Baby Boomer

By Dan Weatherington

Retired banker Alex West realizes his life is no more than waiting to die and vows to change it. In the process, he discovers a place he could have only dreamed of. There, he meets two beautiful women who totally captivate him.
The first immediately comes on to him, but conservative, old-fashioned Alex fears her directness, controlling ways and secretive manner. She may also be a murderer. The second is kind, gentle and totally out of his league. In spite of the elements against him, Alex has no desire to live out the rest of his life alone and pursues both.
Each woman brings with her a lifetime of successes, failures and demons with which Alex must contend. He also discovers he has his own failures and demons with which he must deal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Weatherington
• Release date: Feb 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311514592

Dan Weatherington

Dan Weatherington was born in Raleigh, North Carolina, the only son of Harry Rodman and Mary Weatherington. Much of his childhood was spent at his aunt's home on the Pamlico River, the influence of which is obvious in his novel Brandywine Bay. And, influences of which are shown in the novel The Seventh Gift of God. Dan attended grammar school in Raleigh and high school at Carlisle Military School in Bamberg, South Carolina. His college years were spread between The Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina, the University of South Carolina and North Carolina State University in Raleigh. He and Judy married in August 1969 and remain married today. She worked to allow him to complete school and together they have two children, Wendy and Leslie. At age 31, Dan was elected to join the Masons. By the time he was forty, he had found a niche in Masonic research and writing. Most of his work has been of a Masonic nature and has been published in Masonic publications throughout the United States and Canada. He is Dean Emeritus of Wilkerson College, North Carolina's College of Freemasonry, has been the Chair of the Committee on Masonic Education of the Grand Lodge of North Carolina for several years and writes quarterly columns for the Philalethes, a publication of an international Masonic research society. In addition, he publishes the Lodge Night Program, a quarterly educational booklet distributed to almost four hundred Masonic lodges across North Carolina. The novel Recognizing Prince Hall will hopefully be a tribute to the gallant men who have done much to erase racism in North Carolina Masonry and their efforts to accomplish this task. His novel Blemished Harvest documents his career in the Mortgage Banking industry and how he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 1986. While many would have given up after such a diagnosis, Dan and Judy still continue to be active in their community and own and operate businesses in their hometown.

Book preview

Baby Boomer

A NOVEL

Dan Weatherington

To a Priest who taught me Strength.

To a Preacher who taught me Dignity.

To a Professor who taught me how to be a Friend

Copyright ©2015 Dan Weatherington.

No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 1

It was on the television. I have no idea the name of the program or the person who said it. To me, these things lost their importance long ago. Though my TV stays on all day, I neither see it or hear it. I stare past the screen with my mind mostly on things in the past and find the sound the television makes to be better than the quiet that would otherwise surround me.

This time I heard it. I wish I hadn’t.

Whoever the man was said, All you are doing is sitting there waiting to die. The statement hit me like an oncoming truck. At first I wondered how 10 words could hurt so badly and cut so deeply. I wondered until I realized the reason. They are true.

For a moment I cry. Then I get mad, not at anyone or anything, only at myself. I scream as loud as I can, I am not doing this any more.

I know something is wrong. I’ve known it for months. The problem was that until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know exactly what was wrong.

For years, the voice inside me, the voice we all have inside us that knows right from wrong so well, has done a remarkably good job of guiding me. When I was little and the boys discovered that the lock on the Church Poor Box was broken, it was that voice that told me to leave the pennies inside alone. It wasn’t until Sister Mary Catherine caught four of the boys stealing money from the box that I became fully aware of the wisdom of the little voice inside me.

Throughout childhood, my inner voice kept me out of all grades of trouble. When it came time to pick out a college, instead of the college my friends insisted was the perfect one because it was crip, easy, that small voice inside me told me I could do better. Granted, there were times when I was praying for a C instead of a D, that I cursed the voice for telling me to pick the school I attended. I realized my voice’s wisdom when I graduated with a job offer and six months later, my friends who attended the easy college were still applying for jobs.

My inner voice guided me into a job I kept and loved for forty-five years. It led me to marry my wonderful wife of forty-two years. Yet, now that I need advice from my inner voice, it has fallen remarkably silent with the exception that it will occasionally let me know my retirement isn’t working the way it should. I am well aware of the situation. What I don’t know is how to change it.

Though money is not a problem, no more than it is for anyone on a pension and Social Security, my life has degenerated to lunch from the dollar menu at McDonald’s and frozen microwave dinners for supper. In between these two high spots the rest of my day is spent sitting in my recliner watching television. Countless times every day, I remind myself of the futility of my life. But, it wasn’t until this afternoon that I realized exactly what I am doing wrong and I can’t say I like it.

I am not doing this anymore, I repeat to myself.

Retirement is supposed to be a happy time. It's not supposed to be frozen dinners, television and sitting in a recliner waiting for my final breath. It's supposed to be more, much more.

No, I'm not doing this anymore. Tomorrow, it's going to change.

No, Alex, it's not going to be tomorrow. It's not going to be the next day. It's going to be tonight. It's going to be now. And, this time I mean it!

I spring from my chair and yell as loud as I can, This time I am going to change. I'm not going to sit here waiting to die. I am getting out of this house, away from the TV, and starting to live!

For some reason that I certainly can't explain, I feel like I used to so many years ago when I was going on a first date. The same mixture of excitement and fear I felt all those many years ago surges through me. Why? I have no idea. Maybe it's the anticipation of going somewhere new with a person I like but don't really know. Maybe it's the fear the relationship won't work and she'll tell me to buzz off before the night is over. Then, I have to remind myself that I’m not going on a date. I’m just going out to eat. To worry about some unknown woman telling me to get lost before I even meet her not only shouts loser, it's ridiculously premature.

Still, in the shower, my excitement grows. I'm doing something new. I'm doing something different. I feel almost giddy. Something is going to happen tonight, I don't know what, but something is going to happen.

I feel the excitement while I put on my clothes. I feel it as I drive toward town. In my head, I still feel like I did so many years ago when I was dating. Am I wearing the right clothes? I don't know what the kids are wearing today. But what does it matter? I'm not a kid. Last time I went anywhere a sweater and a pair of khakis were the things to wear and that's what I'm wearing tonight.

The excitement is fantastic but I have no idea why I feel this way. Who gets excited at the thought of going out and having a meal alone? I don't know who does or why they do it, but, I am.

I smile again as I pass McDonald's. There's nothing there I want. McDonald's or any other fast food joint isn't the reason I got dressed up. I don't want something sitting under a heat lamp beside fifty other items exactly like it waiting for a customer. I want something made for me. I want something different from everyone else in the place. I think that says it all. I want something different.

For the first time, and I have to swallow to admit this even to myself. I don't believe I would mind meeting someone.

I might meet someone at McDonald's or one of the fast food places, but I don't want to meet some twenty-year-old who feels the need to be nice and sit at the table with the old codger because the old codger is all alone. Again, I didn't dress up for that. I don't feel giddy and alive because I might meet some do-gooder who would be better served passing out sandwiches at a soup kitchen. I want to meet people my age, with the same experiences and, I guess, the same dreams.

There used to be some nice places to eat downtown across from the park on 6th Street. I don't know if they're still there, but it's worth a try.

Sixth Street it is.

I park the car and a man staggers up to me. Please, could you spare some change?

In the past I would ignore the man. Tonight, I reach into my pocket and pull out a five-dollar bill. Sir, I would like to see this go toward buying you a nice meal, but that is your choice.

The man stares at the money like it is newfound riches. He grabs my hand and kisses it. I know from how quickly he leaves and heads up the street that the five dollars won't go for a meal. By the time I find a place to eat, the money will probably be in the till at a liquor store. I don't know, but I feel too good tonight to worry about it.

The last time I walked down 6th Street it was nicer than what I see tonight. The street used to be bright, with ethnic restaurants and a deli or two. Now it's dingy. Most of the places I remember have turned into bars. I have been down, but I can't remember ever being low enough to spend the night in a bar nursing a drink. Besides, if I wanted liquor, I believe I have a bottle of something or other under the kitchen sink at home.

As I walk past one of the places, the front door is propped open. Cigarette smoke drifts out and with it the sound of the Beatles singing I want To Hold Your Hand. How long has it been since I heard that song? I loved it then. I love it now. I look up at the sign, Memories. Below it painted on the glass window is A Good Place to Eat.

The music has me. Memories it is.

Inside, the place is like something out of the nineteen-fifties. A counter with stools runs the entire length of the right wall. Across from the counter are two rows of booths large enough for four people in each. I have been here before, I think, but I couldn’t have been. I grew up in a town thirty-five miles away. Still, it is exactly like a place where my friends and I used to hang out years ago. It even smells like the place I remember.

There aren't many people on the street tonight, but this place is packed. The inside doesn't appear to have been updated in decades and one of the first things I notice is that I Want to Hold Your Hand, which is still playing, is at a decent volume. I quit going to the so called Theme restaurants years ago because the music is so loud. Not here. If anything, I would have to call it pleasant. What isn't pleasant is the cigarette smoke. A white cloud of the noxious vapor hangs over the entire restaurant.

The place is extremely friendly. Most of the people I pass look up and smile. A few nod. A couple of people smile and say, Evening. Toward the back I find a booth and take a seat. Within a few seconds, a lady about my age approaches. Her name tag says, Linda.

Evening, what for you? she asks.

What, no ‘Good evening my name is Linda and I'll be your server?' I reply.

Who in the world would say anything like that? she retorts. The name tag says Linda and the uniform and cap pretty much says I'm a waitress. She laughs and says, My name is Linda and I'll be your server. I might try using that sometime. She hesitates then says, No, even I wouldn't say anything that corny. Now, what for you?

I haven't been here before, Linda, could I see a menu?

Sure, she says as she leans over the table and pulls a menu from its place between the napkin holder and the ketchup. I'll check back with you in a minute.

I guess I have been jaded by the large vinyl made-to-look-like-leather menus. The menu was there all along, not a foot and a half away. It is one of the old clear plastic jobs with brass corners and a carbon copy of a hand-typed list. The selection is exactly what one would expect in a place like this: hamburgers, cheeseburgers, fries, the normal hash-house fare. What I wasn't expecting are the prices, hamburgers - 65 cents, cheeseburgers - 70 cents, a Coke is a dime. No, I wasn't expecting that.

Linda returns to the table. You decide?

Yes, a hamburger and a Coke and, Linda, your prices, 65 cents for a hamburger?

Isn't that ridiculous? Sixty-five cents for a hamburger. I told Clyde that people aren't going to pay that much for a hamburger, but I guess they will. You want fries with that?

That sounds good. And, Linda, is the smoke always this bad in here?

It is bad tonight. I keep propping open the front door, but people close it when they leave. What can you do?

I thought there was a law against smoking in a restaurant.

Again, she laughs. A law against smoking? That is funny. You're full of ‘em, Mister.

Sixty-five cent hamburgers and was she serious about not knowing about anti smoking laws? Oh, well.

For the next few minutes I sit at my table, watching the people and listening to the music, that fascinating music. I really wanted something special tonight. I wanted something made just for me and I end up in a hamburger joint. But, somehow, I don’t feel disappointed. The more I look around, I see this place is exactly what I wanted. People . . . people my age. There isn’t a child or even a teeney-bopper in the place. Everyone here is about my age. And, there must be some sort of costume requirement or dress code about this place. Most of the women are either wearing miniskirts or jeans. Some of the men are wearing torn jeans or bell bottoms. When was the last time I saw a pair of bell bottoms? Torn jeans? Maybe. Bell bottoms? Haven’t seen them in years. Then, I think of the sixty-five cent hamburgers and dime Cokes. What is going on here. This place is weird. I feel like I may have just tripped into the Twilight Zone. Oh well, if I am in the Twilight Zone, It’s the nineteen-sixties and it’s where I want to be.

It's not long before Petula Clark comes on the jukebox singing My Love and Linda returns with my food.

I love that song, I say.

It is catchy, they just put it in a couple of weeks ago and I like it.

A couple of weeks ago?

My hamburger is good and doesn't look like the normal fare. It is obvious that the patty is made by hand and not generated from some massive meat press in Omaha, but the real treat is the french fries. They are the old fashioned big ones, not the little sticks you get at the fast food restaurants. They are salty, greasy and delicious. Delicious yes, just like they were in nineteen sixty five.

Brass cornered menu with a carbon copied list with sixty-five cent hamburgers and dime Cokes? Waitress who never heard of anti smoking laws? Petula Clark’s forty year old song just put on the Rockola two weeks ago?

I only have three or four french fries left when someone stops at the end of my booth. I look up and it is one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever laid my eyes upon. Mind if I sit with you, she asks. The other booths are full and I really don't like sitting at the counter.

I stare at her and literally lose my breath. This beautiful creature is wearing boots, a dark brown miniskirt, and a white knit sweater. She is beautiful, straight out of the nineteen-sixties, and amazingly about my age. Uh, uh, sure, I stutter. Please, sit down.

I can’t be in the Twilight Zone. This gorgeous creature is my age just like almost all the people in this place. If this was nineteen sixty-five everybody in here, including me, would be in their teens or early twenties. I don’t know what the hell is going on.

Thanks. I'm Karen, she says as she slides into the booth. I don't remember seeing you here before.

No, this is my first visit. My name is Alex, Alex West. You must come here quite a bit.

Alex, I would live here if I could.

Is the food that good?

The food is good, but I don't come here for the food. It's the atmosphere. The music, the setting, the way the people dress. Can't you just feel it? I don't know how to say it. It takes me back to a place I want to be.

You mean forty, fifty years ago.

Exactly, she says as she lays her hand on mine.

That may be so, but unless I miss my guess, you are a few years shy of those times.

She laughs. Nice of you to say, Alex, but mine is all in the genes and Clarol number 114. I probably have a year or two on you. Matter of fact, I was thinking the same about you.

I can't help but smile. No, Just For Men, medium brown. I'm sixty-five.

Me too.

A gentleman doesn't ask a lady her age, I say apologetically.

You didn't ask. Besides, I'm not ashamed of it. And, I must admit, she winks, I do look fine for my age.

Damn fine, I think.

Karen jerks her hand from mine. Look at me, she says, Holding hands with a strange man. What would your wife say?

My wife passed away three years ago.

Oh, I'm sorry. She lays her hand back on mine.

I try to give the expected ‘thank you' smile, but I feel myself blush. Other than the nurse at the doctor's office, Karen is the first woman to hold my hand since my wife died. And, the nurse only held my hand while she was taking my blood pressure.

Then, it occurs to me, this woman is coming on a bit strong and a bit fast. I start to feel uncomfortable. Am I being courted by a hooker? Is the next step in this chance meeting going to be her mentioning fifty dollars or a hundred or whatever is the going rate for a whore these days?

And you? I ask

Divorced, five years.

I'm sorry, I reply like it's the proper thing to say.

Nothing to be sorry about. He was all business and I was the housewife. He had his world and I had mine. After the children left . . . you've heard of empty nesters.

Yes, nothing in common.

That's right, nothing in common. Have you got children?

Two, a boy and a girl. Both married and doing very well.

Grandchildren?

Yes, two. And you?

Three, and you're going to think I'm a terrible person because I don't have any pictures to show you.

I have three pictures of my grandchildren in my wallet, but somehow, the entire conversation seems to have shifted. I can't picture a hooker chatting about her grandchildren. The subject would be too personal for a whore-John relationship. Is this broad on the up and up? She still has her hand on