandma scrubbed them with the lye soap

Now they haven't heard a word in years!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

Mrs. O'Malley, down in the valley

Suffered from ulcers, I understand

Swallowed a cake of Grandma's Lye Soap-

Has the cleanest ulcers in the land!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

O Sing, O sing! O! Of Grandma's Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes!

And for your hands and for your face!"

Ha. I'll have to google that when I get home and see if I can find that record.

Several cars passed me as I shuffled my way down the sidewalk over the bridge over the railroad tracks. No antique cars. Just jelly beans. Why don't people fix some of these places in the sidewalk where frost heaves pushed up some of the concrete? I could trip and fall and break a hip. Then I might say something stupid and get Baker Acted again.

I got to O'Connor's rock wall next to the church hall. I stopped to rest. Stopped to rest. Ha. I never stopped to rest when I was a kid. What in the hell happened to me? A police car pulled up and stopped.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson,” the officer said as he put down the window. It was Officer Boyd.

“Hello, officer,” I said.

“Nice day,” said Officer Boyd.

“Yes sir. I decided to head to Don and Paul's for lunch.”

“Well, you have a good one,” he said. “And be careful crossing the streets.” And then he drove off.

Nice guy. Every police officer I've ever met has been nice to me. I don't know why some people have such a problem with the police. Just be polite and do what they say. No mouthing off. No attitude. That gets you in trouble with everyone, and police officers are no exception.

I thought back to the time when Bob Naisse and I walked to the village and bought a six pack at the ginney store. I still can't believe that no one ever told us the word “ginney” wasn't a nice word. It may as well have been “Lucy's Store” for all we cared. The old Italian ladies that ran it never even asked for an ID. We were about fifteen or sixteen, but we had money. While I paid for the beer, the other lady put it in a brown paper bag.

Since we were lugging the beer, we stopped at the church hall to hitch-hike up the hill. Several cars passed, and then Bob said “Shit. Here comes the cops!” We didn't stick our thumbs out. The cop car stopped.

“You fellas looking for a ride?” asked one policeman out the passenger side window. “Get in.”

Shit. Bob and I looked at each other. We got in the back. Bob got in first, then me. I placed the bag between us.

“Where are you guys headed?” asked the passenger seat officer.

“You can drop us off at the school,” said Bob.

There was no way in hell we'd have them drop us off at Swayze Acres. Then they'd know where we lived. The police cruiser passed Swayze Acres and past the cemetery and stopped at the school's driveway. The passenger side officer got out and opened the door for us. We got out. The officer looked at Bob and me, and the bag.

“You guys keep it quiet. OK?” he said. “No trouble.”

“No sir,” we both said at the same time.

The officer got in and the car pulled slowly away.

“Man, that was close,” I said. “I guess we fooled them.”

We turned and walked back down the road and to the cemetery. Once we walked in the driveway, we felt safe. What if one of our parents drove by? Or if the cops came by again? We walked to the back of the cemetery and sat on some grave stones under the huge horse chestnut tree. I took a beer out and handed it to Bob, and got one for myself.

“Do you really think we fooled the cops?” asked Bob.

“Yeah.”

“We better watch for headlights coming in the driveway anyway,” said Bob.

I don't remember now what we talked about. Kid stuff, I guess. I can't rightly say. I wonder what we did with the empties? I'm pretty sure we didn't just leave them laying around. That would give away our hanging out spot. We liked it there because it was private. No parents watching us. Ten or twelve of us would sometimes gather under that horse chestnut tree. We probably put the empties in the bag and tossed them in some bushes. I wonder if those cans are still in the bushes? Probably. I feel bad now, littering and all.

Thinking back now, I'll bet we didn't fool those cops at all.

I stood, found my feet, and continued on toward the village. I passed St. Mary's Elementary School. I wonder how old that building is? I turned off the sidewalk and approached the school. On the bottom of the right corner was one of those time capsule blocks built into the wall. It had a date on it. 1953. That dang building isn't as old as I am.

Down past St. Mary's church I went. Down the small hill and into the village proper. I crossed Broad Street at the light. No darn kids. Good. I got to Don and Paul's, pulled open the old wooden door, and walked in. I took my hat off and looked around. Kind of busy. But there was an empty stool. I hung up my hat and coat and left my cane leaning on the wall. I made my way to the stool and sat.

“Why hello, Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla, smiling brightly. “Menu?”

“Yes, please.”

I looked over the specials. I'll order the French onion soup. I love French onion soup. Just a cup though.

“Have you decided?” asked Kayla as she came back over.

She's a good waitress. Very attentive.

“I'll have a cup of the French onion soup. And... a roast beef sandwich on rye, lettuce and Russian dressing.”

“No Russian dressing honey. Is Thousand Island OK?”

“That's fine, thanks.”

“Fries, salad, or chips?” she asked.

“If you have potato salad, I'll have that,” I said.

“OK Hun,” said Kayla as she hurried off.

I looked at the mirror behind the counter. I could see most of the people sitting at it. I didn't see anyone I might recognize. I wonder what age you have to be when the waitresses started calling you “Hun”, “Honey”, and “Darlin'”? Whatever age that is, I am well over it.

“Here's your soup, darlin',” said Kayla as she set the cup in front of me. It looked good, with the cheese melted over the top and running down the sides of the cup. I finished it quickly. I must be hungrier than I thought. And right on cue, there was Kayla with my sandwich.

“Here you go, Mr. Gibson,” she said as she set it down and hurried off again. She's a busy young lady.

“Did she say Gibson?” asked the person to my right.

“That's me,” I said.

“Are you from Waterford?” he asked.

“I grew up here. Moved away, and just moved back,” I replied.

“I thought you looked familiar,” he said as he stuck his right hand out to me. “I'm Ed Dublin.”

“Ed! I'm sorry but I didn't recognize you. It's been years!” I said as I shook his hand. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good for an old guy,” said Ed. “Where are you living?”

“Van Schoonhoven Square,” I said. “You?”

“I bought the old Muenster House on First Street,” he answered. “Been there for thirty years now.”

“Muenster? I can't place the name,” I said.

“Yeah, the Muenster House. I bought it from Herman and Lily Muenster, he answered with a smile.

“HA! The Muenster TV show. You had me going there, Ed.”

“Well, it sorta looks like it, all creepy and stuff,” said Ed. “It needs painting now too. Next month I'm getting it done.”

“So you never really left Waterford?” I asked.

“No. Not for very long, anyway,” he continued. “Many of us from the class of '68 stayed.”

“Well, I've been around a bit. I've seen most of the country. Lived in a few. Lived on a boat for awhile, traveled down the east coast.”

“Really?” said Ed. “You'll have to tell me about it sometime. But right now I have to run. Hoot, good to see you.'

“You too Ed,” I replied. “See you around.”

Ed got up, walked to the wall with hooks, grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door.

Son of a gun. Ed Dublin. I haven't seen him since... what... 1971 I think. He's gotten old.

I finished my sandwich and looked in the mirror behind the counter. An old man was looking back at me. What in the hell happened? I put my napkin on my plate. Very shortly after, Kayla came over.

“All done, Mr. Gibson?”

“Yes mam.”

“How was everything?”

“It was good, as usual,” I answered as she put the check face down in front of me. I placed my debit card on it without looking at it. Kayla swooped by, picking up the check as she passed. She brought it back with my card and a pen on top. I picked up the check and turned it over. $9.34. I added $2 for a tip, picked up my card and stuffed it back in my wallet, and stood up. I started to lose my balance and grabbed the counter.

“Are you OK buddy?” asked the guy on the stool to the left of me as he reached and grabbed my left arm.

“I'm OK, thanks,” I said sheepishly. “I just lost my balance a little.” He let go of my arm. I shuffled over to the wall hooks, put on my jacket and grabbed my hat and cane. When I got to the door, I put on my cap.

“Thank you Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla in a loud voice. “Be careful.”

Geez. Be careful. I'll bet she doesn't say that to young guys, just old people.

As I stepped outside, I looked all around. No classic cars. Good. Maybe this “thing” happening has passed. I slowly made my way up Broad Street to the canal, sang “I've got a mule and her name is Sal..”, passed by the church, and feeling pretty good, walked all the way to Van Schoonhoven Square apartments without resting. Good lunch.

I walked up to the door. It opened.

“Thank you, Mrs. Schiocetti,” I said as I passed.

“How was your lunch? What did you have?” she asked.

“It was good. Roast beef,” and I made my way to the apartment.