In 2013, I caught my first guitar pick. Rock ’n’ roll god Steve Miller tossed it from stage after his signature song, “The Joker.” You know: “I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker …”
I can think of no one more deserving than me to have caught that pick. The Steve Miller Band was my favorite band in the ’70s. When I snagged the pick I couldn’t help but believe Steve and I, momentarily at least, were best friends. It was a cosmic connection with the “Space Cowboy.”
Several days after the concert, I was still bragging about the magical moment with my co-workers and friends, how the white pick fluttered like a slow-motion moth toward my outstretched hands, how its trajectory ended with a soft landing in my upturned palm, how the 10-cent piece of plastic made the $70 concert ticket worth the investment, how I had dreamed of such a moment since attending my first concert at 18, how —
“My god, Scott,” a friend interrupted during my last play-by-play retelling, “what are you, 17 years old?”
That’s the whole point! Because of the power of the pick, I did feel 17 again, for a few days at least, until I was humbled at the cinema after requesting a ticket to a movie. The girl behind the counter (who truly looked 17) asked – yes, she asked, I kid you not, she asked – “Do you want an adult ticket or a senior ticket?”
By senior, she didn’t mean high school senior.
I looked around to see if she was referring to someone else. There was no one else in line.
“Are you kidding me?” I replied.
It must have been the ear hairs I forgot to trim.
“Jeez. I’m only 48,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I didn’t know if she meant she was sorry that she made a mistake, or she felt sorry for me for being 48.
It was shocking to hear this question directed at me for the first time.
The manager appeared at the counter. “Did you hear what she asked? She asked if I needed the senior discount.”
Instead of firing her, the manager merely shrugged.
True, the girl behind the counter was only 17 – as I once was, daydreaming in math class about catching Steve Miller’s guitar pick. I remember how old 48 seemed when I was 17, which explains why she looked at me like I was one of those old people in grocery store produce sections who openly pull grapes from the stems and chew them without even paying, as if they are actually walking through their own personal vineyard in Napa Valley. “Was this an AARP perk? God forbid they started doing this to bananas,” I thought.
While I hadn’t pilfered any grapes at that point, there were some signs of my impending senior status. Several times I had forgotten to zip my pants before going to work, an unsettling discovery during meetings, especially when I was the presenter.
Also, for the first time, I allowed a bag boy to carry my groceries to my car. I used to have to practically wrestle the damn bags from the bag boys just to prove I was still physically capable of carrying a gallon of milk.
Also, I had recently reached the point of being too old and impatient for fast food drive-thru service. I succumbed to restaurant rage and became crotchety. Case in point: after I ordered a plain cheeseburger for my daughter, the pip-squeaky speaker voice replied, “So, you don’t want cheese on it?”
“No, I do want cheese on it. Or else that would be a hamburger. I said I wanted a plain cheeseburger.”
“But you said plain.”
“I said cheeseburger!” I then worried what might actually be put on that cheeseburger because of my crankiness, but ultimately that was my daughter’s problem since was the one who wanted a plain cheeseburger – with cheese!
In hindsight, I should have taken the senior ticket at the cinema to save money, but I couldn’t because of the principle of it all. I glared at the teen cashier to remind her that I was still young enough to pay full price for a movie. It’s my movie-going right! Top price, baby! To further demonstrate my youthful coolness, I considered pulling the guitar pick out of my pocket and regaling her with my Steve Miller story; however, catching a pick thrown by a 70-year-old musician likely would not have impressed her.
In 2024, “The Joker” turns 51 years old, further reinforcing that I’m getting older too. I’m somewhat embarrassed that I once thought 48 seemed old. “Wait until you turn 58, then you’ll know what old really feels like,” my current 59-year-old self wants to tell my past 48-year-old self.
Sigh.
Suddenly, I have an urge to steal grapes.
Scott’s latest humor column collection, “Quietly Making Noise,” is available on Amazon. Contact scottsaalman@gmail.com to request him as a guest speaker.