It was an emotionally complex moment for me. Sitting at a diner bar (in a bowling alley) at 8:30 a.m. or so, wedged between a clean-shaven, gelled-up salesman and a lanky, bent old man, I was taking the first bites of my egg & swiss on rye.
The old man stopped eating and pressed his fingers into his sternum. At first I’m thinking “maybe this dude’s having a heart attack”, but the look on his face was not one of panic. Somehow, massaging his breastbone strangely, this was routine.
He bent forward over his plate of scrambled eggs. “He’s totally dying” I thought as I tried to continue eating calmly. He was clearly not looking for help, and this guy, about 80, had “do not resuscitate” written all over him. He pursed his lips and spit in slow motion, as if he was at the point of mortal exhaustion.
The clear gob of fluid stretched slowly down to the plate of eggs. Maybe he massaged it up from his chest somehow, this pathological spittle, or perhaps fluid from his lungs. Focused more on his plate than anything, he ineptly dabbed his face with a napkin, not even succeeding in breaking the tendril of goo still linking his face to the plate.
Mind you, I am eating my breakfast. Disbelief suspended nausea. No one else at the Diner seems to have noticed, and I got the sense that the staff new better than to ever look at this guy.
He put his napkin over his spit and ate a few more bites. He alternated between eating and spitting for the next few minutes while I finished my sandwich and hash browns. He sucked at using a napkin, but he did manage to get up, pay his check, and leave without making a mess of the counter or floor. After what I had witnessed, I was amazed to see him walk. He never looked at me or anyone else, nor did I hear him speak.
As I made my own way out of the diner, I saw him in the bowling alley sitting alone at a table while his wife bowled with her friends
