The Old Coot is in the slow lane.
By Merlin Lessler
Go slow; live long. That's my mantra. Just look to
the turtle to see the truth in that. They lumber along, taking their time and
have been the butt of jokes for centuries, maybe forever. But they have thick
skin and take no offense, since they outlive all of us.
I worked as a soda jerk
when I was in high school. At Sam Soldo's Rexall Drug Store on Court
Street in Binghamton. I started in back, washing dishes and breaking down the
trash so it could fit in the five garbage cans located in the basement next to
the freight elevator. But I learned how things worked, and ended up behind the
counter, making sodas, banana splits and shakes. Frying hamburgers and crafting
BLT sandwiches, cut in four sections and secured with tooth picks. I concocted
a sandwich that made it to the menu - "The Merlin" - Cheese, lettuce
tomato and mayo on rye, best if accompanied by a bowl of Manhattan clam
chowder. It was a favorite of the Sear’s sales crew from in the
same block.
The woman who supervised
the soda fountain crew called me, “The Turtle.” - "You move too slow up and down the
counter," she would scold me. She flew back and forth like a Road Runner.
I went slow for a reason. I learned from the previous crew chief to go slow and
do stuff along the journey: pick up empty plates, straighten the ketchup and
mustard bottles, napkin holders and ash trays as I moved back and forth to
assemble an order. I’m really a turtle now. And, not one that moves efficiently
back and forth. Just an old coot, moving in “slow” gear.
Comments? Send to
mlessler7@gmail.com
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