Sure, it's just an ordinary asphalt parking lot, but it's the one by the gas station at the Girdwood turnoff. People in the Lower 48 loot their retirement security to make a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to Alaska to see the view along there-the Turnagain Arm surrounded by towering snowy mountains. I didn't notice any of it.
I was focused on using the bathroom. But first I had to get there. Step one was getting out of the car. And to do that I had to bend my knee. The pain was excruciating. Finally, I was able to stand in the parking lot. Then I was ready to hobble ever so slowly across the lot to the minimart and travelers' relief.
That's when I noticed him. An old guy like me, but he was straight out of Geezer Central Casting. His round face was covered with a scruffy gray beard, topped by the off-white floppy hat mature men prefer. He wore a cream-colored jacket, rust-colored cargo pants which hung loosely over his stocky frame, and tan colored chukkas. I felt like he was a friend I just hadn't met yet.
He stared at me as he shuffled along the sidewalk by the store, heading to the parking lot. His expression seemed to say, "This guy looks familiar but I don't know who he is." He came to the curb, stopped, broke the gaze to stare down, and contemplated stepping off the 5 inch curb onto the parking lot. He positioned his feet just so, then gingerly stepped down.
Now we were both in the parking lot heading directly toward each other. I was limping, dragging my unbending left leg. He was slowly and deliberately shuffling. When we were just a few feet apart he stopped, fixed me with his stare and said, "Growing old's a bitch, ain't it?"
I said, "You got that right. I was on vacation in Homer for a week. We were supposed to come home to Anchorage yesterday, but I spent the day in the emergency room with a knee that suddenly swelled, hurt like hell, and wouldn't bend. They told me I have gout in the knee. Could take two or three weeks to get better."
"I hear you," he said. "I get dizzy spells all the time." We looked at each other for a few seconds. We understood. "Hey, I gotta get going," I said. "Well, you take care," he said. And we passed in the parking lot.
I limped into the store, passing slowly through the gauntlet of shelves crammed with gaudy packages of snack food all yelling "Buy me! Buy me!" But I was on a mission-the men's room.
Mission accomplished. Problem was I had to pass back through the "Buy me!" cacophony. Usually I am strong and breeze past all that stuff. But this time I was limping slowly and had lots of time to gawk at the vast array of salty, fatty, sweet snacks. Then I saw it.
Cracker Jacks. A bag of Cracker Jacks. Ok, so they weren't in the tall skinny box I remembered as a kid, but still, I could taste them. The salty peanuts stuck in little clusters to the sweet caramel corn. The prize-maybe a green plastic ring fitted with a compass. I had to buy the Cracker Jacks.
By the time I limped down the sidewalk by the store to the parking lot I had already gobbled down half the caramel corn and found the "prize," a small square of cardboard with a puzzle printed on it. And one peanut. I was a little sad.
I looked up to continue my hobbling across the parking lot, and there he was. The same old guy shuffling back across the parking lot headed toward the store. Maybe he had to pee again. I don't know. Anyway, just as we were about to pass, I held out my bag of Cracker Jacks and said, "I haven't had Cracker Jacks in years and years. I saw these and had to buy them. Want some?"
He looked at the offering for a moment, didn't take any but said, "You know, any more they have crappy prizes." I said, "Yeah, I just found that out. And not only that, I'm halfway through and I found only one peanut!" We smiled and nodded our goodbyes, a little richer in shared disappointment.
When I got to the car my wife was patiently sitting in the driver's seat waiting for her grunting and cursing husband to fold himself in. There wasn't much left, but I offered her the rest of the bag. I complained about the prize and the miserable solitary peanut. As I was whining, she poured the contents of the bag into her cupped hand-a few pieces of caramel corn and about 15 peanuts. I'll be darned.
I looked around for my new friend but didn't see him in the parking lot. I wanted to tell him that there was a handful of peanuts in the bottom of the bag. It made me feel a bit better and I thought he would too.
