Please Have a Seat

It took place long ago, but I still remember it clearly: A newspaper boy was hawking the Baltimore Sun on a busy downtown street. I had stopped to buy a copy but had no coins. “No problem,” he said in a gentle voice as he handed me the change. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Sir.” This was the first time anyone had ever addressed me by that honorific, and I remember being a bit jarred by it. After all, I was only 15.  But then I realized that the newsboy was about ten years old, and — though I had never considered myself to be a full adult — in his eyes, I was a grown, mature man and fully entitled to a “sir.” And then it occurred to me that maybe he’s right, and maybe I was in fact a grown, mature adult.

The years flew by, and in an instant I turned 20, which faded into 30, which quickly ripened into 40, and fast-forwarded into 50. By now, the “sirs” were plentiful and no longer remarkable. Through the magic of time, I was now, at least by the calendar, a grown adult. My black beard began showing signs of true maturity: white speckles made a regular appearance, and graying strands began to poke impudently through my chin’s foliage.

One day I was on a crowded bus in Jerusalem, a straphanger with dozens of other straphangers. A boy stood up and graciously offered me his seat. This was the first time anyone had ever offered me a seat, and I remember being a bit jarred by the gesture. After all, I was only 55. But then I realized that the kind boy was about ten years old, and  — though I had never considered myself an old man — when he saw my graying beard and wrinkled forehead, in his eyes I was a very old man and therefore entitled to sit down. And then it occurred to me that maybe he’s right, and maybe, even though I was not yet 60, I was in fact an old man.