The Lunch Outing

She bustles. She flutters. A beleaguered caregiver with a collection of tarnished keys jangling from the lanyard around her neck. Flitting from one charge to another under the fluorescent glare.

This one needs help putting the straw in. That one is fumbling with a cardboard container. Reminders to wipe messy chins. All the while her cheerful stream of chatter diffuses frustrations and awakens warm smiles.

The bright red and white industrial decor of this road-stop McDonalds softened when this crew shuffled through the door.

The eldest has bloodshot eyes, one trembling hand and another that lies useless beside him. His wheelchair is a bulky affair, nothing like the sleek, sporty machines I’ve seen with younger masters. He mumbles to the woman as she passes. She leans closer, peering into his eyes, before barking with laughter. The bemused shake of her head confirms my suspicion. He’s a rascal.

At the next table sit a couple in their fifties. I recognize the round eyes and wide smiles. My daughter also has Down Syndrome. They savor their lunch in slow motion. He filches her fry and she swats his hand with a grin. They move in sync with the rhythm of long-time friends.

In the farthest table sits a woman about my age – with a dented walker beside her. She mutters and squeaks throughout her meal, lost in her own world. Her companions pay no attention. But as they leave, everyone slows and waits for her to catch up. They murmur encouragement her way.

A staff member sings out a familiar farewell, “See you next week!”

I resolve to eat here again. This time, next week.

© 2014 Mike Mozart, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

So here’s my Writing 101 challenge: Death to Adverbs. A detailed, descriptive observation of strangers in a public place, without using adverbs. Show, don’t tell. I’d hate to kill adverbs forever, but it does push me to use better, stronger verbs. A good exercise.