Art
Art
Art’s pace slowed as he reached the greengrocer. Right there, on the pavement, were huge baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. Glossy green apples, bunches of bananas, carrots, and a pyramid of plump pumpkins, ready for Halloween. Art felt his fingers itch. It would be so easy just to reach out, pick up one of those delicately arranged peaches, and pop it up his sleeve. He could already feel the soft, fuzzy skin against his palm.
This was the problem with having too much time on his hands. He couldn’t be trusted with it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then thrust them deep into the pockets of his overcoat, where they couldn’t do any damage.
Yet again, Art cursed his agent. Along with the whole film and TV industry. How come, when one quarter of the UK population was over sixty, they made up such a teeny-tiny percentage of available roles? The producers, directors, and writers seemed determined to airbrush wrinkles from their glossy, make-believe worlds. Unless they were vital to forward a plot point, illustrate a backstory, or provide a minor, two-dimensional villain.
Art walked on, staring at the pavement, and didn’t look up again until he was past the row of shops, next to the local community center. He paused at the noticeboard outside. Right in the middle of all the various announcements and advertisements was a poster posing the question ARE YOU OVER SEVENTY? in bold black type.
Indeed, he was. At least someone seemed to want to attract a person of his age. He presumed they were selling funeral plans or retirement homes. He read on.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE SOME NEW FRIENDS?
WHY NOT JOIN THE SENIOR CITIZENS SOCIAL CLUB
AT THE MANDEL COMMUNITY CENTER?
CALL OR TEXT LYDIA ON 07980 344562.
Maybe he should join this club. Perhaps they’d supply free food and drink! Cake, even. And if he could spend several hours in a warm community center, he would save on his heating bills. Now it was nearly November, his house was freezing.
Art pulled out his phone and took a photo of the notice so he could call this Lydia. It would be good for him to keep himself busy. Get some of that dangerous time off his treacherous hands. He’d persuade William to come along for moral support, and so he wouldn’t look entirely friendless.
···
William had taken more persuading than Art had anticipated. In the end, he’d had to play the sympathy card by relaying the whole humiliating conversation with Jaspar, and then suffer his oldest friend’s gales of laughter as he said “Dr. Clooney” and “phalloplasty” on repeat.
Now, two days later, they were standing opposite the community center, ready to join the inaugural meeting of the social club. A whole afternoon to be spent with like-minded people doing…what, exactly? Something interesting, he was quite sure.
Art was poised to skip over the road, as exuberant as a small child clutching a helium balloon, when he saw something—someone—who deflated his mood entirely.
William tried to move forward, but Art thrust a rigid arm in front of him.
“Wait!” he said. “This isn’t a good idea after all.”
“What are you talking about?” said William. “You’re the one who wanted to come! And now we’re here. So let’s go.”
“It’s her,” said Art, pointing at the woman opening the door to the hall. “I’m not joining a club where she’s a member. She’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” said William, craning his neck to look at the woman opposite them. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not much younger than us. And she’s tiny. She looks rather sweet, actually. If a little overdressed.”
William stepped from the pavement into the road, before being yanked backward again by Art.
“You may think that,” said Art, urgently. “But she’s ferocious. Possibly evil. She abused me terribly during an argument about a whiteboard.”
“Where were you? In a classroom?” said William.
“No! I was just walking along King Street when I saw someone who needed a hand. You know how I like to help?” said Art. William just rolled his eyes, which was a little unsupportive, frankly.
“Anyhow, when I offered to carry her whiteboard for her, she was horribly rude. And ungrateful. She even threatened to have me arrested,” said Art, the memory making his shoulders tense with indignation. “And she called me unfashionable.”
William snorted, and stared in a meaningful way at the jacket Art was wearing, which had a large hole under one armpit and a stubborn gravy stain on the lapel.
“Don’t be such a wimp, Art,” he said, in a conciliatory tone. “It sounds like a mistake and a misunderstanding. I’m sure the first thing she’ll do when she sees you is apologize. Let’s go. You promised me cake.”
“OK,” said Art, reluctantly. “But if there’s no cake, we’re leaving.”