Call Me "Young Man" Again, and I Will Have to Cut You.

Okay. I get it.

You are of a certain age, as am I. So when you address me as "young man" you think you are being ironic. And flattering and conspiratorial. You think that we have a secret bond, a kinship acknowledged with a nudge and a wink.

Screw that.

I am not young. And I’m sure you know it. My arthritic hands are like desiccated starfish that have perished in a tide pool, with digits pointed every which way but heaven. My bursitis has recently encouraged me to sleep with a pillow between my knees as if I’m birthing a Smurf. My molars are a battlefield. I abhor Adirondack chairs.

I am 63. I've survived two earthquakes, an Oklahoman tornado, several floods, an Alpine avalanche, colon cancer, divorce, bankruptcy, homelessness, and parenthood.

So, I am not, decidedly not, your "young man."

Let's parse this a little.

Younger people call me sir, which irked me when they first started but now I've become reconciled to the appellation, and even relish it, especially when it means they’ll hoist my carry-on bag into the overhead luggage bin.

Diner waitresses occasionally call me hon, honey, or sweetheart. This is universal code for “You look like you can certainly afford a 20% tip.” 



Merchants in the souk in Marrakesh called me Ali Baba, which I still find very flattering. (Although, in retrospect, I’m not sure that this was so much a recognition of my magnificent white beard, as it was my potential as a buyer of counterfeit argan oil.)



Select bar staff call me Paul or Mister Murray or "hey, dickhead lush." 



And occasionally, when someone tries to cadge a cigarette or cash, I get buddy, pal, boss, chief, or champ.

Women never, ever, call me "young man." They are afraid I will take that as an invitation for hanky-panky. Women, of course, have to be perpetually careful.

You, however, insist on calling me "young man". You called me that as you stepped off your party fishing boat this last Labor Day, headed for a piss on the Bridge Dock pier, trying to remember my name.

You recently called me that as I paid for gas and Gummy Worms at a Connecticut Sunoco, as if, I too, was an erstwhile Vietnam vet sporting a Mets baseball cap and serious halitosis. 



And you called me that, randomly, from your wheelchair in Costco, while you offered me a sample of a new flavor of Eggo waffle.

Call me Ishmael. Call me Tiger. Please call me old.

Let's not pretend, however. Not all of us wish to be included in some geriatric, Peter Pan-ish Band of Brothers club. Not all of us look to others to stave off our morbid sense of decrepitude and incipient decay with a quippy, wry salutation. Some of us do not chant “Rage, rage, against the dying of the light,” when we floss in the morning.



Look at it this way. 

Would you ever dare address a sexagenarian woman as “young lady?” Or “hot chick?” Or “nubile siren?” I think not. So what makes you think it’s appropriate to grade age on the curve for me? 

Here are some alternatives I’d like you to consider. I’ve even placed them in conversational context for ease of use.



“That’ll be $32.50, you silver-backed rogue.”



“How about those Packers last night, crusty salt?”



“Really did a number on that hubcap, didn’t you, ancient rapscallion?”



Or best of all:
“Looks like a hot one out there. Keep cool, Ali Baba.”




So, do not call me “young man” again. I carry a Pocket Monkey wallet tool with a very dull 2-inch blade. I'm not afraid to use it. Assuming I can get it out.