This week he comes in and, once he settles into his usual spot, the oldest of the geezers at the adjacent tables turns to greet him, forgoing any salutation and just asking point blank how he’s doing.
He returns the lack of smalltalk, smiles and says he’s fine, and shoots the senior’s inquiry right back at him.
The old-timer says he figures he’s doing fine for 94.
He suddenly realizes that the old guy’s younger buddies have probably put him up to breaking the ice; that all eyes have suddenly turned on him; that he’s already deep into some sort of initial interview process.
“Well, you look OK to me,” he says, then adds “And even at 94, it doesn’t get much better than having coffee with your buddies on a Saturday morning, does it?”
He has some trouble reading the old man’s cloudy reaction but notes that his compatriots seem satisfied, so he figures that next week he’ll probably be moving on to round two.