Invisible

My wife came through the door in a bit of a rush as though being a little late was out of the ordinary for her.  I had a table near the door so it only took a moment for her to scan the restaurant and locate me.  I waved.  She smiled.  As she came toward me, she glanced at the adjacent table where twenty ladies were eating amid cacophonous conversation.

With a squeeze of my hand she said, “This is a risky place for a man of a certain age to be sitting.”  She nodded toward the table occupied by ladies regaled in red hats and purple blouses or scarves.  Certainly I noticed them.  Who wouldn’t notice bright red bonnets bobbing above purple blouses?

Invisible to this flock of respectable ladies, I got neither a pinch of my butt nor a single come hither look.  They, however, were not invisible to anyone dining at North for a typical Tuesday lunch.  As my wife settled into her chair, I said, “Not risky for me.  Maybe if I’d worn a red fedora.” 

Impolite as eavesdropping may be, the antics, the laughter, and the stories I could hear reeled me in.  I knew them – every one of them.   I don’t mean that I knew their names because I had never met a single one; our lives had not crossed paths; none of them was famous.  But I knew them.

In the middle seat on the far side of the table sat the one who could never finish a sentence without a belly laugh eclipsing her punch line.  Her head would roll back so her laughter could escape straight up and echo off of the ceiling.  I noticed, though, her eyes didn’t twinkle when she laughed.  They looked lost in a memory.

Close to us, near the end of their table, was a smallish gal with the simplest of all the adornments.  She kept one hand tight on her purse and a paper bag tucked in her lap.  She didn’t say much, mostly watched the banter from the sideline.  These were ladies like she’d hoped to become – carefree and cared for.  Probably, one of the others had asked her to join the group insisting she would find camaraderie to fill the lonely minutes that begin to stack up when you reach a certain age.

Around the table, talk of children and grandchildren ricocheted like the staccato of an Underwood manual typewriter operated by an expert stenographer.  Pictures were shared.  Most were four by six glossy prints passed from hand to hand raising oohs and ahs about every baby.  The lady at the far end, a red feather standing tall in her red hat, displayed her photos on a smart phone.  With grandiose gestures, she showed the others how to swipe from photo to photo and to enlarge a baby’s grin.

Amid the clamor came an occasional comment about a husband.  Certainly many were single now after years of having been half of two.  Single is far too often equal to being alone.  So they found a group with something in common, an affinity for red hats.  No such gathering is void of comments about wishing children would come more often, pay more attention or understand more fully.  Such comments traversed the table like the wave at a football game.  I didn’t hear a single lady say she was visited enough and longed for more privacy.

Yes, I knew them – knew them all.  When people, male and female, reach that certain age, the changes come in bunches and do not smell like flowers.  Some of that group had planned their money well, some had not.  Some live close to family, some had none.  Some of them could laugh, some could only cackle because humor is an early victim of becoming invisible.  Invisibility is what happens at that certain age and none of us expects it, none of us pursues it, plans for it, welcomes it. 

Most folks of that certain age want to remain visible, to look for ways to be useful, involved and happy.  Nearly everyone wants to believe these should be life’s days when problems are past, stress is subdued and the time to smell roses has arrived.   None of us think much about becoming invisible.

Folks who immigrate to South Florida hope to find warmth and a community where they each can be an ordinary, useful, visible person. For others, red hats and purple scarves are necessary to stave off invisibility’s march.  The very few who stay committed to going outside every day, spending lots of time learning from young people, and caring for a dog hope to arrest invisibility’s advance. 

When the ladies’ lunch was through, the little lady with the paper bag put her hat and scarf inside it before going through the door.  For her, I fear, invisibility has won the war.

 

Now where do you suppose I can get a red fedora?

--td