The following is part two of the story “Joan of Arc,” concerning the temporal displacement and inebriated escapades of a womanizing retirement community activities director. You can read part one here.
Mon. April 23, 2012 — Enhancement and Propriety
The weekend passed predictably—Saturday night soaked in bourbon, Sunday morning gel-coated in aspirin—and then it was Monday and I was up at dawn, cursing my alarm clock, petting Mr. Mittens, driving my rusted Methuselah of a Honda Civic to Foxwood Prairies. I’d been the activities director at Foxwood for a few years. The old folks there were really something. There were two different communities of old folks at Foxwood—independent living for those still sound of body and mind, and assisted living for those whose bodies and/or minds had become less sound—and I scheduled and managed recreational activities and outings for them all. It was all standard stuff—bingo, canasta, Go Fish, cross-stitching, trips to the Piggly Wiggly and the flea market. The monthly schedules pretty much wrote themselves. The old folks didn’t want their activities director thinking outside the box. They wanted him making sure the canasta decks weren’t missing any cards and clearly enunciating B17, N27, O40, G33.
The old folks sure could be a pain in my ass, but I liked them all okay. They were old enough to not give a damn about anything anymore, and I appreciated that. People my own age still gave way too much of a damn. What was the point? Everyone was going to get old and not give a damn anymore anyway, so why not not give a damn now and save yourself a hell of a lot of trouble? But people my age didn’t think like that. And, to be fair, not everyone was going to get old. This 17-year-old kid in my town just got himself squashed to death by a vending machine, for instance. I never trusted those things. They were always stealing my money, and now apparently they were out to murder me, too.