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How to die in Nanaimo

I knew it wouldn’t last, I guess -nothing does- but I was in, disguise, so I should have had more time. I mean, what’s the use of camouflage if it doesn’t work? And I wasn’t wearing one of those green outfits with the big spots on it -nobody wears spots anymore, do they?- so I should have blended right in with the décor of the place. I wasn’t over, or even underdressed -more of a just-right-baby-bear sort of look: the kind of thing I would expect everybody usually wears to a restaurant. I wasn’t confident I could speak for Nanaimo, but it was a dark November evening and the restaurant was the only one with its lights still on -the only one close to my motel, at any rate.

But I suppose I should have known when I looked through the window and saw groups of grey haired men in shirts with actual collars and Perry Como cardigans sitting around Formica tables laughing over their coffees. Who does that nowadays? And yet, therein lay the beauty of my disguise: a sweat shirt and track-pants, topped off with a red jacket so I could be seen at night if I happened to be walking on the side of a road -sensible stuff in Nanaimo. No way I looked like a senior -and anyway, I have hair -brown hair, even- so I don’t need to wear one of those baseball caps either. I was immediately on alert when the waitress brought two menus to the table, though.

“There’s not much of a selection on the S menus,” she explained with a smile. “The plates are smaller, and I find a lot of the folks are still hungry…” she added. “They’re seduced by the price, I think. But you get what you pay for, eh?” She put the two menus down on the table, and winked at me. “Thought I’d better warn you.”

My eyebrows were already raised. “The S menu?” I asked. “What’s an S menu?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, as if I’d just asked her for an academic treatise on the existential significance of menus. Actually, I’ve always wondered about that, but in a sudden flash of insight, realized it was probably neither the place nor a waitress the person with whom to pursue it.

The answer I received was far more prosaic. “It’s the Senior’s menu,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, and no doubt figuring that any old person, even in disguise, was still prone to memory holes.

I smiled and looked up at her face as she gloated smugly over me. “Thank you for that,” I said, trying not to spoil her charity. “Tell me, why is there less selection on the S one? Why not just offer a senior’s portion as an option on the regular menu?”

She pretended to think about that for a moment. “Not sure,” she said with a little shrug, implying she had either plumbed the depths of her knowledge on the subject and come up dry, or really didn’t give a damn. “I mean, we have a separate children’s menu, so…”

I don’t think she was suggesting an equivalence, or anything, but she did look annoyed that I was taking up so much of her time with ridiculous questions. I decided to chance another one, however. “Don’t you find that some of the seniors get a little… well, offended at the ageism?”

She screwed up her face for a moment, and then quickly erased the expression, fearing the possible loss of a future tip. “None of these guys seem to mind,” she answered with another shrug, and a nod towards one of the grey tables. “They’re just happy to get out of the Home for a while, I think.” She glanced at another table and waved. “One even comes in his wheelchair -or did,” she added looking round more carefully. “Haven’t seen him in a while, though.” She blinked at me, and pulled out some paper to take my order. “Maybe they put him back on the hospital ward… or he…” she said and brandished a pencil from her apron without finishing her thought.

“I guess you get to know the customers quite well, eh?”

She nodded -a little impatiently, I thought, and touched the pencil to the paper, ready to write at the slightest hint from me.

“Tell me, though,” I said, drawing my words out so she wouldn’t think I had made a selection. “Why did you bring an S menu to my table?” I added, trying out an innocent expression I hadn’t used since I was caught taking an extra sausage in the school cafeteria in Grade six.

Her eyes momentarily bulged. “You’re kidding, right?”

I shrugged, innocently again, then nodded so she’d know I was serious. In fact, I was trying to figure out what not to wear if I ever stayed in Nanaimo again. “More curious than anything, I guess.”

She took a deep breath to buy some time, no doubt wondering how much she dared disclose without hurting my feelings. “Well, you don’t look old, or anything, but…”

I waited with a smile firmly tacked to my lips while she sorted out more words in her head. “But…?” I suppose it was unfair of me to press her on the issue, but I had to know how she’d seen through my years so quickly -so easily.

She sighed and pointed at the tables around me with an outstretched hand. “See anybody here under eighty?” Her eyes stared at me for a moment, each one genuinely puzzled. “Anybody?”

She was young -eighteen, maybe- and she was right, the tables were all filled with seniors, although I would have put their ages closer to sixty or seventy. There weren’t any young couples sitting around, no children either -although I had assumed that was because it was evening and they’d all be in bed by now.

“Only seniors come in here on weeknights.” She smiled back at me as if I had to be mildly demented to even ask about it. “Here, or the MacDonald’s down the street.” Her expression hardened for a moment, and then softened again as she studied my face. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she said, as if she’d suddenly solved a riddle.

“Vancouver,” I replied, not sure if I should have given it away so easily.

She nodded, now certain she understood. “This is Nanaimo,” she said with a patient sigh. “Nobody dies in Nanaimo without hanging out in this kind of a restaurant for a while…”

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