Boychick

I drove down to Maryland last weekend to test drive a classic Aston Martin, which belongs to a friend who is thinking about selling it. The three-day holiday weekend presented the perfect opportunity for a fall road trip and a visit with him. I’ve known the car’s owner, Joseph Charles, for some time through his profession as a printer. He photographs and reproduces all of my watercolor paintings, many of which have illustrated my books. Joseph suggested meeting up at an assisted living home, where he would be checking in on a friend. As I am always punctual or early, I arrived half an hour before our agreed time and was directed to a small guest waiting area off the lobby. Seated in the little 8x10 overheated space were two ladies, whom I will call Cynthia and Marie, comfortably ensconced in overstuffed wing chairs. Both were reading when I walked in, and neither looked up to acknowledge me. Fortunately, I also had a book in hand – Ann Patchett’s latest bestseller—and took a chair with poor lighting across from them. Out of curiosity, and at the risk of seeming a bit rude for staring, I peered at their reading material and saw that Cynthia was busy with a crossword book, while Marie was engrossed in what appeared to be a science textbook. I opened the Patchett, found my place, and began to read. After a few minutes, I glanced up, and the ladies still hadn’t moved much. I decided to break the silence. “Hi there, sorry to interrupt. My name is Lenny. Are you both residents here? This is a lovely place.” They both responded in the affirmative and said they didn’t mind the interruption. Marie said she had been living there for ten years now and was going to be 97 in November. Cynthia was quick to add that she was much younger – 93. They asked my age. “87 in October,” I said. “Oh, you are a boychick!” said Cynthia. “A boychick!” I repeated, a Yiddish term of endearment for a young man that I hadn’t heard in decades. To them I was a boychick. It’s all relative. And with that, our conversation ended, and we all went back to our books. Eventually, each was called away for their next activity, and they said “Bye, boychick” as they left. 

Joseph turned up shortly after that, and we went outside to the lot where he had parked the Aston Martin. The drive in the Aston was like thunder and lightning – fast and loud. I could only get to fourth gear before my sweaty palms interfered with my grip. I decided the car needed a real boychick to take it over and went home in my Ford Bronco.