No crustaceans for this kid!

Left-to-right: Mark Sciera, Paul Zachmeyer, Jim Douty, David Brown, Gary Coleman (standing), Paul Rafici, Ron Palermo, Norb Dynski, Charlie Littlejohn, Lee Clements, Dick Thompson. All except Brown, Coleman and Littlejohn are retired bus-drivers. The others are management. I don’t know about Rafici. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Do you need a bathroom?” I asked a fellow retiree.
“This is it, right here,” I said, pointing to a large pool in the lobby of the restaurant.
We noted the 6-to-8 inch goldfish swimming languidly through the gurgling water.
“Din-din,” he said.
“I ain’t eatin’ no sushi,” I snapped.
That’s an exchange between football players Doug Flutie and Terry Bradshaw in an ad.
Flutie takes Bradshaw into a restaurant and shows him the sushi-bar.
“I ain’t eatin’ no sushi,” Bradshaw shouts. “Where I come from they call that stuff bait.”
It was one of our occasional luncheons of Regional Transit retirees, both hourly and management.
At Grand Super Buffet in Henrietta southeast of Rochester.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993, 17 long years ago, ended that suddenly.
We sat at a long table, 17 of us.
A young girl took our drink-orders — most were diet, mine wasn’t.
“This is a buffet,” someone said. “They won’t serve you. You have to serve yourself.”
We sat quietly for a while, jawing amongst each other.
Finally, after about 15 minutes. “That’s it,” I said. “I ain’t waitin’ forever.”
I got up, and apparently others followed.
We headed for the buffet tables.
“What are those things?” someone asked.
“I don’t know,” I said; “but do you see them little tails comin’ outta the back end?”
“I wouldn’t trust ‘em,” another said.
“How do I know they’re not deep-fried mice?” I said.
We moved on.
“What are them things?” red and round.
“Look like deep-fried eyeballs,” I commented.
PASS!
Ahead were the shrimp.
“No crustaceans for this kid!” I barked.
“I only eat endoskeleton; no exoskeleton.”
I spooned macaroni-and-cheese onto my plate.
Finally, no steaming exotica.
A lot ended up on the counter under the sneeze-bar, and on the floor.
The cheese was stringy and soupy — the macaroni was drowned.
After sitting back down at our table, I ate the macaroni.
“Too bad my dog’s not here. She could lick that plate so clean they could put it back in the stack.”
“Now you tell me why in the wide, wide world we wouldn’t invite you after remarks like that,” someone crowed.
There had been confusion about this shindig.
I didn’t know it was occurring until last week, and only after friends asked if I was attending.
I fired off e-mail inquiries.
Yes, there would indeed be a luncheon, I was told; but no details.
One thought another invited me, and that one thought the other had.
Finally, “Am I even invited to this shindig? I know I don’t fit in that well.”
“Grand Super Buffet in Henrietta, 11:30 a.m. Why would you ever think you’re not invited?”
We all looked fairly spry, though getting old.
One friend had two strokes. He’s mentally with it, despite a partially paralyzed left-side — and no left arm.
He also has difficulty getting words out, as do I.*
Another had part of a leg amputated, and is using a prothesis.
Another friend is hobbling around with troublesome knees, and was saying his doctor wanted to replace just about every joint in his body.
Together we’re supposed to attend a model-train show at local college next month, but I worry.
It’s in a college field-house, a large show.
I get around fine, but I worry about him.
Thankfully, he’s ornery, so will want to get around.
But I may want a wheelbarrow, or a shopping-cart.
Most depressing was a former road-supervisor showing up with a full oxygen-rig.
Road-Supervisors at Transit didn’t drive buses. They rode around in cars, supervising bus-drivers and settling arguments with passengers.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” someone asked.
“Okay, I guess. I wake up every morning.”
“Why the oxygen?”
“Oh, COPD, emphysema.”
(I think he used to smoke.)
Suggestions were taken for a future luncheon, and the former road-supervisor hoped he could make it “depending on my doctor-appointments,” he said.
“Yeah, ain’t that the truth!” I said. “The only reason I’m here is because today (yesterday, Thursday, November 11, 2010) was open. One doctor-appointment was yesterday, and tomorrow is my dentist.
I have to wedge these things in.”

* My stroke slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)

• “Henrietta” is a suburb south of Rochester.
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't too bad.)