Senior Discount
The Source
I was 45 the first time someone offered me a senior citizen discount. It was a Taco Bell in Springfield and the gal behind the counter was not some fresh-faced adolescent, but a lady in her sixties….a lady who’d had sixty years experience guessing ages and should, by rights, have known better. I politely told her that I was a mere child and couldn’t yet qualify for the discount. She smiled and said, “Well, it never hurts to ask. Besides, it won’t be long for you.” Won’t be long? It’ll be an entire decade, lady! Was I drooling? Did my cane leave marks on the floor? Maybe it’s genetic. In my junior play I was cast as “the old man.” Twice I’ve played a corpse onstage. After retiring from Triopia after 200 years I found myself walking up to a football game ticket-taker and actually paying to attend a game. I slapped down my five bucks and the little girl behind the glass said, “You’re a senior citizen, right?” I had to think. Am I? “Uh…yes..I guess. If it’s cheaper, I am.” As she was handing me my change she said, “Wait a minute. You still teach here part-time, right?” “Uh…Yes. I guess I do.” I was tempted to simply gather up my walker and ask the young girl if she could help me find my car. Who among us wasn’t shocked when we received our first invitation to join the AARP? I immediately took the offending letter in to the Arenzville postmaster who said, “Don’t blame your age on me. I just pass ‘em along.” Ouch. Even the Federal government is plotting to depress me. Hotels don’t even ask. They just look at me and check the “senior” box. Some are more subtle, labeling me “Golden Express,” or a member of the “Senior Elite.” I make a mental note of the fact that the word “elite” implies that only a few of us are left. A Springfield waitress was taking our orders one night early this winter. She opened with the standard and mundane, “High, my name is Alicia and I’ll be with you tonight.” All night? Does your father know this? She went on to name the restaurant’s specials for the evening. I was with a group of my Lincoln Land students and as they hungrily perused their choices she leaned over and pointed to a special section in the lower right-hand corner of my menu. “And you,” she smiled, “might be interested in these.” She was indicating the “Senior Specials.” Not only was she unsure if I could read but she apparently wondered about my ability to digest the heavy fiber of steak. Yes, yes I know these folks think they’re being helpful. Yes, I realize that it’s wonderful when your age gives you certain perks. But no, I still don’t like to hear it…especially out loud. My students looked to where she was pointing, thinking that the waitress had someone picked up on something in my personality that might lead my taste buds toward foie gras or lobster. When they saw that Alicia was indicating the food for old people …probably oatmeal and pablum… they turned their attention back to the prime rib, something that required chewing. England remains one of the few countries in the world where manners still matter. On each car of the London Tube (subway) there’s a seat designated “senior citizen,” and some cars have signage even more explicit, stating, “Please offer this seat to an older person.” On my trip last summer I kept searching for subway cars inhabited solely by little old ladies. Three times in two days I was offered the elderly chair even though I was doing my jet-lagged best to act nimble and spry. Apparently they ignored my swift-footed hop into the car and looked only at the color of my beard. Once, several years ago, I was offered the senior seat by a British lady who could have been my grandmother. I said, “Thanks, but I’m fine,” then spent the rest of the ride relishing the fact that we had trounced King George in the War of Independence.