Hanging with Ray

He always gets there before I do.

On this day, "there" was Louis' Family Restaurant on Jefferson and May, just across from where we met some 11 years earlier.

Even though neither of us smokes, Ray always gets a booth near the window in the smoking section, the section you have to walk through to get to non-smoking. There he was, seated facing the door in the third booth from the entrance with a newspaper in hand.

"I'm glad you called Scotty," he addressed me like he usually does every time we meet. "I wondered if you were in town."

Originally, we just shook hands when we met up, but I've grown to cherish the times with Ray. Every hello and good-bye now is accompanied with a hug for a dear old friend.

Ray's now 82 and doesn't look a bit his age. Sure, his hair is gray, but he's at least got hair. He's ever so slightly hunched over but still has a skip in every step. He needs no cane to walk, with seemingly a sense of urgency in every stride.

When Bob Lusciatti owned the Amoco station at 928 W. Jefferson, Ray worked there for many years, 46, according to Ray, including owners even before Bob. The station changed from a service station to a gas station and convenient mart, so Ray went from stocking oil and anti-freeze to stocking cigarettes and dairy products.

We didn't do many breakfasts while I was working at the station. I usually worked the morning shifts on the weekends. Back then, our time together was mostly spent on the clock. Ray would come in early in the morning and set up the coffee and re-stock the cigarettes while I would man the cash register and lottery machine.

Much of our breakfast conversations revolve around sports and our days at Bob's. Most talks center on Chicago teams, namely the Cubs. Ray's the die-hardest of Cubs fans, and the 2003 debacle was interesting to hear about from his perspective.

"I thought they could get there (the World Series), Scotty," he said with a tinge of disbelief even a few months later. "I mean, they were up 3-1. I just wanted to see them make it."

Ray was in Europe for World War II the last time the Cubs played in a World Series. He listened on the radio. It was for people like Ray that I was hoping they would just get there. Maybe next year, of course.

On this day, a Tuesday morning around 9:30, Ray donned a reversible Chicago Bears jacket and a matching baseball cap. The Bears had just beaten the Broncos over the weekend, so that outcome may have played a role in his wardrobe choice. After some Bears banter and then some discussion over the Bulls' firing of head coach Bill Cartwright, we ordered.

"I'll have the $3.99 special, please," Ray said to Danielle, the young lady taking our order.

"Toast or pancakes?" she asked.

"Pancakes, please. I'll take them home to Mama," Ray added, Mama being his wife since 1946, Arlene.

In March of this year, Ray's longtime friend, Don Kesich, whom Ray had met working at Bob's, passed away. Ray and I went to the service together, reminiscing about Don on our way from the church to the rainy-day burial at Woodlawn Cemetery.

At the lunch following the service, Ray and I sat with five children while the other adults sat at the table beside us. Ray was easily the life of the party at a time when one would think he couldn't be. He made jokes and played with his food as only a table of 12-year-olds and a comedian would appreciate.

Ray's days are now filled with errands and watching his three great-grandchildren: Kyle, Ian and Jarred. His son, Doug, who recently celebrated 25 years at Bank One in Shorewood, is a spitting image of his father. We talk about Ray every time I visit Doug's branch, and sometimes, that's the only reason I stop in at the bank.

"Every week day, I pick the kids up from school. Sometimes I have to be there when the cable guy stops by, too," mentions Ray. "Whatever it is, they keep me busy, that's for sure."

Ray knows I've been doing comedy for a while now. He's always mentioned coming to see a show when I worked locally.

When I played the first comedy night at Road House on U.S. 6 in Channahon, Ray and his friend, nicknamed Jonesey, were there.

"We had a great time," Ray told me a few days later. "I even told Arlene some of the jokes. Well, the ones I could tell her anyway."

It was Ray's turn to pay the bill. He said hello to a few people on his way to and from the register, most of whom he knew from Bob's. I left the tip, and then we left Louis'.

"I'll call you next week," I said as we walked to our cars. "It's my turn." I can't speak for Everybody, but that's why I Love Raymond.

 

Scott Deininger is a stand-up comedian living in Shorewood. His work and e-mail address can be found via his Web site, www.ShaveYourHead.com

12/28/03