My friend Franklin was my boss many years ago, and after the company we worked for went belly up we remained friends. When I first met Frank I remember thinking that we were kindred spirits, a generation apart: he was one of the few people I had ever met who walked faster and talked faster than I do.
But Frank is slowing down now. Thanks to the relentless progression of Parkinson’s disease; his once brisk walk is more of a shuffle and this man who could once hold an auditorium enthralled when he spoke, now speaks slowly and deliberately, as though he has to ration his words.
What has not changed is Franks’ considerable intellect: He still has a razor-sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor and the ability to eviscerate someone with one or two well-chosen words. I know that it must frustrate him when people see him walk or hear him talk and treat him like a feeble, doddering old man; it makes me crazy when I see it. But as I recently discovered, Frank can still take care of himself.
We met for lunch at a Thai restaurant; after his tour of duty in Viet Nam Frank stayed in Thailand working for a defense contractor for the better part of a decade and he developed a life-long love for the country – and the cuisine. I used to think I liked my Thai food spicy until I tasted one of the curries he ordered at his favorite Thai restaurant — and my mouth was on fire for days afterward.
On this day Frank ordered his usual chicken with red curry and, in his halting speech said. “I. Want. It. Very. Hot. Very. Spicy. Please.” He paused for a breath. “And. Thai. Iced. Coffee. Please. “
The waitress bent down and put her hands on her knees so she was at eye level with Frank. “That will be vewy, vewy spicy!” she said, as though addressing a kitten. “Are we sure?”
I saw a brief cloud pass over Frank’s face; God knows what he wanted to say. “I’m. Sure.” he said.
The waitress looked at me. “Is he sure?” she asked in a loud, moist whisper.
“You heard the man,” I said shortly.
It took a while but eventually the waitress brought a Diet Coke for me and the Thai iced coffee for Frank. The coffee was lovely: dark, bitter coffee at the bottom of a clear glass, sweet condensed milk on top and, in the middle, a tawny amber swirl. “Sugar. Please?” said Frank.
The waitress bent down again, speaking, now, as though she was addressing a none-too-bright kitten. “It’s already pretty sweet, Sweetie,” she said.
Now Frank was getting annoyed: he likes his food spicy and his coffee sweet, and I’m sure he did not feel the need to explain is personal preferences to an officious waitress. Moreover, her questioning his choices clearly indicated she thought she was dealing with someone not quite in control of their faculties. Now, imperious, he said, “Bring. Me. Sugar.” And the waitress, grudgingly, complied.
The waitress left to deliver some food to another table.. “Don’t forget to stir your coffee,” she advised Frank as she passed our table. He ignored her. Although most people stir their Thai coffee Frank doesn’t. He likes to move the straw up and down to get three distinct flavors: Bitter, sweet or mixed. The waitress left.
Not long after she brought our food. “Tell your Dad to stir that coffee,” she advised me. I ignored her and she retreated, but I saw her watching Frank from the kitchen doorway.
She came back a minute later with a long spoon in her hand. “LET ME STIR THAT FOR YOU,” she said loudly.
Frank pushed her hand away from his coffee and, for a moment my old boss was back. “I’m not deaf,” he said clearly, “and I don’t need you to stir my coffee. Now go away.”
The waitress was offended. “I’m only trying to help,” she said.