As the seasons change, so do our desires. In our senior years, we try to remain active by doing new
and exciting things.
But what if our plans and dreams are not the same as
those of our closest companion? This can
turn our world upside down, as you will see in . . .
Autumn Leaves
Living in
our senior community, “Autumn of Your Life Active Adult Resort,” is usually a
blessing. However, sometimes things get a bit complicated. Let me give you an
example. As I perused the community’s monthly magazine, The Autumn Review, I turned toward Marty, who sat in our plush
beige recliner reading the Rosewood
Gazette and . . .
“Hey, Marty,
how about going on the annual fall bus trip to Reno?” I asked.
“No, I
don’t think so. It’s not for me,” he responded.
“Why not,
it’ll be fun.”
“Fun? You
call traveling with a bunch of old people fun?”
“Well,
we’re old, too,” I stated. “And they’re our neighbors and friends.”
“Stuffed
in a box with those old codgers for a three-hour drive to Reno isn’t my idea of
a good time. I’d hate it, Debbie.”
“But
you’ve never done it before. And it’s not a box, Marty. It’s a modern,
comfortable tour bus.”
“It’s
just a box with frills, Debbie—nothing more.”
“Oh,
Marty, you’re being unreasonable. I’ve heard the association’s trip coordinator
is a whiz at putting these excursions together. She’ll provide us with
everything we need—bottles of water, fruit, a beautiful room for the night, and
tickets to the ‘Cirque du Soleil’ show at the Eldorado.”
“I don’t
care about some circus salad show.”
“It’s not
a circus salad show. I’ve heard it’s sophisticated, funny, and has
extraordinary acrobatics. The physical stunts are unbelievable. Margaret told
me that when she saw it, two women bent their bodies so they were so small they
could both fit into a tiny box. It was awesome.”
“We bend
our bodies every night so we can fit into our bed with our two German
Shepherds. Maybe we should go on stage.”
“Marty,
you’re impossible. What am I going to do with you?”
“Almost
anything you want to. Just don’t make me go on the bus trip.”
“Well,
think about it. You don’t have to make your decision now. We have two days
until the tickets go on sale. But they do sell out fast, so we’ll have to
purchase them on Monday.”
“Whatever
you say, dear. I’ve got to go to the john.”
Marty got
up from the recliner and, without looking back at me, shuffled out of the
living room. Frustrated, I stared out the large picture window and watched the
leaves on our maple tree plummet to the ground.
Monday
arrived faster than I expected. Marty sat at the kitchen table, his face buried
in the Gazette. I tried to get up the
courage to bring up the trip again. Part of me wanted to let it slide. However,
Margaret made it sound so exciting, I had to go. And I wasn’t going alone. I
married Marty for better or . . . and it seemed the or always got the
best of me. But I made up my mind, it wouldn’t happen this time.
I stood
behind Marty and tapped him on the shoulder. “Marty, Marty, darling, can I talk
to you?”
“Yeah,
but make it quick. I’m reading a really good article on how to win at high
stakes poker and I want to get back to it.”
“But you
don’t even play poker.”
“Hey, we
got a casino just over the railroad track. Maybe I’ll give it a try. Now what
do you want to talk to me about?”
“The trip
to Reno.”
“Not that
again, Debbie. I thought we had ended that conversation.”
“But I
asked you to think about it.”
“And I
did. I thought it best not to think about it.”
“Now come
on, be reasonable. I heard Bob and Alice might be going. You like Bob.”
“Yeah, so
what? But I don’t like Alice. She’s a nag. Just like you’re becoming.”
“I’ve had
it with you, Marty. You never want to try anything new. And this could be fun.
It’s only an overnight trip. Do something for me for once. Won’t you?”
“Are you
saying I don’t do things for you? Don’t you remember I went with you to the
‘Neil Diamond Tribute Show’ three weeks ago? It was so bad we left early. The
impersonator didn’t sound like Neil Diamond and he had no idea how to interact
with the audience.”
“Yes, I
agree with you. He was bad, but . . .”
“But
what? And the mosquitos bit me on my arm and neck. I always suffer for you.
I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to the john.”
“Marty,
that’s all you ever do—take a trip to the john. Well, bon voyage, my loving
husband. Maybe you’ll get some of the crap you’ve been giving me out of your
system.”
“Oh, boy.
You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
Marty
dragged himself and his newspaper up from the table and trudged off on his
journey to the john. I shook my head in dismay. I walked over to the kitchen
slider and gazed out upon the beautiful autumn leaves that covered the backyard.
The wind whisked them around, like travelers running through a busy airport.
Yes, travelers—something I wanted to be. I pictured myself flying with them to
a land of dreams.
Then the
phone rang bringing me back to reality. I picked it up and murmured, “Hello.”
Oh my, another one of those crazy recorded messages.
It blared
into my ear, “You have been selected to take a 30-second telephone survey and
receive a free cruise to the Bahamas.”
I want to
get away from it all, but I know when I’m being scammed. So I pushed the off
button. I wish it was a legitimate offer,
I mused.
Putting
the call behind me, I looked at my watch. It’s
been an hour and no Marty. That’s a long time on the potty—even for him, I
thought. I became worried, so I decided to check. I marched down the hall and
called through the closed door, “Marty, Marty. Are you all right in there?” No
answer. Now I was really concerned.
I grabbed
the door handle. “My god! It’s locked. Now, what do I do? I muttered. So I put
my ear to the door.
“R-r-r-ronc shsh . . . shsh . . . r-r-r-ronc shsh . . . shsh.”
What’s
that? Snoring? “Marty, are you asleep on the pot? Answer me Marty.”
No
response. I started to bang on the door. “Marty. Marty, wake up!”
“Huh?
What’s all the racket? Can’t a guy take a nap in private?”
“If
you’ve got to sleep, do it in bed. You scared me.”
“Well, I
didn’t mean to. I came in here to think.”
“About
what?” I queried.
“The trip
on the bus.”
“You
needed to do that in the bathroom?”
“No, but
I had to call Louie.”
“You did
what? You were talking on the toilet.”
“Yeah,
why are you so surprised? People do it all the time up at the lodge. Sometimes
I listen in. It’s fascinating.”
“You do.
That’s not right.”
“Why not?
Sometimes I get bored just sitting there. It keeps me awake.”
“I guess
you fell asleep on our pot because you didn’t have a conversation to eavesdrop
on.”
“Hmm,
something like that.”
“Something
like what? Why do I have to drag everything out of you?”
“Huh?
Well, after Louie and I talked, I made my decision about the trip. Having
resolved the issue relaxed me. My eyes began to droop and I . . .”
“Aren’t
you going to tell me what you decided?”
“All
right. It seems Louie took the same trip last year. He didn’t want to go, but
Angie pushed him into it. Told him if he didn’t, he’d live to regret it. Since
Louie’s a bit of a wuss, he went.”
“So, are
you telling me you’re also a coward at heart? And we’re going to go on the
trip?”
“Well, no
and yes.”
“No what
and yes what? You’re confusing me.”
“No, I’m
not a coward, and yes, I’ll go on the trip with you.”
“That’s
great. But how did Louie change your mind?”
“He told
me about ‘Autumn Leaves.’”
“Oh, I
get it. The timing of our trip—the seasonal splendor of the colorful leaves we
can see from the bus as we go through Truckee on our way to Reno.”
“Not
exactly.”
“Then
what?”
Marty
went silent from behind the bathroom door. I waited and was about to speak when
. . .
“Autumn
Leaves—the gorgeous stripper in the lounge show after the ‘circus salad show’
ends. She had the biggest boobs he’d ever seen. And when they bounced . . .”
“Marty,
you’re incredible. And that’s not a compliment. Why don’t you stay in the john?
Maybe I’ll let you out for dinner. Get a good day’s rest, darling.”
“What? I
don’t want to stay in here. I have to go up to the clubhouse and purchase the
trip tickets.”
“No you
don’t. Autumn Leaves’ assets are no longer falling. And our trip’s been
cancelled.”
Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
