Chapter Three
First things first, embrace the grandmother, aunties, and bubbies—not typically my top priority in the middle of a demonstration, particularly with journalists swarming.
But if I didn’t stop and greet each member of the self-proclaimed Cronies properly, I knew they’d lecture me for so long that they’d managed to turn it into the sensible option.
As fast as my thoughts are spinning, the instant I’m pulled into a giant group hug, my inner storm calms. Sure, a few concerns continue to whirl in the background, about this unscheduled delay and meeting my new boss and not turning out like my habitually unemployed mom.
But with tender arms, these women squeeze and pour healing love into me, demonstrating the strength they possess.
They loudly voice how sorry they are to hear I was fired. I wince and glance at the spot where I left the good doctor, crossing my fingers he didn’t hear.
But he’s no longer there. He must’ve hit his limit of bizarre for the day and returned to work.
I lose track of the rapid-fire questions lobbed at me at once, although it’s not like they pause so I can respond, or even let one another finish speaking.
What is going on with my love life and whether I’d met the Rock at one of the Heat games I’d attended, and am I aware of the spiking crime rate in Miami?
“Better you’re here with us,” Bubbie Ruth says, sandwiching my hand between hers. As if what every criminal fears most is an eighty-year-old Jewish woman with a fabulous head of brown-and-gray curls.
Grandma Helen strokes knotted fingers over my hair, and I hold my breath as she reaches the blunt, chin-length tips.
As long as I avoided bangs, I assured myself taking scissors to my hair wasn’t a mistake.
There’d been something so empowering about the sound and the slice and the inches piling up on the floor.
During our video call last week, my mom declared the cut too short for my round face, the cinnamon tint “completely wrong for your pale complexion.” Needless to say, I no longer felt safe disclosing the loss of my job or asking for help after that.
“So sassy, I love it.” Grandma Helen cups my face in both of her hands, the hazel eyes I inherited from her twinkling. The crinkles that deepen with her smile accentuate her delight. “Look at my beautiful granddaughter, finally here to stay for a while. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Wanda, the yin to Grandma Helen’s yang, beams at me. “I was going to say…” We’re already fairly smooshed, but her signature 70s beach-babe bangs brush my cheek as she gets extra up close and personal. “God, this skin, so smooth and dewy. Do you even have pores?”
Rita—or Tia Margarita once you’re old enough—returns to the subject of my love life.
“Nonexistent,” I say.
In my peripheral, crewmembers spill out of the news van and gather their gear.
I should force my feet into motion, but the truth is, I enjoy the group hugs and mushy greetings as much as they do.
The Cronies fawn over me. They feed me and constantly tell me I’m smart and pretty.
I’m someone they’re happy to see, not because of what I can do for them, but because I’m me.
I allow myself an additional ten or fifteen seconds to soak in the affection, then I reluctantly break free of the cuddle huddle, holding up a hand at the tiniest squeak of complaint from my grandma.
“You’ve had your hugs, and later we’ll catch up properly. But right now, I need someone to tell me what in the Florida Man Headline is going on.”
…
A stack of newspapers hits the desktop in front of me with a thunk, and I blink at the intimidating pile.
Sunshine streams into the sparsely decorated office from the wall of windows to my right, causing the flecks of gold in the granite desktop to glitter.
Fronds frame a beautiful view of the golf course beyond, so green it appears someone turned up the saturation.
Considering my former office was a tiny desk pushed up against a coworker’s, it should feel like an upgrade, but my mind’s spinning too fast, cataloguing tasks and information.
Jan, my new boss, requires a wider berth due to her mobility scooter, and I can’t believe I didn’t register her sooner given the whine of the engine. She left to retrieve the newspapers, but I got so in my head I’m not sure if it’s been five minutes or an hour.
“In addition to this,” Jan says, pointing to the top left corner of the desk that’ll take a while to feel like mine, “I’ve printed the pertinent online articles and placed them there to catch you up to speed ASAP.”
Now that she’s drawn attention to the overflowing inbox, I can’t handle it being where the outbox goes any longer. Snagging the handle, I slide the plastic tray to the right corner and let out a relieved exhale. Better.
Surprise, surprise, I’m particular. Not overly neat, unfortunately, a common misconception of OCD.
Although I do have an especially finicky method of organization based on feelings of rightness and a splash of paranoia.
Finding my workstation, home, or belongings out of order can often trigger my anxiety, just like my anxiety exacerbates my obsessive compulsions and intrusive thoughts.
Even being completely uninformed and blindsided—which is definitely how I felt during this morning’s protest—is easier to handle as long as I have access to my tools.
Since I was missing huge gaps of information when confronting the news crew, I bought myself time.
Drawing the ire of the reporter, I convinced the picketers not to speak with media, but to instead give management a couple of weeks to arrange a proper forum to discuss possible solutions.
Jan showed up around then to escort the news crew off the property. As she was in the motorized chair, I thought she might need my help, but she told off the reporters so thoroughly I considered asking her for tips.
In the time since, I’ve learned that Jan ran the two-hundred-acre-property community with her husband, Ed, who passed away a little over a year ago.
Occupancy plummeted as cost of living continued to soar—along with complaints from residents—so management sent notice they’d be raising monthly fees.
Residents opposed, attending a board meeting where they didn’t feel heard, but once Jan announced she’d simply open the property to the greater community for a fee if they didn’t comply, things escalated.
To put it mildly.
It’s why the protestors showed up in their underwear. Their point was that they weren’t shy or modest, out here living their best life, so if people were going to bring their children, they should be ready to answer a whole lot of questions.
“Because we’re also not quiet,” Grandma Helen had yelled in my ear, throwing a fist in the air, and the crowd cheered. Although there were a handful of delayed “What’s going on?” and “What did she say?” queries as well.
“If they’re planning on golfing, they should also know”—Wanda snagged hold of the proverbial torch and poured on a little kerosene—“that the Silver Swingers keep their language salty and wear their shorts short.”
Shading sea-glass green eyes with her hand, she scanned the crowd. “Bob honey, where are you? Isn’t that right?”
“Oh God,” I’d groaned, and Wanda told me not to worry, they meant swinging golf clubs, not the other kind. But then it was hard not to contemplate that.
Not a single person stood as they passed the bullhorn to a man up front, seated in a camping chair, legs so wide-open I assumed he was in the middle of a manspreading competition. And while I was warned about the shorts’ length—or lack thereof—no one warned me about the tight.
“Hell yeah! We get so focused on our strokes, we don’t mind if our balls hang out the bottom, neither,” Bob hollered, and I’d never been so tempted to run away.
“Same goes for cannonballs off the diving board,” the man next to him added with the raise of his fist and a shout.
The words, they haunt me.
“Then there’s the matter of the skyrocketing STI and STD rates,” Jan says, bringing me back to the present as she lifts a couple inches out of her seat and rifles through the papers in the inbox I moved. “I’m sure they’re not helping.”
“Come again?” I say, wincing at my poor choice of words—just when I’d finally managed to forget about Bob and the Silver Swingers’ saggy balls, too.
This is clearly a bigger job than previously conveyed, closer to property manager than doing publicity, and I can’t afford a single mistake. There’s the tightening tell of my throat, too many stresses stacking up and blocking my windpipe.
Stapled printouts of articles are fanned in front of me, and I’m starting to feel overwhelmed, my lungs shoving the air I was totally using from my mouth.
This is my specialty. I know how to do this.
Never mind the fact I was just fired for failing a client.
An invisible fist clamps around my throat, at the ready so quickly these days. It squeezes harder, robbing me of the rest of my air. I inhale, counting off five things I can see while rubbing my fingers over my polyester skirt and concentrating on the slip and slide of the fabric.
Breathe out.
Smooth granite, a canister of pens, the keyboard and the sound it’d make if I struck the letters. Several scents hang in the air, like Office Depot and New Car Smell had a baby. Snagging hold of the ocean breeze, I let its saltiness roll over my tongue, engaging the last of my five senses.
For years I’d spiral and gasp through crying jags, unable to return to a calmer state for hours. I didn’t just worry, I obsessed; my feelings didn’t get hurt, they got decimated.
But after having my emotions used against me one too many times, from classmates who mocked my tears to supposed friends, and even my own mother—she didn’t just guilt trip, she sent you via Greyhound—I resolved to fix that sensitive, weak side of me.
It’s not like I’m “fixed,” but in addition to having found the right medications and a lot of therapy, I’ve gotten faster at deploying my grounding techniques—sometimes I can even skip steps, regaining control before anyone even notices anything’s off.
That doesn’t mean I’m not still hella stressed after everything I’ve seen and heard so far, but digging in is the only way to get things done, so I suck in another lungful of air to prepare and skim the bolded headlines.
Frisky Seniors: Shocking New Study Reveals Dramatic Rise in STIs Among the Elderly Inhabitants of Lakeview Retirement Village
Senior Citizen Shenanigans: Golf Cart DUI Accidents From Local Retirement Community Spill Into Our City
“Of course, the reporters refuse to reveal their sources.” Jan heaves a sigh and wrings her hands, her worries prickling mine. “If we’ve got a leak, we’re also dealing with a huge HIPAA violation. It has to be coming from the clinic, right?”
She’s asking me? Not only did I arrive this very morning, many of these issues have gone unchecked for a year. Still, spies who collect information on sexually transmitted infections and diseases? Hardly a Bond mission. “It’s definitely an option we should consider.”
I’m also not sure why the universe finds it necessary to rub in my face that everyone but me is getting laid, but rude.
My gaze snags on another title, and as I pinch the stapled corner and lift the article closer, every instinct shouts at me not to look.
Loofah Colors Reveal the Golden Rules… A Guide to Getting Down and Dirty after 60
Evidently, there’s an entire code, with different shades of loofahs signifying interests and preferences.
With the color key widely known and used among residents of Lakeview Retirement Village, I read in horror, no one has to feel awkward.
Let the record show, we surpassed awkward three articles ago.
But Jan takes it to the next level by informing me she’s already planned a safe sex seminar for this upcoming Friday.
She’s been so stressed out about it, too, and how it might affect her rapport with the residents.
“Which is why,” she continues, and a hollow pit forms in my gut, “it’ll be such a relief that you can give it. ”