Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe

by Barry Friedman

  “But no jeans,” she hastened to tell us, an unnecessary precaution since neither Harriet nor I had worn jeans for forty years. I suspected there might be a little problem when our kids and grandchildren came to visit. I don’t think any of them had anything but jeans designer jeans each costing more than my best suit or Harriet’s formal gowns.

  She gave us a map of the building, and a card with her phone number. “If you need any help just call me.”

  It was dinner time. We decided to eat at the casual dining room which turned out to be in another time zone. At least we’d be able to work up an appetite.

  At the dining room podium, a pleasant young lady with an armful of menus said, “Are you dining with anyone?”

  I said, “No. We just moved in. We don’t know anyone.”

  Practically all the tables were for four.

  “I’ll seat you with Mr. and Mrs. Young.”

  Harriet was ecstatic. “Wonderful! We’re anxious to get to know people here.”

  When I saw the couple at the table she led us to, I lacked the enthusiasm Harriet exhibited. Mr. and Mrs. Young were anything but. Mr. Young sat with his chin on his chest. He might have been asleep or dead. Mrs. Young was a tiny thing whose head was level with the table top. If I’d known her better, I would have suggested she get a Los Angles phone book to sit on.

  I had brought a bottle of wine to the table. It was only polite to offer some to our tablemates. “Would you care to have some wine,” I said.

  Mr. Young mumbled something. So he wasn’t dead, after all. Mrs. Young glanced at her wrist. “The time? It’s quarter to six.”

  I thought we should be on a first name basis. I said, “This is Harriet and I’m Henry.”

  Mrs. Young said, “We have a son-in-law named Lenny, don’t we Horace?”

  Horace mumbled something.

  I spoke louder. “It’s Henry, not Lenny.”

  Mrs. Young smiled. “Lenny’s married to Gladys, isn’t he Horace?”

  Horace’s lips moved soundlessly.

  This was going to be a fun dinner.

  Our server came to take our order ending the brilliant conversation.

  Harriet and I finished our dinners while Mrs. Young was still dunking a tea bag. We’d had enough so I asked to be excused. Although the food was well-prepared and tasty, unless we were seated with people we could talk to, I told Harriet we’d eat in our apartment.

  The next morning Linda Goodbody, the welcome lady, phoned and asked if we had plans for dinner that evening. When I told her she was in luck, we were free, she said, “Would you join my husband and myself?”

  Although I didn’t know the state of consciousness of her husband, from our previous contact with Linda, I was relieved to know we’d be dining with a real person.

  Meanwhile, Harriet had gone down to the card room to see if she could join one of the bridge games. When she returned to our apartment, she proudly announced that she had been permitted to sit in on one of the games as dummy. “Not only that,“ she said, “I made a date for dinner tomorrow evening with one of the players.”

  “Which one?”

  “I think it was East.”

  “Her name was East?”

  “No, stupid, that’s where she was seated.”

  “Do you remember her name” I knew it was a ridiculous question. Half the time she couldn’t remember the names of her children or how many we had.

  “I think they called her Sally, or maybe it was Joan.”

  That was helpful. All I had to do was go through the roster of residents, all 300, and find a Sally or Joan. The roster gave the apartment number and phone number of all the residents. Each last name in alphabetical order was followed by the first name of the individual if the person was single, or the names of both spouses. There was no Sally, but there were several Joans. I picked a Joan and Alvin Spears and crossed my fingers. Worst case: I’d say I dialed the wrong number and try Joan #2. My phone call was answered by Alvin. I identified myself adding that we were new residents.

  “I believe my wife made a dinner date with your wife for tomorrow night. But she didn’t recall the time we were to meet.”

  Alvin said, “Joan makes our dinner dates. She said something about making a dinner date for tomorrow night with a couple of new residents. She’s not here now so I can’t be sure. But we usually eat at six. Why don’t we make it for that time. If there’s any change after I talk to her, I’ll phone you back. And welcome aboard.”

  Now we had two dinner dates. Our dance card was filling up. We had arrived.

  Chapter Three

  The dinner with the Goodbodys was very pleasant. They were in their early seventies and quite popular. Our dinner was interrupted a number of times by other residents who stopped at our table. The Goodbodys introduced us to half a dozen people whose names I tried to remember so I could have Harriet call and make dinner dates. Brad Goodbody was a retired manufacturer of some kind of automobile engine parts. He tried to explain what the part did in the engine, but quickly lost me. Harriet kept up a lively conversation with Linda Goodbody. I overheard Linda ask how long we’d been married. Harriet appeared puzzled and looked at me. I answered to save her from embarrassment. “Fifty-eight years. Happy years. Although I can’t remember which were the happy ones, heh, heh.”

  Oh yeah, a real knee-slapper. The Goodbodys politely smiled.

  Harriet joined me in the comedy routine when Linda asked how many children we had, Harriet said, “Three. One of each.”

  After the Goodbodys picked themselves off the floor and recovered from their hysterical laughter, I clarified. “Two boys and a girl. All married. Five grandchildren.”

  We went through the “Where-did-you-live-before-you-moved-here?” And “Do-any-of-your-children-live-near here?” conversations.

  I noticed Brad Goodbody stifling a yawn, so I suspected they’d had enough of the hilarious Callins. If they ever accepted an invitation from us to join us for dinner, it was only because it was their duty as the official New Resident Welcoming Committee.

  Chapter Four

  The visitor at our door, a man about 40, wavy blond hair, wore a bright Hawaiian shirt and shorts. He greeted me. “Hi my name is Chet. I’m your Resident Relations person. “

  I didn’t know I had one, but I showed him in and waited for him to tell us today’s specials.

  He went on. “Do you need anything?”

  I needed a new car, but I didn’t think he could help. I shrugged. “I think we’re pretty well settled-in.”

  He went to the window. “Nice view.”

  “Thanks. We try.”

  “I suppose you wonder what a Resident Relations person does.”

  He took the words out of my mouth, but Chet didn’t wait for me to ask.

  “I’m here to serve you.”

  “Like what?”

  Chet said, “If you have any problems, I help you solve them.”

  I was constipated, but hesitated to bare my personal needs to a relative stranger. “I can’t think of any at the moment,” I said. “But it’s comforting to know you care.”

  He stared at me for a moment, and from the way he gestured with a limp wrist, I thought he might embrace me and lay my head on his shoulder.

  He touched my elbow, and I did feel comforted. “My office is on the first floor and the door is always open.” He looked over my shoulder. “By the way, is the missus here? I’d like to meet her.”

  “Harriet is taking a nap, but I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

  He started for the door. “Good. Well you know where I am.”

  He waved. “Ta-ta.”

  I ta-ta-ed him back.

  Harriet called from the bedroom. “Who was at the door?

  “Some Relations guy.”

  Harriet shuffled out of the bedroom rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “We have relatives here?”

  “Not those kind of relations. Resident Relations.”

  Harriet said, “Did you tell him abo
ut the closets?”

  We needed some drawers in her closet. I had intended phoning a company that does closets, but figured I would save some money if it could be done in-house.

  Later that day, I went down to Chet’s office to ask about it. One of those clock signs on the door informed me he’d be back in five minutes, but invited me to “Come in and have a seat.”

  While I waited, I gazed around his office. The walls were adorned with photos of Chet and a number of people many of whom I recognized as movie stars. Atop a bookcase was a gold Oscar statuette. It appeared to be a genuine Academy Award. I went over and hefted it. Heavy. If it wasn’t a genuine Oscar, it was an excellent forgery. For Relating to Residents in a retirement home? Come on.

  Chet walked in as I was holding it. “Ever see one of those before?”

  “Yeah, on TV. Is this for real?”

  He rose up. Indignant. “Of course it’s real.”

  He grabbed it from my hands, blew imaginary dust off it and replaced it on the bookcase. He gave Oscar’s head a little pat. “Nineteen-ninety-two. Did you see ‘Doll Baby’?”

  “You won it for being the ‘Doll’?”

  He chuckled. “For Best Make-up.”

  I tilted my head.

  He saw my puzzlement. “In my prior life I was a Hollywood make-up artist. Trained under Max Factor.”

  “How did you luck-out and…?” I swept my hand around his office.

  He smiled. “It’s a long story. Some day I’ll tell you about it if you’re interested.”

  I was interested. But at the moment, I wanted to talk about drawers in our closet.

  Chapter Five

  My business with the closets finished, Chet had arranged for the maintenance department to build drawers in one of the closets I was about to leave his office when he said, “Say, have you met Marty?”

  “Who’s Marty?”

  “Marty Berman, the Director. Come on. I’ll take you to his office and introduce you.”

  “Marty,” said Chet, “is also the major stockholder in Restful Bowers.”

  “Is he the owner?”

  “You might say that. This is a closed corporation In other words, the stock is held privately. Practically all of it belongs to Marty.”

  “I thought The Bowers was owned by Motel 7.”

  Chet grinned. “Marty Berman is Motel 7.”

  “You mean he owns that too?”

  “Every lumpy bed.”

  “What about the Assisted Living and Care Center?”

  Chet nodded. “The whole enchilada.”

  I whistled. “Man, that’s a big enchilada. The guy must be worth plenty.”

  “Let’s just say he doesn’t have to stand on a corner with a cardboard sign.”

  I wondered where his money came from.

  Chet read my mind. “Computers.”

  “He sold computers?”

  “Made them. He was a computer engineer. Developed a robotic device that could construct an auto. Formed a company. Sold it for a pile.”

  “That’s quite a stretch—from robotics to running a place like this.”

  Chet said, “It was really his son, Kurt’s, idea. Kurt trained as a health care administrator. He owned a chain of nursing homes and when the original developer of Bowers went belly-up, he saw an opportunity to take it over. Marty had the business sense and the dough to make it a go.”

  “Is Kurt still involved with the Bowers?”

  Chet nodded. “You bet. He runs the Assisted Living and Care Center.”

  At Berman’s office, Chet said to the blonde receptionist, “Hi Julie. This is Mr. Callins. He’s a newbie. I’d like him to meet Marty. Okay if we go in?”

  “Mr. Berman has someone with him, Chet. Do you want to wait or—?”

  At that moment, the door to the inner office opened. A man walked out and waved goodbye to the receptionist.

  Julie said. “I think Mr. Berman is free for a few minutes. Let me check.”

  She buzzed an intercom and put the phone to her ear. “Chet would like to see you.”

  She listened, then said, “You can go in.”

  Berman, seated behind his desk, stood as we entered.

  Chet said, “Marty, I’d like you to meet Henry Callins. He and his wife just moved in.”

  Berman was a stocky man, deep blue eyes, his shaven head glistened. Thin lips. He wore a pinstripe suit complete with vest, and a dark, plain tie. He was moderately tall, and stood erect, shoulders back. Probably an old military man, I thought.

  He bobbed his head in a short, curt nod. Didn’t offer his hand. Faint smile. “Welcome to the Bowers.”

  Where Chet was bubbly, Berman appeared austere.

  We chatted briefly, Chet doing most of the talking, Berman acknowledging our presence by nodding silently. After about five minutes, he glanced at his watch. Time to go. We went. Berman stood, nodded a goodbye. I thought I heard a click. His heels.

  In the corridor outside the office Chest said. “Marty’s not the talkative type.”

  Really? How could he tell?

  We went our separate ways. Me, to wait for the closet engineers.

  Chapter Six

  I had retired six years ago as CEO of a pharmaceutical company. We sold our house in Decatur and moved to a condo in a suburb of San Diego. To keep busy, I played golf, read, and puttered around the house. Harriet had her bridge club, shopping, book club, shopping, knitting club, and shopping. And shopping. Did I mention that she shopped? She had emptied out the clothing departments of Macy’s, Nordstrom, Target, and the 99-cent store. An eclectic shopper. Her clothes closets and dresser drawers were jammed with winter clothes, summer clothes, spring and fall clothes, St. Patrick’s Day clothes, Earth Day clothes, you get the idea.

  One thing I will say, she was a discriminating shopper. She shopped for only one thing: a bargain. “Of course I have six other blouses the same color, but this one was marked down so far, the merchant was giving me money to take it away.” Unless the store was losing money on some rag she’d pulled from the rack, she wouldn’t touch it.

  We traveled, had seen most of the world, but now we had no desire to stand in long security lines in stocking feet. Besides we had no more room for tchatkas.

  Our three children, their spouses and children were scattered over the country. They took turns visiting us and their inheritance. Where some people I know hadn’t spoken to their children in years, ours were devoted to us and our welfare. They’d walk in, take our pulses, hold a mirror to our mouths, then say hello. One Christmas they chipped in and bought us a defibrillator (batteries not included). Touching.

  Now, retired and living in a home for the aged where everything was done for us but wipe our chins, we hungered for activities. Harriet could only play bridge once or twice a week, and she was having so much trouble remembering what the dots and figures on the cards meant, her partners told her the next game was to be in the kitchen.

  A notice on the elevator informed me that a regular monthly meeting of the residents was scheduled for 9:30 that morning. I asked another passenger on the elevator what the meeting was all about.

  “It gives the residents an opportunity to tell management what they want,” she said.

  Sounded democratic. “You mean the residents voice their complaints and the management complies?”

  She smiled. “In your dreams. Look, I’m on my way to the meeting. Come along and see how it works.”

  The auditorium was almost completely filled when we arrived. I took one of the remaining unoccupied seats in the back. At a long table facing the audience were half a dozen fellow residents. I turned to the man sitting next to me, and pointed. “Who are the people at the table?”

  “The officers of the Residents Association,” he said. “You’re new?”

  I nodded.

  There was a gavel rap and a man who appeared to be the head honcho blew into a microphone. “Is this thing on?”

  Several people in the audience shouted, “Turn the
mike on.”

  Our leader, identified by a card at his place on the table as Sidney Schaffer, President, fiddled with a switch and tapped the side of the microphone. “Is it on now?”

  Someone yelled. “Can’t hear you.”

  This exchange of vital information went on for several minutes until a deafening screech came from amplifiers in the ceiling.

  A roar went up from the audience. “Turn it down!”

  Schaffer turned a knob on a box at the podium quieting the bedlam. He tossed the microphone down and yelled. “Will the meeting come to order?”

  The first orders of business were reports of committees: activities, grounds, dining room, and several others. The chairperson of each committee, after going through the tap-and-blow-into-the-microphone routine, read a report, then asked if there were any questions. Several residents had questions of each reporting chairperson.

  The first question that I could hear was, from a woman who asked, “When are our windows going to be washed?”

  This prompted a loud applause. Apparently a great question. The man seated next to me said, “That was Mary Bishop.”