If you had scanned the Dock Street Theatre at Saturday’s matinee, you might have noticed something.

Row C. On the aisle. Two men.

That was us.

We were there because Jim (my editor/son) had come to Charleston for an early birthday celebration. His actual birthday is March 6, but he won’t be here then. So we celebrated early.

It was fun and memorable. For me at least. Hopefully, he had some fun too.

It was not immune from several sitcom moments.

Friday Night: The Martini Incident

On Friday night, Christine joined our festivities. A great mini-family reunion.

The three of us enjoyed a lovely birthday celebration dinner at 39 Rue de Jean, a prime Charleston example of French cuisine.

Our waiter, though very personable and responsive, had a little trouble with my libation ordering communication.

I ordered a dry gin martini on the rocks with olives. Simple, no? No.

First he said back to me, “Right, a gin martini, straight up, with olives.”

“No, not straight up. On the rocks,” I replied.

He said, “Right, I meant straight up on the rocks with no olive juice.”

“No,” I answered. “Straight up on the rocks is an oxymoron.”

I was waiting for him to ask, “Who you callin’ a moron?”

It got worse.

He asked, “Was that vodka or gin?”

Sigh. Let’s start again.

“A dry gin martini on the rocks with two olives, but not dirty. No olive juice.”

“Got it,” he said.

Out came a gin martini on the rocks with a lemon peel.

I was nice. I waited for our waiter to come back.

I pointed gently to the lemon peel befouling my gin martini.

“That doesn’t look like an olive.”

He said, “Right, I’m so sorry,” and brought me three green olives.

All was well. I was bought off with three olives.

From then on, all went swimmingly. Swordfish special for me. Birthday boy had rack of lamb, which he seemed to savor. My memory is not my forte. I can’t remember what Christine had, but I’m sure it was great.

All in all, a beautiful, fun time.

Saturday: The Main Event

Saturday morning, Jim joined me for a usual winter tradition — breakfast out with our dear friend Nonie. That tradition stretches back many years to Farmers’ Market mornings with Marjorie and our friends Nonie and Dick. It continues still, even as life changes.

After a few hours of quiet conversation at home, we headed to the highlight of his birthday celebration:

A matinee performance of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee at the historic Dock Street Theatre.

I felt more confident about our seating assignment than I had about my drink order the night before.

After we got settled, I did a quick scan of the surrounding rows and asked Jim if he noticed anything.

He did a quick survey, nervously grinned, and said, “We’re the only dudes in here.”

He was so right.

By my estimate, we represented about 20 percent of the total testosterone in the Dock Street that afternoon.

I guess dudes don’t do matinee musical comedy. At least not many of them.

So who does?

We were surrounded by about forty delightful ladies from a Summerville “55 and over” residential community. The men from that community must’ve been home watching golf, football, baseball (whatever season it is) on the tube with a cold beer.

We had, in essence, infiltrated their section.

Naturally, we started talking to several of them. They were charming.

The show was musically funny, cute, and extremely well performed by a talented cast. We enjoyed it a bunch.

The Exit Strategy

After an hour and a half with no intermission, it ended with a well-deserved ovation.

Uh oh.

Now I had to get out of those not-so-comfortable historic seats and walk a couple of blocks to the garage where we parked. A bit of a challenge for my soon-to-be 87-year-old body with neuropathy. I hope I didn’t embarrass the birthday boy by weaving and hanging on to hedges and buildings on that hike to the car.

The challenge continued. I needed to drive down four floors of the garage in heavy traffic — foot on brake all the way down — and negotiate payment at the robot gate.

I done it successfully.

Got home safe and sound.

Two dudes at a musical.

Not a bad way for a father to spend a birthday weekend with his son.

Enuf.