“Who are all these folks building active adult communities for? I don’t know. If you ask them if they’re going to move into an active adult community, you’re going to hear a hesitant ‘yes’ and then an honest ‘no.’ The older senior is the one who’s moving, not the younger one, and they don’t want some big new house. My ninety-year-old resident doesn’t want a home; she wants to rent an apartment. And where else is an older couple going to go when one of them is sick? This way, they can always live near one another.
“I’m like Wal-Mart: I want the masses. Our facility is completely full. We don’t have any models to show people, because we sold them all. We have a waiting list for 510 units, and all I’m showing people are copies of floor plans I made at Kinko’s. We don’t market and we don’t advertise.
“Time’s on our side; they’ll come to us eventually. And once they do, they just move around our campus, like on a Monopoly board. Best part is—we own the land and the hotels.”
Before I fly out, I spend the day with a good friend, Stuart, at his “amenity-rich” apartment complex, located in a dusty and otherwise undeveloped “neighborhood” in nearby Tempe. The closest neighbor is a Starbucks several blocks up a multilane avenue without a sidewalk. To get to Stuart’s apartment, I have to pass through two sets of gates before I reach his locked front door.
Once I am there, he walks me down to the pool and hot tub for a dip. There’s a sizable workout room with high-end equipment, as well as a small theater. There are rules posted everywhere governing behavior.
“I could have lived in a more traditional so-called ‘neighborhood,’” Stuart tells me. “But this is so convenient. There are so many amenities. I never have to leave.” My friend is in his late thirties.
Interestingly, neither of us had ever heard the word “amenities” while we were growing up, at least not in this context. It was never a buzzword. At best, the term was a euphemism for a collection of public toilets.
The pool is inundated with attractive and scantily clad college kids who have chosen to live off campus. They’re running around, yelling, and generally annoying me on my day off. Worse yet, I feel dumpy in comparison with their sleek bodies. I turn to my friend: “Don’t you think it’d be a lot nicer if everyone at the pool were over thirty? It’d be a lot quieter and we’d all probably have a whole lot more in common.”
Stuart mulls this over and glances at the half-naked coeds splashing in the pool. “You’ve been in Florida far too long,” he says.
With a head full of prognostications about the boomers, I head back to The Villages for a reality check. Naturally, my first stop is The Villages’ Baby Boomer Club, which happens to be giving a sock hop in one of the recreation centers.
The room is filled with young retirees alternating between the dance floor and a make-your-own sundae station. Most of the women have tied their hair up in playful ponytails and wear their jeans rolled halfway up their calves, revealing brightly colored socks and sneakers. Their clean-cut husbands, dressed in patterned short-sleeved button-downs and cardigans, more closely resemble Richie Cunningham from Happy Days than they do Marlon Brando.
A banner with the group’s logo hangs from a wall. It shows the word “Boomer” surrounded by a jagged circle exploding with energy. The industry experts in Phoenix tell me the boomers won’t gravitate toward plantation-size retirement communities in the middle of nowhere, but the Boomers Club is already one of the biggest at The Villages.
The music alternates between favorites from the 1950s and rock standards like Lynyrd Skynyrd’s hard-driving “Sweet Home Alabama.” At some point the disc jockey plays the Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar” and many of the boomers jump excitedly into neat rows and start line-dancing to Mick Jagger’s lusty portrayal of sexually exploited African-American slave girls.
I introduce myself to a man so well groomed that he resembles Pat Boone. His name is Craig, and he’s campaigning to be the club’s next vice president. The music is too loud for us to carry on a conversation, so we step into the hallway. I ask him what it’s like to live in The Villages as a younger retiree.
“People are always asking me if I’m old enough to live in The Villages,” Craig tells me. “It’s fun not to be the old guy anymore. Back home I was always cast in musicals as the king or the father figure. Here I can be the kid in the group. I’m only fifty-six, but I knew the time was right to settle somewhere like this. And I’m not alone; my age group is starting to arrive. It’s very exciting. I can’t wait to invite them to our boomer bowling nights and pool parties. I could sit here all day and list all the fun things we do.”
Craig’s wife finds us in the hallway. The dance is over, and she’s visibly upset. “Gosh, I’d better go,” he tells me. His wife’s frown remains. “We’ve already missed the last dance,” she says, walking away.
Back inside, I walk up to the disc jockey as he packs his equipment away. “I’m the music guy,” he says by way of introduction. “I DJ parties, and there are a lot of parties down here. Seems like there’s one every day. I have more friends here than I’ve had all my life. People are always dropping by my house out of the blue. They just drive on over in their golf carts, and before you know it, it’s a party. We like to say that parties ‘break out’ in our neighborhood.” He pushes his bifocals farther up his nose.
“The boomers are coming down here in droves just like everyone else. This place is growing like hotcakes. If they have a house available, they call you from a waiting list and give you three hours to decide. Pretty soon The Villages is going to be the fifty-first state.”
The growing age gap between Villagers becomes clearer to me as I drop in on a few more activities. The next day I’m intrigued by a listing for a club with the unusual name “Harmonitones.” I arrive to find a dozen retirees sitting in a semicircle, blowing into different-sized harmonicas. Hearing aids abound, and one guy is attached to an oxygen tank. A bandleader taps his baton and leads them in “Moonlight and Roses,” and then “It’s a Small World” and “Fly Me to the Moon.”
I am reminded of my first-grade recorder class, where we used to play “Hot Cross Buns” in unison. As with us, there are no Bob Dylans here yet, but the group is still proud of its progress. “That’s good stuff!” the man with the oxygen tank says after club members play “Hello, Dolly.” “Did that bring back any memories?” the band-leader asks. “Heck, let’s play that one again!”
Next, it’s “Sentimental Journey.” Between takes, a guy in a Yankees cap complains that he’d play better if his wife would just let him practice in the house. The other men nod in agreement. The bandleader smiles and gently taps his baton. “What do you say we give the ‘Pennsylvania Polka’ another try?”
In a nearby room a group of Villagers are learning to line dance. The instructor calls out the steps. “OK. Rock step, coaster step, turn hold and heel, point, point, sailor shuffle, sailor shuffle, sway, sway, cross-turn counter-step.”
That night, I head over to the Bistro, a new hangout a few blocks down from Katie Belle’s. I arrive to find Mr. Midnight’s foulmouthed friend Frank sitting on a stool nursing a beer. His eyes are bloodshot. “I just got back from a cruise,” he says. “It didn’t feel any different. The only thing that changed was the location. I’m not even sure why I went. We live on a fucking cruise ship.”
Frank asks me what I learned in Phoenix. I tell him about the experts’ dim outlook for the future of mega-developments like The Villages.
A boisterous Brit joins the conversation uninvited. “Poppy-cock,” he says. “I’ve traveled the whole world and this is the best place in it! I just turned sixty and everyone like me is going to move here.”
Frank can’t resist. “Hey, Andy,” he says to me. “Why’d ya bother flying to Phoenix to listen to a bunch of experts when you got an opinionated asshole right here?”
13
An Idiot’s Farewell
MR. MIDNIGHT GRACIOUSLY INVITES ME TO SPEND MY LAST WEEK AT his den of iniquity in
order to, as he says, “live the life.” Intrigued, I accept, and trade the dependable comforts of Dave and Betsy’s place for the vagaries of bachelor living.
To further get into the swing of things, I finally rent a golf cart at a dealership in downtown Sumter Landing. I’ve resisted renting one until now because my travels have frequently taken me beyond the borders of Gary Morse’s “golf cart nation.” But according to a state transportation study, as many as ninety percent of all daily trips made by Villagers remain within The Villages—and that doesn’t even take golf carts into account. If it did, the number would be closer to ninety-nine percent. It’s not unusual for Villagers to go weeks without leaving their all-inclusive community.
After looking around the glitzy showroom, I choose a worn rental in a dull shade of cream from the back parking lot. It’s the sort of clunker you’d expect to see on a public golf course, and it even comes with a clip on the steering wheel for a scorecard and two stubby pencils. My humble ride is a far cry from the pimped-out leisure chariots with their supersize aluminum wheels, chrome grills, and burled dashboards that I see many seniors tooling around in.
Golf carts were introduced on a grand scale in the early 1950s. Lazy golfers immersed in a car-crazed culture weren’t the only reason. Golf carts sped up the game so that more paying customers could be cycled through a golf course. Perhaps it was the introduction of the Pope-Mobile or the Queen Mum’s royal golf cart that spurred interest in taking golf carts off the golf course. They are now ubiquitous in many gated communities. The Villages’ own golf cart dealership, which displays its models just like automobiles, sells a few thousand golf carts a year. There are several private dealerships off campus that seem to be doing a swift business as well. The vast majority of Villagers own a golf cart in addition to a car and many homes even have separate five-eighths-scale mini-garages to house them. It’s not the fastest means of travel, but when you live in a retirement community, what’s the rush?
Half an hour and many miles later, I pull into the driveway with the Playboy bunny ears. Mr. Midnight shows me to my room, a tiny but pleasant sunporch with a leaky inflatable mattress. His friend Harry is also visiting this week, he tells me; otherwise, I’d be staying in the formal guest room. He hands me several clean towels and tells me I can use the bathroom in the hallway.
On the bathroom counter are all sorts of hotel-sized soaps and shampoos as well as a sign that instructs guests to ring the front desk if they have any additional requests. Like Betsy, Mr. Midnight also has Mardi Gras beads on display; his hang from the showerhead. When I ask him how the celebration compares with the real thing, Mr. Midnight says there’s one distinct difference: “Here we give the ladies beads for not showing us their breasts.”
When Mr. Midnight sees my golf cart, he asks me how it runs. “I don’t think the rentals go too fast,” he says, putting on his sunglasses and adjusting his flip-flops. I challenge him to a drag race. We line up at the edge of the driveway and Mr. Midnight counts to three. Sensing trouble, I lead-foot it on “two.”
My cart accelerates smoothly at first, but then the engine hesitates as if to say, “Hey, not so fast, buddy.” As we careen around the block, Mr. Midnight keeps gaining on me. I gun the engine, swerve to and fro, and try to cut him off on a tight turn. But it’s hopeless; Mr. Midnight wins by more than three cart-lengths.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I must have had the wind on my back.”
I hop into his cart, and we drive to a nearby pool. Along the way we see an ambulance speed by with lights flashing. “Looks like another tee time has opened up,” Mr. Midnight says.
We make a quick pit stop at the neighborhood mailbox gazebo. “I have to pick up my Viagra,” he says, and soon returns with a brown package. “It’s not that I need it, mind you. It’s an enhancement, like whipped cream and nuts on a sundae. If it’s a special night, I might take 100 milligrams. If it’s one of my regular honeys, I’ll probably pop a fifty. Friendship only goes so far.”
When we arrive at the pool, Mr. Midnight pauses and carefully scans the crowd, which is mostly female. “Not bad,” he says. “Not bad at all.” Despite copious warnings, Mr. Midnight is addicted to sunbathing. He sprawls out on a lounge chair and scoffs at the mention of sunscreen. He then glances through his mail, which contains his financial statements.
“I’m not greedy,” he says, putting his mail away. “All I care about is getting my money’s worth. I mean, look at all we have here.” He points to a collection of shapely younger visitors sitting along the pool’s edge, their long legs dangling lazily in the water. He sighs, and readjusts himself on the lounge chair.
I ask him if he wants to read the newspaper after I’m finished with it. “Nah,” he says. “The news doesn’t really interest me. I guess I wish the world was a better place, but I somehow feel distant from it.”
Early in the evening, we head to the Bistro in Spanish Springs and sidle up to the bar. I spot an older couple dancing slowly in a tight embrace. “That’s ‘the Prosecutor’ with his new girl, Holly,” Mr. Midnight explains. “He’s in love. I’ve never seen the guy so happy. It’s like he’s a new man. You can’t pry those two apart. It’s truly sad, but it’s a fact: for some people life is better when they’re in love.”
An hour or so later, I head out back, behind the bar’s small patio, where all the guys go to pee. The bar has only one toilet for men, and few can hold their bladder long enough for the wait. Frankly, after a few beers, I can’t either.
When I emerge from the bushes a few moments later, I’m embarrassed to find a couple sitting down at a nearby table and toasting themselves with glasses of wine. It’s the ebullient Prosecutor and his attractive new girlfriend.
When he sees my notebook, he waves me over and introduces me to Holly. His smile is so genial, and his red Hawaiian shirt so casual, that I wonder how he got such a belligerent nickname. “This is the most remarkable woman I’ve met in the six decades of my life,” he tells me warmly. “I never thought I’d find someone like her. You can write that down!”
He points to Holly’s lantern-lit shadow on the outdoor wall. “Look at that profile. Isn’t it the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen?” Holly blushes and takes another sip of wine. “I thought it was too late for me,” the Prosecutor continues. “But something continues to burn within the human breast.”
A man walks outside and catches the tail end of the Prosecutor’s pleasing homily. He lights up a cigarette, and then flashes a kindly smile at the doting couple. “Ain’t love swell?” he says.
“You’re a smoker,” the Prosecutor snaps back. “Obviously you don’t have any love; at least not for yourself.”
I look at Holly, and then at the man with the cigarette. We’re all too stunned to say much. The man awkwardly extinguishes his cigarette and hastily walks back inside.
“You see, we know what love is,” the Prosecutor continues. “We’re in love.” He takes a sip of wine and slowly savors it. “This place can be a real meat market, but Holly is different from the rest. She understands that real love is different, and that women must be subservient to men, because that’s the way God intended it to be. That should be the first question a man asks in any relationship: ‘Will you respect me as your leader?’ Every ship needs a captain.”
Holly looks at me and clears her throat. “I think there can be more than one approach,” she manages.
“Sounds a bit like a dictatorship,” I blurt out.
“That’s because it is,” the Prosecutor responds. “Men are meant to lead and women are meant to follow. That’s what it says in the Bible. Or haven’t you read it?” He takes another sip of wine. “Are you married? If you are, your marriage won’t survive. I can guarantee that. But I’m here to tell you that you can find love again, even at my age.”
I excuse myself and walk back inside, where I recount my bizarre encounter to Mr. Midnight. “Why don’t you ask the Prosecutor whether he goes down on Holly,” he advises. “Tell hi
m you’re writing a book and you’re looking for the one guy in The Villages who refused to pleasure a woman. That son of a bitch is one squemish lover. As for Holly, I could help her get over the heartbreak.”
I leave the bar early, and hurry down to Sumter Landing in my golf cart to catch the last showing of the remake of King Kong. The theater, despite its enormous screen and stadium seating, is crowded, so I pick a seat high up in the back row. After the movie, I stick around for the screen credits to gather my thoughts, and ponder the sad fate of the colossal gorilla. When I finally stand up to leave, the lights are on and theater is empty.
As I exit the row, I’m surprised to see that the wall behind me isn’t really the curtained panel I distinctly remember when I first sat down, but rather a two-way mirror concealing a luxury skybox. The lights are on inside and I spot an older man with white hair surrounded by what I assume to be grandchildren. For a short moment our eyes lock and I feel goose bumps form on the back of my neck: I’m staring at the elusive Gary Morse and he’s staring right back at me through half an inch of soundproof glass.
Can this really be happening? I stand there like an idiot, my face close enough to the glass for my breath to leave a circle of moisture. Should I knock on the window and wave hello? I’ve fantasized for weeks about interviewing Morse, but not like this. This is too weird. Frankly, I’d given up on ever meeting him. I had located Morse’s private home, his eating club, and even his airplane hanger, but I never caught a glimpse of him.
Did he know I was digging around in his business? Was he keeping tabs on me? Given his abundant wealth, did he even care? Apparently not: Morse quickly loses interest in my gaze and exits through a door leading to a hidden corridor, trailed by a small coterie of rambunctious children.
I rush outside. It’s after 11 PM, and Sumter Landing is deserted. The only sound I hear is Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” merrily wafting from the lampposts to an audience of one—me. I figure that Morse must have a hidden exit, so I run to the back of the building where the dumpsters are located. I find nothing but unmarked doors, all of which are locked. I wait a few moments and run back to the marquee. Ten minutes later, there is still no sign of Morse.
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