Nothing to complain about

Bob Morrissey

One thing most old-timers have in common is that we can bitch and complain with the best of them.

In Montreal, it’s often about language — issues between francophones and les autres. But despite separatist and nationalistic politicians trying to divide us, somehow we’ve found a way to be civil — and even friends. It’s amazing how a smile and a friendly bonjour bring us together — no matter how many laws, some unchallenged, shout out: you aren’t wanted here.

Yes, young people share our complaints, but dwelling on them isn’t a option. They have too many other concerns: marriage, raising a family, job promotions, mortgages and, yes, looking out for us, their parents. Their time will come.

So we old guys plod on, and if we’re healthy enough to get out and about there’s a reward to be had, namely the acts of kindness by the many young men and women who deal wth the public — in stores, offices, schools, food banks, health, social services and plain, old everyday life.

Like the cashier who reminds you that if you come back on Thursday, there will be 20 per cent off on that sponge mop you’re holding. Or the neighbour who volunteers to look in on your cat when you visit an old friend. Or the young man who helps shovel your walk or drives you to your doctor’s appointment. Or carries your groceries from your car. Or helps you break the Tim Hortons habit by taking you out for a cold one now and then. All done with a smile; all expecting nothing in return.

Recently, I was the recipient of one such kind act in a hospital’s chaotic, jam-packed parking lot. After I had wasted half an hour looking for a vacant spot and become more frustrated by the second, going up and down the aisles with other irritated drivers, a young man we’ll call Harvey jumps in front of my car and holds up his hands as if surrendering. The cars behind me stop and I hear honking. It sounds like a brass band gone mad.

“Get out of your car!” Harvey yells.

Say what? Who is this guy?

Then: “And give me your keys!”

Jaysus, now he wants my keys. Am I missing something? That sounds like a threat. I grab my cane.

Now other frustrated drivers are rolling down their windows and screaming: “Move it!”

As Harvey approaches my car, I ask, “What’s going on?”

He gives me one of those don’t-you-know? stares and hands me a small paper ticket.

“It’s valet parking,” he says.

“At this hospital? That’s a new one on me.”

“Well, now you know. When you come back to get your car, you give me the ticket and I give you back your keys.” Then he shrugged. “Look, I thought you could use some help. You kept going back and forth, up and down the same aisles, and getting nowhere.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Then there was the time I was running late for another hospital appointment. I was scheduled for a nose biopsy. Somehow, I got disoriented inside the hospital, even after asking for directions three times. Hey, I’m 81! I’d take the wrong elevator, get off on the wrong floor, or I’d reach a corridor and turn right instead of left. It was like being a tourist navigating the Décarie Circle.

When I finally reached my destination, I faced one final hurdle — and that was showing my plastic hospital card to the very busy female employee parked outside the waiting room. I knew my card for that hospital had expired; if she noticed, would she still let me through or would she send me to another difficult-to-find office for a new card? I could very well miss my appointment.

Understandably, I was a tad frazzled when my turn came and I heard her ask: “Do you have your hospital card?”

I said “yes” and without realizing it, I did an honest but foolish thing. I said, “But I’m afraid it’s exp …”

“Just say yes,” she snapped, cutting me off.

“But …”

“Just … say …. yes!“

‘’Yes.”

“You can go on in now,” she said, giving me a wink. “And good luck.”

She was still checking cards when I left an hour later.

“Did everything go well?” she asked.

I said, “Can’t complain.”

I felt like adding, “And for this old guy, that’s saying something.”