I texted Katie, “This older dad is negotiating with his three-year-old, and failing.”
We were in Maine, and I texted her because we were on the patio of a little tourist-trap restaurant with a lovely view, and I wanted to gossip about the guy at the table right behind me.
Listen, I know: the parenting game is hard, most people are doing their best, and you can never really grasp another’s struggles (“Thou knowest this man’s fall; but thou knowest not his wrassling,” James Baldwin wrote about his own troublesome father.)
That said, neither Katie nor I is above a little bit of parental schadenfreude.
Most of the difficulty stemmed from his trying to reason with his three-year-old. “Why did you order that if you didn’t want it?”
Then, resigned, he tossed his wadded-up napkin on to his plate and he ordered another beer1.
“Next time we’ll just order her marinara sauce,” he said to his wife.
The three-year-old climbed onto his lap, and I had my read of the situation: this guy, probably a decade my senior, had two children younger than my 8-year-old. He was, literally, too old for this shit.
As if to confirm my intuition, he spoke sharply to the six-year-old: “I want you to think about what you just did: you showed the last fry to your sister and then you ate it.” Other than serving as pretty good shorthand for most sibling behavior, I knew that this remonstrance was more about Geezer Dad than it was about the daughter. She was not going to be doing much reflecting.
I looked over at Katie — a mental-health professional who is great at helping me figure out parenting priorities — and, with the smugness of one who knows, I mouthed, “He’s old, right?”
She shrugged. “Younger than you.”
Hand me a brochure for the Good Shepherd Home, why don’t ya.
Katie reacted to the look on my face: “I mean, maybe he’s 45.”
I’m 43.
The 12-year-old took the opportunity to tune into this brewing dispute: “What is it?”
We explained, briefly and Annie, my angel, my firstborn, agreed with me: “Oh yeah, he’s like, 50.”
“EXACTLY!”
I almost came out of my seat with relief, which got the 8-year-old’s attention. We explained it to him.
“Oh yeah, he’s way older than you, definitely.”
This from a kid not prone to cut his old man a break:
Anyway it was settled: by a 3-1 vote, this guy was definitely a late Gen Xer, who had no patience for these kids he’d had too late. My schadenfreude had, through Katie’s insulting suggestion, turned into an unearned enmity toward this guy, who was now explaining, in a too-treacly voice: “…and Mommy’s going to take you to the car. Daddy’s going to pay the check, and then Daddy’s going to drive home, OK?”
His family left. As he sat there alone, finishing his beer, I kept glancing over my shoulder at him — thinning hair that grayed around the ears, swimming trunks, polo shirt that bulged with a middle-aged paunch — then turning back to try to catch Katie’s eye and shake my head at her betrayal.
Her lack of faith disturbed me.
She laughed.
He got up at last, leaving a $20 bill (on a $116 tab! More evidence! He tips like a Baby Boomer!) and, because she knew I was not going to let this go, Katie was thinking what I was thinking — we got his name off the check.
With the power of a smartphone it took Katie less than a minute to locate a LinkedIn page for what had to be the same guy — photo looked like him, and he lived in Yarmouth, Maine. (I bet Grandpa couldn’t have doxxed us that quickly). All that was left to do was see if the profile had education info that would let us estimate his age. I clicked on it.
I had to download the LinkedIn app to my phone.
The food came. The family started eating.
I was checking email to access the LinkedIn password reset link.
This had become tedious, but at last I was in. I clicked on his education. He had a number of graduate degrees and certificates, but at last I found his undergrad — he went to Trinity, in Hartford, and…
I was hungry.
I put my phone down.
I started cutting into my scallops.
I got the fork halfway to my mouth before Katie registered that I hadn’t provided the final update … “Well?”
Mouth full, I said “Class of ‘02.”
Katie cackled. That’s her class. She’s younger than I am. I chewed determinedly.
The 12-year-old shrugged: “Well, dad, you don’t look that old. Like, 38?”
My angel.
Boothbay’s Angry Botanist IPA — it’s good!
Some souls are just older, man. I can totally empathize with some guy that just ain't getting his toddlers' behaviors. Too flabby headed, too tired, whatever. Yeah. Hopefully you saw him in one of his dumpier moments and not one of his better.
Honestly? Just a doofus. Age is nothing but a number