Realizing that their walkers were in the hall, and that their creaky, arthritic bones had settled comfortably into the plastic chairs, no one moved. Michael, a professor by trade prior to retirement, was growing hot under the collar from his get up. He squirmed uncomfortably in his wrinkle and iron free khaki pants, before finally removing his tweed blazer and unbuttoning his bow tie for some relief.
“When do you have to be home?” Irv inquired. Decked out in his favourite neon green and purple plaid golf knickers and matching hat-sweater vest combo, Irv looked at his watch, hopeful that if the teacher arrived soon, he could go to the driving range.
“Maybe if you’d paid attention then, you wouldn’t be here today. So, the moral of the story is stop knitting, pay attention today and you may have a way to get your license back.”
“What about me? I don’t even know why I’m here,” Michael advised.
“If his license was revoked, what the hell is he even doing here?” Irv bellowed. “If he can get back on the road, I’m getting the hell out of here. You can keep my license. I’ll take the bus to the golf course.”
“What are you talking about?” Sally queried.