I sat down in the pharmacy to wait on getting my prescription filled. The guy next to me complimented me on my cap, and I complimented him on his hat.
Frank said he was a retired aerospace engineer, and his dad had been the same before him. I told him my dad had been an aeronautical engineer. He told me he was seventy-four, and he felt great most of the time, but occasionally his equilibrium would get off-balance. We talked about medical ailments for a bit.
He told me he and his wife had been married for fifty-five years, and he warned me not to get married again. He said he had seventeen dogs at his house, and his monthly dog food bill was around $800. He said he was doing all right, just enough, he got a good retirement package when he retired a few years ago. Then he asked me what I did for a living.
“I’m a musician,” I said.
That led to a lengthy conversation about his favorite Hammond B-3 players—Jimmy Smith and Brother Jack McDuff—and his love of “jazz, when it got a little funky.” I told him I had run into tenor saxophone legend Plas Johnson here in the halls of this very medical center. He found out I was a guitar player, and we talked about jazz guitar giant Kenny Burrell. Somehow the subject of Miles Davis came up.
“I’m going to tell you something. The cocaine they had back in 1965–66 was UNBELIEVABLE. It was so much better than the shit they have today.”
I started to ask him to elaborate, and then they called my name at window 7.
“I’ll talk to you later, Frank, but let me get a picture of you.”
“Yeah, ok, but you have to take a picture wearing my hat.”
“Take care, Frank.”
“You too, pal.”
