On a cold, dark, December evening, I walked over to the local supermarket pharmacy to get my flu shot. I stopped by the counter to provide my insurance information and was directed to take a seat in the waiting area. After I sat down, I reached for my phone to mindlessly scroll through Instagram. Perusing carefully curated snapshots of other peoples’ lives was the norm for me in these types of boring circumstances. However, before I could get my phone out of my pocket, I decided otherwise and instead chose to sit and observe.
A few minutes later, an old man, probably in his late sixties or early seventies, made his way over to the counter. “Three for Deringer” he said. I watched him as he stood there waiting with his thinning gray hair and equally gray stubble. He donned bifocals with a set of lenses thicker than cold syrup and baggy jeans that made him look as if he had a load in his pants, the legs of which were too long and consequently pooled at his ankles. “Here you are” said the technician. “There are only two in this bag” said the old man. “The other was picked up yesterday” said the technician. “Oh, okay” replied the old man.
I watched the old man as he walked away, his steps slow and burdensome. I wondered if someone had picked up the third script for him yesterday, or if he picked it up himself and had simply forgotten. I then began to wonder why he dressed the way he did with ill-fitting jeans, nondescript sneakers, and slightly oversized jacket that may have predated me. I primarily wondered this because I wondered if I would eventually come to dress like the old man, and if I did eventually come to dress like the old man, whether it would be out of choice or necessity.
I waded through the possibilities in my mind. Perhaps he thought they looked good; maybe his clothes were reminiscent of a style long since passed, the likes of which I was not familiar. I then thought perhaps it was because he didn’t have time. Maybe he didn’t have time to visit store after store to try on outfit after outfit to find a brand and style that both fit him well and jived with modern looks at a reasonable price. Maybe instead, the mundane tasks required to keep him alive consumed all the free time he would otherwise have. But then I thought, what if it was because he simply didn’t care? Perhaps the jeans and the jacket and the sneakers and the thick glasses were just enough to get him through to the next day. Perhaps his time and effort were dedicated somewhere not immediately obvious to me.
I sat there, now consciously aware of my tailored beige slacks that hugged my thighs coupled with my slim-fitting, red button down that fit snuggly across my chest and shoulders and my matching coffee-colored dress shoes. I now questioned the time I spent finding my outfit. I questioned myself with the same scrutiny that I questioned the old man. Perhaps the old man knew something I didn’t, perhaps I was the one who had not yet learned what time and effort well spent looks like. Maybe to the old man, I was the kid at the arcade playing the stacker game, unaware that payout is fixed per certain number of attempts and that my ability to press the button “at the right time” had no real impact on my ability to win the prize.
I then thought about the saying “respect your elders.” I then thought about how I had always interpreted the saying “respect your elders” as a command to respect old people by default and to an especially high degree. I then thought about how I generally find old people to be unimpressive from both a physical and intellectual standpoint: frail, weak, slow, forgetful, stuck in their ways, unable or unwilling to think critically about or process new information. I then thought, what if for twenty-eight years, I have been misinterpreting the saying? Maybe “respect your elders” isn’t a command to respect old people, but instead a reminder to respect old people despite their shortcomings.
I then thought about what it means to “respect your elders” and concluded that to respect your elders, you must respect not only who your elders are now, but also who your elders once were. I thought about the old man and how although he was now frail, weak, slow, and forgetful, he was also likely once spry, strong, fast, and sharp. Perhaps some time ago, the old man also wore tailored beige slacks that hugged his thighs and a slim-fitting, red button down that fit snuggly across his chest and shoulders and matching coffee-colored dress shoes.
I then wondered why it had taken me so long to understand the meaning of “respect your elders,” and in that moment, I was able to empathize with the old man. I thought about how even at the young age of twenty-eight, time was beginning to leave its mark on me. I thought about how the single gray hair I found some years back has multiplied into several gray hairs and how a few even found their way to my beard. I thought about how I used to play multiple full contact football games per week without issue and how I now succumb to random aches and pains after as little as a tough workout or game of flag football. In this moment, I understood that I would never again be as spry, strong, fast, and sharp as I was yesterday, and I acknowledged the disappointment I would feel as my body ages to a shadow of its former self.
I then thought about how when I was a kid, I thought of old people as just that: old people. When I was a kid, old people were always old and would always be old until they died. Old is the only way I ever knew them. However, as I have grown older, I have witnessed not old people become old people. I have witnessed transitions from being spry, strong, fast, and sharp to being less spry, strong, fast, and sharp. I recognized that by witnessing not old people become old people, I was finally able to understand not only who old people are now, but also who they once were.
I then thought about my dad. I thought about how as a kid, I admired and respected my dad’s strength and speed and toughness and acuity. I remembered that, as a kid, I knew my dad was bigger and stronger and faster and smarter than I was and because I had never known differently, I thought that was the way it should forever remain. I was then taken to memories of being a young boy with my dad in the outdoors, perhaps during activities related to my time as a cub scout and he our den leader. I would peer down into a steep ravine or embankment, and my dad, by my side, would say “if you fall down there, I can’t get you.” In these moments, I was the young, helpless boy; my dad was my bigger, stronger, faster, and capable protector.
I then thought about how my dad and I still spend time in the outdoors together, but also about how I am no longer a young boy. I remembered a time when we were fishing the Catt at Zoar Valley a year back, and my dad had crept farther into the water. “Don’t step past here” I said, recognizing a large, flat, slick, inclined rock at my toes that would surely lead to a slide into the middle of the creek if treaded upon. My dad came around my right side but then in front of me to face me, and consequently began sliding backwards into the creek. “Grab my hand” I said. He refused, slowly sliding backwards into the deeper water. “Grab my fucking hand” I said. After a second or two of refusal still and sliding in deep enough that his wading pouch was almost completely submerged, he grabbed my hand, and I pulled him up past the rock.
I reflected on this moment, and through it, I acknowledged that our dynamic is no longer what it once was. I briefly felt what I guess I would describe as pride, knowing that I was finally able to return the favor, after all those years my dad had spent bearing full responsibility for my safety and well-being.
The time finally came for me to get my shot, my stream of consciousness broken abruptly by the pharmacist calling my name. Perhaps one day, I will be the old man at the pharmacy, and some young man will think the same things about me.
