Joan’s little raw bony hands swat at the many booers, whom she cannot identify—because she is blind.
“All right, ladies,” Old Man Thompson says, “front and center.”
Joan of Old wheels herself over, and I step to her.
“Now we want a clean battle,” Old Man Thompson says, his breath smelling like he powdered his tongue with the dust found at the bottom of a Tums bottle. “Politics and religion are off limits. This is a Methodist home, so let’s keep the cursing to a minimum. You know the rules. Joan of Old smiles and the young lady wins again. Amber Appleton cries, and the old broad wins her first battle. The challenger calls the flip.”
“Tails,” Joan of Old says.
Old Man Thompson flips and catches a quarter, smacking it down on the back of his spotted and veiny hand. “Heads!”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” Joan of Old asks. “I’m blind, you know.”
“Feel the top of the coin for all I care,” Old Man Thompson says, offering the back of his hand to Joan of Old.
She feels his hand and the coin, and then says, “Damn it!”
“You kicking or receiving?” Old Man Thompson asks.
“Kicking,” Old Man Linder answers for me, and then slaps me on the butt before saying, “Go get ’er, kid,” and then he sits down.
“Let the battle begin!” Old Man Thompson says, and all of the old people clap and hoot.
“The problem with women of your generation,” JOO opens with, “is that you waste all your time doing community service, harboring dreams of a college education, when you should be trying to find a husband who will put a roof over your head and food in your refrigerator. Smarten up, chippie. Coming here is a waste of time. We’ll all be dead in a few weeks anyway. The time to find a husband is now, while you’re still skinny, because you’ll be a heifer in less than ten years. Do you really want to end up a spinster?”
“Ooooo!” the crowd says, and Joan of Old nods confidently.
“Okay. Okay,” I say. “Joan of Old is so ancient.”
“How ancient is she?” my manager yells, just like I taught him.
“She’s so ancient her elementary school teacher had to chisel her report cards in stone, and Joan had to ride a dinosaur to school every day.”
“Hey!” the crowd says, and cheers, repeating my silly joke to each other, nodding their approval.
This joke may not be funny to you, but you have to consider my audience—old people love safe corny jokes.
No smile from Joan. Nothing.
“When I was a young woman there were no dinosaurs about, but there were lonely plain homely girls who never got asked to dance by handsome promising boys. All of these ugly girls ended up living lonely virginal lives in depressingly small government-subsidized apartments, because no man would have them. When I was your age, we usually found these dinosaur-faced girls at the old people’s home, doing community service.”
“Oooo!” the crowd moans.
I swallow hard. That one sorta cut me.
Do I really have a dinosaur face? And how would she know, since she’s blind? Did someone tell her I have a dinosaur face?
It’s true that boys don’t ever ask me to dance. I’m not all that jazzed up for boys or anything—why would I be after seeing what A-hole Oliver and company did to my mom—but I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life either, after all of my boys (The Five) marry stupid women, younger versions of Joan of Old.
And I really don’t want to end up like my mom.
I swallow once and look over at my manager. Old Man Linder has the white towel draped over his shoulder, but he is nodding confidently, showing me his old pink palms, saying, “Relax,” so I roll my head along my shoulders, look out into the crowd, and can see that they look very concerned.
“Joan is so old,” I retort, “she farts dust.”
“Hey!” the crowd roars, and I lift my hands in the air.
But Joan of Old is undaunted. She’s not smiling.
“Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote,” JOO says, “ ‘The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets successfully through many a bad night.’ I offer that little tidbit to you as a form of future consolation, when we are all dead and buried and you are all alone in some federally funded box of an apartment—manless and childless—thinking about your barren womb.”
“Below the belt!” my manager yells.
“Watch yourself, Joan,” Old Man Thompson says.
“Joan, didn’t you used to date Nietzsche, back in the 1800s? After your husband died,” I say, and a few old men cheer, but most of the old people moan, so I know my joke didn’t go over so well. Spoofing on dead husbands is sorta off limits around here. Unwritten rule.
“Watch yourself, Amber,” Old Man Thompson says. “Let’s keep this wholesome. Good clean fun.”