Tuesday evening I was sitting in a bar. Next to me was a young man, not bad looking. After a bit the young man turned to me and asked me where I was from.
"Chicago."
He stared at me for a second.
"Really? I'm from Virginia. Have you ever been to Mississippi?"
Okay, that seemed a bit off. Anyway, we talked some about the South and places the young man would like to visit some day. I asked him his name. (The following name is fictitious)
"My name is Andrew. So, where are you from?"
Andrew was a bit drunk and was repeating himself.
"My name is Alan, and I'm from Chicago."
A bit more conversing and then he asked me the worst question ever.
"How old are you?"
Well, Hell. I hate telling people how old I am, but I don't lie.
"Ummm.... seventy one years old."
"No... Oh my god. I thought you were like forty five or maybe fifty. You look great. Are you sure you're that old? What year were you born?"
I was suddenly in love.
"1949"
"Oh my god! So what were the 1950s like? Do you remember when Chicago had all those gangsters? Did you know any, like Al Capone? My mom is forty five, my grandmother is sixty five. I was born in 1997..."
Twenty four years old. Right in my wheel house.... forty years ago. It was like I had been hit in the head with a baseball bat. Twenty four, 1997? That was the year I met Mark. I was having a conversation with a child. Andrew reached over and held my hand for a minute, until I gently pulled away and excused myself to go pee. When I got back, the boy was in deep conversation with the guy on the other side of him. An older gentleman, of about forty five or fifty years old.
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