On most Saturday afternoons you’ll fine me in the Proud Rooster in Clifton. I’ve lived in the Gaslight District for almost three years; and while I have to live in Cincinnati (for now anyway), this is the area where I want to be. Yes, I admit I like diner food. So does Alan. Every time I go into the restaurant, I see him. He’s a distinguished looking gentleman with white hair. He walks with a cane, but he doesn’t seem to need it very much. He always has a newspaper with him and always sits down at the same table. His head shakes a little when he reads.
He’s a friendly man. I usually read a book while I eat and sometimes Alan will stop at my table and want to know what I’m reading.
Once he told me I looked like the actor Raymond Burr. This surprised me a lot, because I don’t look anything like the guy.
Sometimes when I see Alan, his sister is with him. She’s older, too, and sometimes they don’t even sit together. But a couple Saturdays ago they were sitting at Alan’s table and his sister had a harmonica with her.
There were only a handful of us in the restaurant and Alan’s table got some surprised looks when the music started. It sounded like his sister was trying to play “Happy Birthday.”
Matt the waiter brought out a birthday cake. We all watched Alan blow out the three candles on top. We all wished him a happy birthday.
“Thank you!” he said, with a big smile on his face.
He turned 75 on that Saturday a few weeks ago. Matt brought out additional plates for the cake. Alan wanted everyone in the diner to have a piece.
As I watched him slice through the cake, I thought about what I know about him and what I’ve learned from people who have lived in Clifton for many years.
He lives on a side street in the Gaslight District. He lives alone. His sister lives right across the street. He lives in his parents’ house. Rumor has it that he has sheets covering up the entryways into the living room and his parents’ bedroom. He wants to keep those rooms exactly the way they were when his parents were alive.
Some say he was a salesman, then a banker for a while. Someone told he has a metal plate in his head from a war injury. He served in the army during the Korean War.
He has spent all of his years living in Clifton. A neighbor told me he used to have a lot of friends here, but they have either died or moved away. Another rumor is that he still misses his parents and will go into another world sometimes, softy singing a song when he starts thinking of them.
I’ve seen him for almost three years now. We talk in the Proud Rooster and say hello to one another when we pass on the sidewalk, but that’s about it.
As Alan and his sister start walking over to tables delivering slices of birthday cake, I start to feel sad for him. This is his big day and the only people he has to share it with are his sister and the customers in the Proud Rooster.
There’s something wrong about growing older and having people disappear out of your life. I think maybe that’s why I try to surround myself with younger people. I’m not as old as Alan, but even at 50 I’m seeing people leave me through job relocations, moving on to greener pastures or moving on to the graveyard. It’s scary.
He brings me over a piece of the birthday cake — vanilla with chocolate icing.
“Here you go, this is for you.”
“Thank you, sir and happy birthday to you.”
“Thank you again.”
I’m a diabetic, but I ate the cake anyway, because I didn’t want to hurt Alan’s feelings didn’t want to hurt the feelings of a man I have only made small talk with for three years.
But that’s my own fault. Perhaps I’ve been more interested in just listening to the rumors instead of sitting down with him at the Proud Rooster and talking things over.
I’m going to change that. The next time I see him in the diner that we both like, I’m going to offer to buy him lunch. Maybe we can talk. While I want to continue to have friendships with younger people, that doesn’t mean I can’t have older friends, too.
This article appears in Oct 13-19, 2004.