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Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

There’s one thing about growing old that you have to watch out for: change. Well, that’s a bit broad, I suppose -Life is a succession of changes from the starting gun to the finish line- but when you’re old, it’s a series of hitherto undreamt ofs. I mean, who could have anticipated a crisis in Timmies (the endearing name for our popular coffee shop in the local Food Court)?

The guys usually meet at Timmies on Wednesdays, but there are other days when I have nothing else to do but wander in to listen for gossip from other tables. Nobody would think an old man with a grey beard at the next table would be interested, even if he could hear with all the confusion around him. In my case, however, they were sadly mistaken: I enjoyed eavesdropping on others -on anybody– for a change. You can only sit for so long around your house with just the TV for company.

Still, I admit there are some needs more easily satisfied at home, and which, were they to call attention to themselves at the crowded Timmies, would likely mean I’d lose my table if I responded. Coffee and my bladder are constantly whispering to each other so I have to be careful no matter where I find myself.

Anyway,  because of the known unknowns, I prepare for most anticipatable things: I visit the nearby facilities down the hall first, then pick up several napkins at the counter and when I get my coffee, I ask for extra sweetener packages to take home in case I run out of them there. I also order extra bagels because you never know, eh? Then with the basics satisfied, and with my table now stacked with provisions, but not wanting to appear bereft of purpose or friends, I always bring my Kindle along with me and set it on the table in front of me; anybody engrossed in a story, couldn’t possibly be in the Food Court just for eavesdropping.

For some reason it is my conceit, that the me who is there to watch others, is not himself observed. Maybe, though, it is my quiet solitude in the storm around me that draws the sensitive eyes. It’s certainly not my unadorned bagels, or my old man attire…

My usual fare at Timmies with the guys, is a 12 grain ungarnished, unsliced bagel and a cup of coffee -my ‘Goldilocks choice’ as Arnold, one of the Wednesday coffee klatchers, usually says of my unvarying order: ‘Not too much, not too little; not too hot, not too cold -just right, baby bear.’ I suppose it was clever the first time he said it, but it faded as the Wednesdays passed. There are certain things you have to learn to ignore as you age. Still, I’d miss it if he stopped saying it; I like to think I still matter to somebody, eh?

Like, for example the young lady sitting with her mother at a table in front of me on one of my unheralded Timmy visits. Because she was facing me, I supposed that her eyes only accidently strafed my face as she glanced around the room from time to time. There was no hint of recognition in them, no suggestion of anything but idle interest.

At any rate, I was engrossed in a Rosato and DiNunzio novel by Lisa Scottoline, and had just reached, sightlessly, for one of the pieces I had broken off my bagel when I became aware of something warm on my wrist. When I looked down, I noticed, to my horror, that it was blood. The young woman noticed as well, but tried to disguise her surprise.

I immediately figured my nose was to blame and I promptly squeezed my nostrils tight with one hand then felt around on the table for a napkin with the other. But, it’s hard to seem coordinated when you’re otherwise preoccupied with stanching a hemorrhage, and I couldn’t find any empty napkins on my table. I think I must have knocked them onto the floor, so I resorted to a one-handed search of my pockets for tissues.

The young woman immediately stood up, hurried over with a handful of napkins, and asked me if I was in trouble. I shook my head carefully, thanked her, and tried to smile my gratitude under my hand. This would ordinarily be a simple task, of course, but daunting while applying nasal pressure; I think she understood I had things under control though, because a few minutes later she and her mother left with only a few glances in my direction to ensure I wasn’t lying in a pool of blood on the floor.

The hemorrhage eventually abated course, and I was able to wipe up any spillage off the table, freeing my eyes to inspect my clothes more closely. I could still feel it on my beard, though, so I feared the worst. Fortunately I was wearing a dark sweat shirt so it was hard to tell how much it had been affected, but the blood had made its way down the front and onto the crotch of my jeans.

With a wisdom born of Age, I knew you had to soak blood stains right away in cold water before they set or something. I made it to the washroom, holding my backpack over my crotch, but I wasn’t sure what the best thing to choose once I got there. If I somehow managed to soak the crotch stain in water, I would look incontinent on the bus going home; if I let it lie fallow, I suspected my gender identity might be questioned in not so discreet whispers in the hallowed men’s room. Not that either of those two options would be an issue, but I feared the look of strangers, even bearing smiles.

Since I realized that I was in a catch-22 through no fault of my own, I decided on a cold water soak with a paper towel or two. I don’t know about women’s restrooms, but with the overweening testosterone requirement for modern gadgets, ours had opted for blow-driers instead of towels, the noise from which no doubt camouflaged other manly noises. Still, the decision made, I pondered how to get the water on the affected part of my clothing; but short of actually climbing onto the sink, or splashing water from a toilet bowl, there was no choice, really.

Although water doesn’t travel well in aged and arthritic cupped hands, I did my best at the sink in spite of the mess I made on the floor. A few curious guys who I doubt would have thought of using the sink themselves, stopped to watch and then rinsed their hands in obeisance. A good deed done, I thought.

Then, one leg more soaked than the other, and unable to fit the upper part of my pants into the narrow drier slot, I slogged my way out of the men’s room, backpack now a frontpack as I hurried past the curious Timmies lineup, and then down the escalator to the main floor of the mall.

I’m not sure what the people I passed were thinking of my appearance, but I was proud of my solution, proud of my ability to think under pressure. There is something indomitable about the wisdom of Age isn’t there? It’s what has made the young respect their elders over the millennia.

All the same, I decided to go for a walk outside along the nearby leash-free area of the seawall until I was dry enough to take the bus home.

I had trouble with the dogs, though…

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