We’re at the beginning of our golden years now–the kids out of college and off on their own except for certain sub rosa payments from their mom. I’m sure there’s a federal law against it–anti-money laundering, campaign finance–but a mother’s love is a powerful force that resists all efforts on my part to cut off the flow of funds that could be better spent on wine by me.
As a result, we’ve moved into a condo development where all of a sudden we’re “the young couple”–neat trick at the age of 72. We take a lot of good-natured joshing from the more senior owners–“I’d tell you to turn your stereo down but I just turn off my hearing aid”–that sort of September-November kidding that goes over big in Florida retirement communities.
We’re enjoying our new neighbors, but as the only people in the development who aren’t retired we’ve turned into a sort of auxiliary management company, comparable to the volunteer fire departments that the stingier New England towns deploy to soak the foundation of your house after it burns down.
For the most part, I don’t mind doing little chores for the folks in Units 12 and 16 and beyond–bringing in their newspapers and feeding their cats when they’re out of town. There’s one task that I do mind, however; since trash pickup is on Monday, people often ask us to take their garbage over the weekend, then put it out after they leave for the Cape or skiing or Boca or wherever.
No, there’s no way to turn that sow’s ear into a silk purse. Jonathan Winters used to riff on the subject by pronouncing “garbage” with a French accent–“gar-BAHJZE,” in commercials but he was a comedian. It’s an irksome task that I do with a smile, in order to come across as “neighborly,” that all-purpose term that means you have earned the approval of the all-powerful condo board.
Like this Monday, in fact. My wife had arranged with a lovely and charming woman across the way that we’d take their garbage while they jetted off to Italy, and thus Bill–her husband and incumbent condo association president–showed up at our garage Sunday night with a bag filled with what smelled like the remains of a lobster dinner. Of the 19th century.
“You sure you don’t mind?” he said as he gingerly handed me the heavy-laden bag like a Haz-Mat worker dropping off some Strontium-90 in the wastebasket at a nuclear power plant on his way home.
“Not at all, not at all. It’s a pleasure taking on sanitation duties that my wife signs me up for without my knowledge.”
I expected him to flinch just a little, but such is the affected bonhomie of the burbs that he simply ignored–or was oblivious to–my attempt to needle him.
“Well, that’s might nice of you,” he said with an aw-shucks air. “Let me know if we can ever do anything for you two.”
“I will, I will,” I said with a thoughtful air as I looked off into the clear, crisp New England fall sky. Then, as if a flash of inspiration had struck me in my reverie gazing upon that blue tabula rasa, I said “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”
“Great, just let me know,” he said as he turned to go back to his unit–probably needed to finish packing.
“It won’t take a minute,” I called out to him, causing to him to stop and look back with an expression of muted irritation.
“We have to get ready to leave for the airport in an hour.”
“Okay,” I said. “Forty-five seconds. Surely you can spare me three quarters of a minute, can’t you-neighbor?”
When I put it that way, Bill could hardly refuse. He’s up for re-election in December, and I know he enjoys the perquisites of office–Dolly Hamlin’s congo bars at every trustees’ meeting!–too much to turn down a constituent.
“All right,” he said grudgingly. “What is it?”
“I’d like you,” I said, rubbing my chin as if considering a decision with serious, long-term consequences for myself, my family and my country, “to hop on one foot and bark like a seal.”
He looked at me as if I were daft. I should add that he made so much money he was able to retire at an earlier age than I will, so he’s got a lot of idle grey matter working in that noggin of his.
“What did you say?” he asked, barely–just barely–suppressing the note of irritation that threatened to creep in his voice, ruining our neighborly colloquy.
“I guess it doesn’t have to be a seal,” I said, seeing his air of distress. “I don’t mean to inconvenience you. It could be a penguin–my favorite animal. Or you could do your favorite animal.”
Silence. Offered a non-Hobson’s choice such I had extended to him, he was cornered. “I really don’t think . . .” he began, but–standing up for myself–I interrupted.
“You did say you’d do anything for me–correct?”
“Yes but I meant . . .” He struggled to put his finger on precisely the nature of his objection. “I meant something for . . . you and your wife.”
“Oh, don’t worry, she loves seals and penguins too.”
“I meant something . . . for your household.”
“Take a look at this scene,” I said, fanning my arm across the driveway the way Dinah Shore used to when she’d sing “See the U-S-A, in your Chev-ro-let.” “It needs some livening up. It lacks that ‘buzz’ that urban planners say makes life in the city so desirable, and the burbs so boring. You’d be doing not just me a favor, but my wife and everybody in The Condos of Farm Village Estates Manor, Phase II.”
A look of exasperation clouded his face. “I meant . . . something serious.”
He didn’t know it, but he’d hit a nerve. I lowered my eyelids to let him know I was capable of taking our little . . . disagreement to the next level. “Are you saying that penguins and seals . . . aren’t something serious?”
“Well, no, but you know what I mean.”
I shook my head from side to side. “Just like any other politician. Your verbal promise isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
“No, it’s just that, I need to get going . . .”
It was time for the coup de grace. “You know, Bill,” I began, and I let his name hang out there in the air awhile for emphasis, “if you hadn’t made such a fuss about a simple little thing that you promised to do for me, you’d already have all your socks in your suitcase. You’re only making things worse with your shilly-shallying.”
He made a little moue with his mouth–what other body part was he going to make it with?–and then . . . knuckled under.
“All right,” he said grudgingly, then exhaled as if he were about to walk the plank off a pirate ship or something similarly fateful. “But if anybody comes along, I get to stop.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t count towards your forty-five seconds. You ready?”
A-gain with the heavy breathing. You’d think Bill was a teenage girl asked to clean his–or I guess her–room, or somebody with emphysema. “Okay,” he said, sounding bitter for some reason.
“On your mark,” I began, as my watch’s sweep second hand hit the fifty second mark. “Get set . . . go!”
He began to hop up and down, not too vigorously but I’m beginning to understand what old age does to your knees, so I cut him some slack. I was so absorbed by my sympathies that I almost overlooked the fact that . . . he wasn’t making any noise.
“Bill, come on, you know the deal.”
“What?” he said, huffing a bit as he jumped.
“You’re supposed to make a noise like your favorite animal.”
“I am.”
“I don’t hear you making any noise.”
“My favorite animal is the turtle.”