‘You don’t think about your feet when you still have them.’ : Two Old Ladies in Fedco

I like old ladies. I like them though they are often miserable human beings who crowd in front of others at the supermarket and occasionally tell someone to get the hell out of their way.

Sometimes it is difficult to like them, most notably when they are behind the wheel of a car bearing down on you and not about to slow, swerve or otherwise avoid smashing you against the side of a building.

But they are still a breed apart, brightened by years of wear to a gleaming patina of natural tones, as tart and snappy as an early winter.

I mention this by way of leading into a conversation overheard recently at the Fedco department store in Van Nuys.

Two old ladies, probably in their 80s, were standing near women’s wear discussing poor Harold.

I was in the area not because I have taken to hanging around the changing rooms but because I spend a good portion of my life waiting. I am an expert at it. Sometimes, just to pass the time, I wait even though there is no one special to wait for.

On this particular day, Fedco, which is one of those busy, often chaotic, warehouse-type department stores, was especially jammed. It was like the basement of Filene’s in Boston, which represents the epitome of urban retail warfare.

Pushing and shoving was invented in the basement of Filene’s but it was refined to an art form in Southern California.

The only place I could find to wait in safety at Fedco was near blouses and pants, which is where the aforementioned old ladies were conversing. What drew my attention to them was the opening moment of their discussion:

“I just saw Harold. He’s really depressed.”

“That’s a bad sign.”

“But for 13 years, he’s had no feet. What do you expect?”

“Oh my God.”

I had fallen into my normal Waiting Mode, eyes glazed over and half-hypnotized by the blur of activity around me when that exchange floated across. Naturally I listened.

“You didn’t know he had no feet?”

“I don’t think I ever saw him out of a sickbed.”

“He has the arthritis, too.”

“He seemed so cheerful.”

“You can touch his skin and hear his bones crackle.”

“That’s a bad sign.”

The old lady who was bearing the bad news about Harold’s unfortunate condition wore a blond bouffant wig and oversized Gloria Steinem glasses. Her information was delivered in the same lighthearted manner my mother often employed when passing on news of her own illnesses which, though frequently exaggerated, were always in abundance.

I remember mom telephoned me once after having learned she had high blood pressure and announced in a voice filled with good cheer, “Well, I’m going to die!” It was nonsense, of course, but it achieved the shock value she was seeking.

I don’t think she ever did die, though I haven’t heard from her lately.

The woman in Fedco who was the recipient of the news concerning Harold and who knew a bad sign when she heard one was one of those sprightly, eager old ladies who can never hear enough about someone else’s misery. Harold’s condition was a bonanza.

“And the stroke. You heard about that. He has no speech now.”

“Dear God.”

“What could he say anyhow?”

I was beginning to get a fairly good picture of Harold by this time and his condition, as sobering as it seemed, was compelling. The man was falling apart before our very eyes. Not only that, but:

“How is Evie taking this?”

“I think she’s stepping out on him.”

“That’s a bad sign. I’ll bet she’s seeing poor Harold’s brother.”

“No, some other bum.”

“Harold was no saint. When my poor Gerald was alive, God rest his soul, Harold used to want me to meet him for lunch. The most I did was meet him for a drink.”

“Lunch is too important.”

“My exact thought.”

At this point, they both broke into laughter. The idea of preferring lunch to Harold was too funny to ignore. But very quickly the thought of him lying there listening to his bones crackle while Evie did the town overtook them once more.

“Poor Harold. It would be a blessing if he died.”

“But he won’t. Mark my word. My Gerald would have hated dying like that.”

“When Harold could still talk, he told me he was anxious to pass beyond. He felt God would give him back his feet. How Harold missed them. Now, I guess, it doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t think about your feet when you still have them.”

“Isn’t that true?” “We should learn to appreciate the parts of our body. It’s a bad sign when we take them for granted.”

“I’ve got to go. There’s my no-good son-in-law. I’ll see you at bingo?”

“I’ll be there. When you visit Harold again, tell him I’m praying for him.”

“I won’t be seeing him too often. He doesn’t have bladder control anymore.”

“It’s a blessing he doesn’t have to leave the house.”

“God plans it so well.”

“Amen.”

The person I was waiting for appeared.

“I almost forgot you,” she said.

That’s a bad sign.