Mack* is an elderly man who has been visiting the club I work at for years, well before I began working there. He’s lost all of his teeth except one lonely upper incisor which never fails to distract you when he opens his mouth to speak.
He’s an excellent tipper, always sliding twenty dollar bills across the table to me in the middle of our conversations. I always pause, smile, say “thank you,” and let him continue his ramblings.
As an ex-military sniper (or so he says), the stories that poor from this man’s lips are both interesting yet disturbing. It’s obvious his mind isn’t as sharp as it may have once been; he stumbles through his choice of words and repeats details over and over again every time I see him. But I will always smile and act shocked when he lays out the tale yet again of the enemy arms he was required to sever back in the day. His eyes dart back and forth feverishly as he describes the torn veins, the ripped tissue, the sound of the bones splitting under the chain-saw blade which was apparently so loud, he could hear it over the roar of the motor.
His facial expressions change dramatically under the flashing lights of the club while reliving his past. He often leans forward to yell in my ear, thinking I’m unable to hear him over the music. His breathe always smells of sour beer, what hair remains on his head always matted down in a knot, never combed.
I’ve come to the conclusion that all he wants and really needs is someone to talk to. No pets, no wife, no children – his days are spent mostly alone, probably smoking up a heavy storm in his musty house, watching reruns of old shows he once loved, never getting dressed unless it’s to come to the club.
Of course, these are just guesses but I do know one thing for certain – he appreciates someone who will simply sit down, drown out the world around them, and listen tentatively to what he has to say, even if it’s a bunch of drunken words slurred together with no real meaning. It would make sense why he tips me more than the other dancers who see him tipping me at the table. They’ll flutter up, kiss him on the cheek, flash their chest, and giggle wildly hoping that it will get him excited. He smiles politely, hands them a $5 bill, and turns back to his beer and his story (which he usually starts telling once more from the beginning, forgetting where he had left off ten seconds earlier).
One night he tipped me a total of $220 in twenties and before he left, I gave him a heartfelt hug and thanked him on his way out. A wave of confusion invaded his face as he looked at me in the eyes and asked why I was thanking him. I replied that I enjoyed his company and appreciated the tips. He shook his head for a few seconds, pushed his 50’s style eyeglasses back up his nose with his misshaped pinky, then blurted out that he was the one who should be thanking me. I asked why and he smiled, his lone tooth twinkling against his gums. “You have a good heart and you’re going places, young one. Thanks for letting an old man smile again, even if it’s over trivial things.”
I decided that night that I really like Mack. If I am truly making him happy, I hope I never let him down.
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* names have been changed to protect identities, obviously.