It happened. I got old. Middle age is in the rear view mirror and here I sit an old fart still trying to figure it out.

I joined the Geezers Club this year. Go to any McDonalds in the country after the non-geezers have gone to work or school you will find a chapter of the Geezers Club. My chapter meets at the McDonalds north of town. Meetings start around 8:30 AM and finish up around 10:00, when everyone goes home to watch their programs. At 8:30 the geezers take over. Most of them nurse their cups of coffee (they pay $.83 for a cup and get free refills) and talk for the next ninety minutes.

There’s another Geezers Club that meets in the McDonalds connected to the BP station out on the highway, but I joined the north of town club. Mine is a newer store without the unknowns that come with being close to the highway and that gas station. The highway meetings can be surrounded by young people, even children for Christ’s sake, or transient couples with tattoos and body piercings. Who wants to look at that? 

When I’m at the Geezers club, I get on my PC and write. I’ll hang out for an hour or so. Writing is new to me. I’ve read about how many writers crave solitude as they wrestle with their muse. Not me. I need minor distractions while I dredge up this caca and mess around with it. My Geezers Club provides just enough background noise to remind me that I’m not alone and everyone has a story to tell. 

My chapter has the feel of a high school cafeteria minus the hormonal thunder storm. Like high school students the geezers settle into cliques. There are:

  • The Ladies groups
  •  The Guys Table 
  • Lone Wolves 
  • Couples 

First, the ladies groups. Notice I said “groups.” At my chapter there are two separate ladies groups. I call one group “The Popular Ones” and the other group “The Rest of Us.” 

The Populars is the smaller, more cliquey clique. Normally there are only four or five ladies, all over seventy years old. They are still fashion conscious, with the kind of short hairstyles that require weekly visits to the salon. All of them proudly wear their grey hair. If they need glasses, they have age appropriate frames that aren’t outlandish fashion statements. Their clothes are newer and again very right for their age. They shop at the locally owned stores – the high price option. Their coats are heavy wool garments. Their sweaters come from natural fabrics, wool or cotton. All their outfits are color coordinated, focusing on earth tones or subdued primary colors, reds greens or blues

The Rest of Us is more of a mixed bag age wise. They take up as many as four tables because there are, at times, eleven ladies talking away. As an aside, one husband sits with this group, God bless him. The Rests wear a range of outfits, Their jackets are more often nylon or a fabric blend, some wear sweatshirts with hoods. A couple have dyed their hair, why not? For their coats and sweaters they choose a wider variety of colors – some not found in nature. These clothes come from Walmart or Target. 

The two ladies groups sit well apart from each other. Occasionally one of the The Rest of Us will stand by the Populars’ table and exchange pleasantries; the Populars seldom stand at the The Rest of Us’ table. 

Both of these groups seem pleasant and generally talk away with smiles on their faces. I have never seen an argument. I imagine that they have known each other since primary school. Because this is a small town, their families probably go back generations. The Populars most likely come from people who worked at the banks, insurance agencies or the offices of the shipyards and factories. The Rest of Us might come from farm families or the laborers in the shipyards and factories; The Rest of Us ladies have seen a few things and relish everyday without family driven drama. If one of The Rest of Us crowd ever wanted to be a Popular, that issue was settled when they were in middle school; hopefully, they have accepted their fate. 

Occasionally either of the ladies groups might disintegrate into bouts of roaring laughter. I can tell that someone has been telling a good old dirty story. At this point in life, everybody likes a dirty story. 

Now for the Old Guys. They don’t show up every day. You can tell if the guys are around before entering the building, by the number of pickup trucks in the parking lot. There are about six regular members. The OG’s come in earlier and leave sooner than the ladies. They wear practical guy clothes with no fashion sense beyond wearing Packers or Brewers gear. Based on how the guys talk with the volume at eleven, it seems that they worked on the plant floor. After running loud metal working machines with no ear protection for three or four decades two things happen: first you get used to shouting and second your ears throw up their hands and give up. Oh, and a couple of the old guys sacrificed a few fingers to those machines. Stuff happens. 

The guys seem to talk about simple things: sports, hunting, fishing, and fixing their trucks. Judging by the lack of arguments, they do not talk about politics. Like the ladies, the Old Guys don’t buy food from McDonalds, as a rule; they only buy a cup of coffee. 

The Lone Wolves are always guys. For some reason they don’t belong to the guys group. Probably, like me, they didn’t grow up around here and don’t know anyone, or they did grow up around here and don’t like anyone. Many LW’s actually eat a McDonalds breakfast, apparently they have a death wish. Lone Wolves read the free Green Bay Press Gazette McDonalds buys for their customers. They eat, read and leave in short order. Their clothes and hygiene represent all the community has to offer. Some choose the unkempt beard, dirty fingernails and sloppy clothes option. Others are more LL Bean. Most Lone Wolves do not talk to others. Some talk to themselves. It’s hard to tell if they’re happy, sad, lonely or what. They’re guys; they don’t know if they’re happy, sad, lonely or what.

The Couples are not regular club members. They are temps. They have come to town for an early doctors appointment or a meeting at the bank. The couples sit together and talk quietly. Occasionally they greet members of the ladies groups or The Old Guys. They never talk to the Loan Wolves. The Couples eat their food, drink their coffee and get on their way. But for that twenty minutes, even though they don’t know it, they belong to the Geezers Club. 

After I leave the McDonalds Geezers Club, I go to the public library. I call it the Auxiliary Geezers Club. There I leech off the free wi-fi and read magazines. The library staff puts out a jigsaw puzzle so the geezers have something to do. Antique humans sit there for a while and snap in a couple of parts. Once a week, I sit there and look like I’m doing the puzzle for fifteen minutes. What I really do is take the puzzle apart a little, removing a piece or ten and place them back with the un-found units. Sometimes, I pocket a piece and leave with it. I know, it’s a lousy thing to do. 

The Geezers Club is the final step before joining the Assisted Living Club. After that you join the You’re Dead Club.

What happened?