The Old Lady Who Sips Rose' At The Counter

He saw her before he saw her. He always saw her before he saw her, somehow sensed her presence before he physically saw her, some kind of elder radar, maybe. Great first line for a joke, “An old lady walks into a diner…”

Old, and stooped over a cane, she shuffles into the diner. She always sits at the counter, never asks for a table, never looks for a hostess, if there were one. It’s as if it’s her mission to keeps, straight to the counter.

She has been an irregular regular for at least two years, as far back as he can remember; when she does come in, she always arrives mid evening. Her persona is nothing like the diner regulars, rowdy and boozy and hungry for greasy fries and burger regulars.

He nods at her as she takes her usual seat … at the counter. Not usual as the same seat at the counter but as in she always chooses a seat at the counter.

Her quick glance in his direction is his cue to pour a solitary glass of Rose, cheap wine the owner poured into a fancy decanter “to add some class to the dive,” as she put it. The old lady will nurse that glass of wine until her time at the counter expires, and only she knows when her timer goes off.

When he first mentioned her to his friends, as he recounted oddities of a particular day, he called her “The Old Lady Who Sips Cheap Rose’ At The Counter.”

“Sounds like a short story title,” one friend absentmindedly responded.

To the sophisticated eye, she does not look like the kind of sophisticated woman for whom one would expect any glass of wine to be poured. She looks more like an old broad who guzzles beer. But, from the first time she shuffled into that diner, whenever she appeared, he felt compelled to pour a single glass of wine and place it in front of her. She accepted it that first day without comment, barely acknowledging his presence. She still accepts it without comment, though she now often gives him a cursory glance before reaching for the glass.

She did not refuse it the first time and never refuses it whenever she shuffles in and she always pays for it, a kind of unspoken covenant between the two. He pours, she drinks and pays. At least she tips well.

She is old, how old he does not know, old to him because her chin folds into a double and her hair, always tightly tucked under a red cloche, is gray (at least the few strands that have escaped the cloche to straggle down the side of her face are gray). There are cloistered wrinkles around her eyes and deep lines like rivulets ran down each side of her mouth. She doesn't wear make-up that he can tell, except for that old lady red lipstick.

Nana never wore lipstick.

“Yeah, she's old,” he thought the first time he saw her.

Old like that blanket Nana would keep balled up in an old cedar chest, balled up and smothered in mothballs.

The old lady at the counter does not smell of mothballs though he thought she might when he first saw her. Instead she smells faintly of an expensive perfume his wealthy aunt used to wear. He called it his aunt’s bragging perfume because that aunt always managed to work into her conversation the cost of everything she wore from the top of her head to the red soles of her feet.

When he got close enough to get a whiff, he also realized this old lady who sipped Rose’ smelled like roses, just like the roses that always bloomed brilliantly in the summertime backyard of his Nana.

Roses always remind him of his dear old slightly tipsy Nana who always smelled like mothballs but never wore red lipstick.

This old lady did not remind him of his Nana, just that rose scent that reminded him of his aunt’s bragging perfume and Nana’s roses.

The last time he visited Nana at his aunt’s home, she did not recognize him.

“Probably doesn't remember the roses either.”

He places the old lady's order of grilled cheese in front of her.

“Grilled cheese and chesp wine, what a combo,” he thinks.

She does not look up to acknowledge his presence.

“Glad to serve you,” he thinks as he walks away.

At least she's not grumpy like some of those old coots who crowd the diner every Friday evening, their happy hour before they wobble home to frustrated frumpy wives and warmed over left-overs.

“Hey, Dude, more beer down here and make sure it's cold this time. Nothing worse than lukewarm suds, am I right boys?!”

There was always at least one old fart who would try to flex on him at least once a visit, flashbacks to younger days they probably spent in juke joint bars.

One geezer boozer, angry because he was cut off from “one more beer,” bellowed at him, “I used to eat fellas like you for breakfast, lunch and dinner!”

“Yeah, but now all you can eat is soft mush because of all those missing teeth!”

He didn't say it out loud, just thought it as he watched the old sot stumble out the door.

The old lady was there that day, but she paid no attention to the ruckus.

He wonders where she lives, how she fills her days, what does she eat when she’s not seated at the counter ordering the special of the day or a plain old grilled cheese sandwich..

He doesn't think of her when she's not here. His curiosity is only piqued whenever she shows up.

“Two years and I still don't know her name, but hey, she doesn't know mine either.”

The old lady finishes the sandwich, studies the check and pays, always in cash.

He watches her as she slowly walks towards the door.

“I bet she has a house full of cats!”

As soon as she disappears through the door, he forgets about her.

Clearing away her dishes, he notices the half empty glass of wine.

“Never drinks it all, but I can hardly blame her.”

The limousine pulls up to the curb in front of the diner just as the old lady steps out of the door.

The driver parks the car in front of the diner and jumps out to open the passenger door on the sidewalk side then steps towards the old lady to offer his arm.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregory. How was your evening?”

He still does not understand why she comeback to this throwback eatery.

The old lady slides into the back seat and settles herself.

“Oh, it was the usual. I sat there lost in my memories while the counterman watched me. He never says a word, just watches.”

The driver does not respond as he starts the car and pulls out into traffic.

“All we had back then, my late husband James and I, were the diner moments on payday. We lived just around the corner. It’s a vacant lot now. We’d share a single mug of beer, something that always irritated the owner who would glare at us from behind the counter as we whispered and giggled about the day we would come in and order two specials then leave most of it uneaten while we still shared a single mug of beer, then leave a big tip. ! I never really cared for beer, but I loved James, so beer it always was.”

“We always talked about revisiting the old haunts one day, but life came along, we moved, babies came, the business took off and the years flew by. It has been a wonderful few years of visiting the old places, traveling back and forth, reliving the memories, but I think I am ready to return home permanently. No more coast to coast jetting for me. Besides, the memories of those days stay with me always.”

It is almost two months before he realizes that he has not seen the old lady in a while.

“Probably died. I hope her cats didn't eat her.”

“Hey, Yo, counterman, more beer down here and make sure it's cold this time. Nothing worse than lukewarm suds, am I right boys!”