At the last second I remember to stop at Alan’s Newsstand and buy a large cup of hot cocoa and a Snickers bar, and when Alan asks if I have been crying, I say, “What?” and laugh crazily, so he won’t ask me again. Then I finally pull it together as I pedal the last few blocks to the Methodist Retirement Home.
I got this Wednesday gig here after I saw an ad stapled to one of the big old trees in front of the retirement home. I was walking by after work and the hot pink paper of the ad caught my eye, so I took a closer look. The ad read something like this: “Today is the perfect time to make a new friend. Seniors have wonderful stories to tell and are always ready to share their grand array of life experiences. If you want to be a senior pal, if you want to be regaled by stories of olden times, please inquire within. Make a new friend today.” I’m totally down with making friends, I’m a very good pal, and I absolutely love being regaled, so I inquired within and signed up for the program. I became a regular at the Methodist Home once Rita’s closed for the season and I stopped scooping water ice after school.
When I first went to the old folks home, I was told by the staff that I was simply to talk with the old people in the common room—do puzzles, listen to stories about grandchildren, the Depression, the cost of milk seventy years ago, all of which started to make me feel really depressed. These people didn’t need someone to listen to their crappy stories; they needed a spark, something to remind them that they were still alive. And it was pretty obvious that the staff paid them little to no attention, especially since people die here, like every day. Every week I come back someone’s missing. But for the longest time, I wasn’t sure what I could do to liven up the joint.
Then I met Joan of Old, who—on the outside—is the meanest person you ever met, but on the inside, she’s actually pretty philosophical, which you have to discover by breaking through the meanness by being mean yourself, so she will respect you. I discovered this by accident one day when I told her I wanted to go to Bryn Mawr College and she said I’d never get in because I wasn’t smart enough.
Her rudeness surprised me because old women are supposed to be really grandmotherly and nice, so I lost my cool and cursed her out really badly, calling her some pretty nasty things, which made her smile, which was weird, but led to my having a kick-ass idea: turn the common room into a word-battle arena where hope dukes it out with despair once a week, which sounded crazy loopy at first, but I’ve always trusted my visions, so I pitched my idea to some of the older men—who were always putting their arms around me and squeezing my shoulders—and they ate the plan up and made it happen.
Because she loves being evil, Joan of Old agreed to play her part right away, and it has really improved morale at the home very much—or at least that’s what the residents tell me anyway.
The front of the Methodist Retirement Home has these huge slavery-times plantation columns and a porch with wooden rocking chairs that look out over a big old rolling lawn, but I use the back entrance, where you have to sign in and pass through security, which—on Wednesday afternoons—is pretty much Door Woman Lucy.
So I park Donna’s bike behind a bush—hiding my ride, so it won’t get stolen—grab BBB, and then walk into the visitor’s entrance with my pup in one hand and the hot chocolate in the other.
“Ain’t no dogs allowed in this building,” Door Woman Lucy says from behind her desk, shaking her head slowly, staring into my eyes. “You know the rules, Ms. Appleton. I don’t make ’em, and I need to get paid, so that funky little rat’s gonna have to stay outside.”
“DWL.” That’s what I call Door Woman Lucy to her face, and I think she likes the nickname, because she always smiles when I say it. “It’s cold out.”
“Sure is.”
“Too cold for a dog to be outside.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“Bet it gets cold every time that door opens.”
“Sure does,” Door Woman Lucy says, lifting one eyebrow.
“I just bought this hot chocolate here, but I’m not really feeling much like drinking a delicious wintertime beverage right now. But it would be a shame to throw it away. I’d really hate to chuck a fresh cup of hot chocolate.”
“Ms. Appleton, as you know, I’m not allowed to accept bribes from visitors, but if you left that drink on my desk, knowing that it won’t change the fact that that dog of yours must stay outside the building, I’d maybe see it don’t go to waste.”
Very slowly, I place the cup on her desk, lay the Snickers across the lid as an added bonus, sweetening the deal—because I really do dig Door Woman Lucy—sign the clipboard with all the lines and names of people who have visited today, record the time of my visit, and then I step away slowly, making my way into the building, BBB under my arm.
“Thanks for leaving that dog outside, Ms. Appleton. I’m sure you understand that rules are rules,” Door Woman Lucy says.
“Oh, I understand,” I say.
BBB barks once to convey that he understands as well.