Chapter Two Welcome to Sunnydale #2
Henry squinted. He was thinking really hard so as not to scare this lovely person away. “It started about five months ago.”
“Your meandering, or your madness?” she joshed.
“Touché,” he said, and grinned. “It was around three in the morning. I saw a car that looked like a hearse drive up to the long-term care building.”
“I wouldn’t think that was unusual.”
“No, but the staff keeps us posted. Not that I want to know, but gossip runs rampant around here.”
Frida let out a guffaw. “You know what they say about gossip?”
“It’s impolite?” Henry gave her a widely accepted answer.
“It’s not gossip if it’s true!” Frida howled.
Henry chuckled, then continued. “Everything from the shenanigans of the floozies and lotharios who live here, to the employees. I hear there’s a head nurse at the long-term center who they refer to as ‘Nurse Ratched’.
” Henry was referring to the cold, heartless nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. “Aside from the telltale chatter, we’re usually made aware if someone has ‘left the building,’” he said with air quotes.
Frida rolled her eyes. “Oh, is that what ya call it?”
Henry sighed. “Perhaps having your mortality staring you in the face every day is not the most uplifting.”
“But you can’t even see the building.”
“Ah, but I know it’s there.” Henry stood. “Maybe I’ve watched too many crime shows, but how is it that the cars always come at three in the morning?”
“That is a good question. How often have you seen this?”
“It’s been at least once a month for the past several months.” He thought again. “Yes. Same time, each time. The reason I know this is because when I returned to my room, I noticed the neon green numbers on my alarm clock. The second time, I checked my watch. A reflex, I suppose.”
“I’d certainly be interested in skulking around.”
Henry balked, “Seriously?”
“I am a big fan of mysteries.”
“Good to know.” He paused. “How would you like to go for a nightcap?”
Frida flinched slightly, not sure what that implied at Sunnydale.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that!” He checked the time. “The wine bar is open until eleven.”
“I would be delighted.” Frida felt relieved. She was betwixt and between as to whether or not this charming, nice-looking man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair was coming on to her, or if he was simply being hospitable. She decided on the latter. He was hospitable.
He stood and held out his hand to assist her in getting up. Not that she needed it, but she appreciated the gentlemanly gesture. When she stood next to him, she reckoned he was just under six feet tall, and close to her age. Two or three years older, tops.
They entered the wine bar and took a seat at a small cocktail table against the foliage that separated it from the main lobby. Frida leaned closer. “Tell me something. Who are the floozies, and what lotharios should I be mindful of?”
“Oh, you will be able to recognize them immediately. The women look like Blanche from The Golden Girls. They still wear the same hairdo they had thirty years ago. Possibly forty. Bouffant, and enough hair spray to hold a Boeing engine in place.”
Frida hooted. “Funny, yet not so funny.”
Henry cleared his throat. “You get my drift. They wear too much makeup and perfume, and fuchsia lipstick.” He gave her a wry smile. “With our diminishing senses, I suppose that’s how they get a man’s attention. A version of bells and whistles.”
Frida suppressed a cackle. “You are quite the wit, aren’t-cha?”
“I don’t mean to be crass or mean-spirited, but sometimes it’s the only way I can entertain myself. I believe it’s called ‘observational humor,’ and as long as I can still observe, I’m ahead of the game.”
“How’s your sense of smell?” Frida joked in return.
Henry lowered his voice. “Sometimes something smells a little fishy.”
“Like the imaginary lights?”
“Dear Frida. Number one. Lights don’t smell. Number two, they are not imaginary.” He paused. “I invite you to take a walk with me one evening.”
“How will you know when the UFOs are going to appear?”
“Haven’t you heard? They don’t call them UFOs anymore. They are now referred to as UAPs. Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena.” He looked around to see if anyone might be eavesdropping. “I don’t want people to think I’m losing my marbles, but that is now the official term used by the government.”
Frida smiled at her new companion. She decided he was quite amusing, interesting, and charming. “Please don’t tell me you are a conspiracy enthusiast.”
“What’s that expression—‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’”
Frida stifled another guffaw. “Oh for.” Her Minnesota accent kicked in even stronger. “Then tell me which conspiracies ya ascribe to?”
“Not any one in particular.” He made an exaggerated gesture of looking under the palm trees behind their table. “We’re safe,” he said, and smiled broadly.
“Whew. Good to know.” She lowered her voice. “Tell me more about the floozies.”
Henry let out a laugh. “Hot pink nail polish, toes and all.”
“Then how can you tell them apart?” Frida raised her eyebrows.
“Usually, it’s their eyeglasses. Most of them have their initial on the lens, or rhinestones.”
Frida’s face began to hurt from smiling. “Do they flash?”
Henry did a double take and realized she meant the glasses, but he twisted it a bit. “No. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they did.”
Frida immediately caught on to his insinuation and snorted. “You are quite the devil, Henry Pushkin.”
“Nah. Trying to keep him away, actually,” he said, grinning.
Frida stifled a yawn. “Oh, dear. Must be getting late. Even though we’re in the same time zone, I feel like my body clock hasn’t caught up.”
He checked his watch. “It’s almost ten. Shall I walk you back to your place?” He immediately added, “No monkey business, I can promise you.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I’m still trying to get used to the area, and I get turned around a bit.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that; otherwise, they’ll think you’re losing your marbles.”
“Ah, I got another bag of ’em in my bureau drawer.” She winked.
Henry signed the check, another convenience provided by Sunnydale. They would send him a bill at the end of the month, a bill he would pay himself. Henry was not ready to turn everything over to them. He still wanted some control in his life, no matter how little it might be.
The two wandered the concrete path that led to Frida’s duplex. “You haven’t told me anything about the lotharios.”
“We can go over that tomorrow. How about we take the shuttle into town and grab a bite to eat? My treat.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked.
“I do. Would you like my number?” Frida wasn’t being forward. She was simply being friendly. “Oh, dear. Does that make me a floozie?” she said with a girlish giggle.
“Not even close.” Henry smiled. “You’re not wearing the right shade of polish.”
Frida laughed and gave him her phone number, which he immediately added to his contact list. “I am going to ring you now, so you’ll have my number, as well.”
Frida’s ringtone sounded the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. She plucked her phone from her purse and answered it. “Hiya. This is Frida.”
“Hiya, yourself,” Henry answered, then they both ended the call.
“And do let me know when you’re going on your next midnight stroll.”
“I wouldn’t want to wake you.”
“It’s not as if I have anything else to do. I can always sleep. Checking for unidentified whatever they’re called is something completely different.”
“I’ll text you; this way, you can either ignore it or answer back.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan.” She held out her hand. “Very nice to meetcha, Henry Pushkin.”
“Same here, Frida Larsen. See you around campus, if not sooner.” He waited until she was safely inside her unit—not that there was anything or anyone she should be concerned about.