The one thing I’ve found to be the rule rather than the exception is that retired folks don’t care much for younger people. Grandchildren of course are the exception, but even at the end of the day they go home. It seems that 50-60 year olds feel they have earned the right by virtue of their years of hard work and laboring away to live somewhere where their only human exposure is folks of their own age.

I say this because whenever I take the dog for a walk I notice the high amount of grimaces and sour stares thrown my way as Sophia and I make our way down the block. I knew their discontent wasn’t about the dog – she’s a dog, who hates a dog at that age? – and soon came to the realization their dour spirits were because of me.

The theory was confirmed by my mother. “Don’t take it personally. Old people are not used to change and are very slow to adapt, so when they see a new person in the neighborhood it’s their natural reaction. And since you refuse to go out and be visible they see you even less and become more suspicious. All they have to go on is somebody who is there one day but not there the next.” She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “All retired people want is the very thing they’ve worked their entire lives to enjoy: Peace and quiet. Young people are loud and boisterous. You threaten their peace and quiet.”

I drew back the curtain and looked out beyond the front yard at the row of houses along the street. Old men in Bermuda shorts and brown socks pulled up to jut below their knee caps were tending to their lawns, while others pulled up still living plants to replace them with taller and brighter versions of the same thing. Two elderly couples in matching jogging suits met up presumably for their daily jaunt through the neighborhood, while another pulled up in a golf cart customized to look like a Rolls Royce and yammered away to the group using grandiose hand gestures. This was retirement living at its finest, and if you managed to hang on long enough to the wealth you spent your entire life accumulating, you could purchase a home and a lifestyle complete with golfing and society functions in a place much like this. As much as I wanted to laugh at these people, at their dress and daily activities, I knew every one of these people paid through the nose to be part of an elite establishment.

I went back into the guest room that had been converted into my bedroom. I still needed to unpack some things and make space for a few more items that I chose not to sell when I moved out but for the time being it was home. There’s an overused phrase in the American lexicon: “You can’t go home again,” and though I wasn’t exactly home again – I’d never lived at the country club to begin with – the phrase echoed eerily in my head as I repositioned things and put out a few creature comforts in the attempt to make it seem like I was in fact home again. What nobody tells you is that once you are home again it never really feels like home.

While leafing through some magazines I fell asleep and awoke abruptly to the ringing of my cell phone. I wiped a little drool from the side of my mouth and hit the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Wow, you sound dead. Did I wake you?” It was Devin, my actor friend. He sounded wiry and hopped up on coffee. He wasn’t over the deep end enough for it to have been something else.

“As a matter of fact you did wake me,” I replied.

“The life of an unemployed bachelor,” he responded with a laugh. “Sleep all day, fuck all night.”

“You’ve got to get me on that plan, brother, because right now it’s sleep all day, sleep all night, turn pasty white from staying indoors all the time.” I rubbed my beard stubble and checked the time. It was just after two. I still had another four hours of nothing to do before dinner, and then another four to five hours of nothing beyond that. Maybe even more; it came down to if my mind would let me sleep tonight.

“Well I can’t guarantee to get you on the rock star plan but here’s a start: Come out with us tonight.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and tilted my head to the side for a few moments while mulling it over. Go out with the gang. Talk and laugh and drink and try to act like nothing has changed, like everything has been on freeze frame since the last time we saw each other.

“I don’t know,” I began.

“Come on, dude,” Devin interjected. “Don’t be that guy. Don’t be the ‘um, I’m afraid to go back out and rejoin the human race, I’m gonna be a shut-in instead and avoid having to face anything that could be a struggle or a challenge or a risk.’”

“Thanks for the support,” I dryly responded.

“Admit it, you are afraid of the risk. You are afraid of having to face the world now knowing the dice haven’t already been cast, that things change and that not everything has a happy ending. I’ll tell you something – it’s always been like that. Maybe you are just realizing it for the first time, maybe you’re just coming to terms with it.”

I flipped open a magazine and started perusing the photos as Devin continued to read me the riot act.

“I don’t share your enthusiasm in this area but thanks for looking out for me nonetheless,” I responded when he finished.

“Fuck, hyou’re not even listening, Reed. Don’t do this. Don’t withdraw. Every day you withdraw is another day you will have to dig for ground level once you decide to resurface. I’m not the only one noticing this behavior from you. I’m not the only one whose calls you don’t return, whose plans you don’t show up for. People are concerned, and people are talking.”

“Let them talk. What do they know?”

“They know you are not you. And you not being you, you aren’t out there to keep the gossip in check. And pretty soon the gossip gets accepted as truth because that’s all anyone hears. By the time you get your hands around it and separate the truth from the stories, nobody cares and the damage is done. You’ve become another person to everybody. Some kind of freak.”

I finally reached the point where I had had enough. It was something I probably should have addressed earlier, but I had neither the drive nor the desire to do it. Now my hand was forced.

“You know what Devin? Can I tell you how sick I am of all this? How I have had it up to here,” I paused and placed a flat hand in front of my chest despite knowing there was no way for him to see, “with the way I am being treated? I know you want to help. I know all of you want to help. And even though it doesn’t seem that way I appreciate it. But have you ever thought about what I want? I want to be left alone. I want to be able to keep to myself and be alone in private and not have to feel bad about it. The chrysalis will shatter and I’ll emerge from the shell when I am ready, okay? Stop making me feel bad about feeling bad. And for the last time, when I do go out in public – I have and this has happened more than once – stop treating me like the guy who has some disease, the guy who’s still ‘one of us’ but still you feel a need to keep at an arm’s distance. Okay? Think you guys can do that?”

Devin remained silent on his side for a moment after I finished. “I don’t think you are being fair at all,” he began, “not at all. We are just trying to help.”

“Then give me space, please – that’s all I ask. You know we are all going to be fine, right? It just takes time. And for god’s sake, quit it with the gossiping. There’s no story, all right?”

“All right. Just do me a favor and think about tonight, okay? Give it more than five seconds of consideration.”

“Okay, we’ll see,” I responded. Devin sighed on the other side of the line. He knew a ‘we’ll see’ was tantamount to a ‘no’ in my book. He signed off and hung up.

I set my phone down and resumed organizing my room, but no more than five minutes later it began ringing again. Figures, I thought, this was round two. Maybe this time Devin got Michelle or Ken or Aaron to call and do the persuading. Without looking at the caller ID I picked up the phone and hit ‘answer.’

“Yeah?”

“Quite informal answering the phone these days aren’t we, Reed?”

I stiffened and I felt a shock run along my spine. I knew this voice, female and breathy. Months had gone by and the suspended sentence, fines, and community service should have been enough to keep her at bay but apparently she thought otherwise. I always knew in the back of my mind her sentence wouldn't be enough to shut her down.

“Hello Deirdre,” I began. I spoke tersely. “I can’t say I am surprised; it’s been what – five months? – since you’ve decided to break your parole, Ms. MacKenzie?”

She paused for a moment as she searched for her next words. I always thought those who went the stalker route would never be at a loss for words. I guess I was wrong. Perhaps she thought my first reaction would be fear and was taken aback by how I was acting.

“You are one smug bastard, you know that?” she finally said.

“It’s part of my charm. Now, what is so important you felt it necessary to break the terms of your sentencing and contact me?”

“You’re not the only one, I’ve talked to your two cohorts as well.” The two cohorts to which she referred were two guys in Delaware who she had been bothering for an even longer time and had charges brought against her. “It’s just a reminder that you’ll never be able to get rid of me, court system or not.”

I sat back in a chair and let out a deep exhale, much deeper than any ordinary sigh. She was right. There was no ducking Deirdre as long as she had a way of reaching any of us, and as long as she felt she held power over us she would continue at it. It had caused me cancel email accounts, change and re-change phone numbers, erase online profiles, and go into an anonymous witness protection-like state. I never learned why she kept it up, if it was sort of rush for her or a sick diversion.

She interrupted my train of thought. “No snappy response, Reed? Are you thinking of a witty comeback as you pace about your apartment or pour yourself another Scotch?”

A smile broke across my face and in an instant I realized Deirdre didn’t know I was living with my mother across town. She didn’t know she no longer had a valid address to exploit or work number at which to harass me. All she had was my cell phone number and an email address, but I had blocked her account long ago. That was all she had. As soon as I hung up she would be gone and would continue to be as long as I didn’t answer. But that in itself was a little disheartening, that I’d have to live in fear of my own phone because of who might be on the other end. My life was quickly turning into one ruled by fear: Fear of going out, fear of my friends and how they would treat me, fear of Deirdre popping back up on the radar. There had to be a solution to all of this, I thought. And in that brief instant when the mind is busy jumping from one random non-sequential thought to another, it grabbed a foothold, something I’d read months ago in Toronto while waiting for Margot and her daughter Corrine to get ready for a wedding we were attending. Maybe it was Glamour, maybe it was Shape. Maybe it was even Cosmo. Regardless, the piece returned to my memory crystal clear as the day I originally read it. In the article, a psychologist broke down the anatomy of infatuation-driven relationships and stalking. The two things I remembered most – and honestly, guffawed at the time, stupid me – were in order to disarm the person you had to make them believe you were the one holding the power over them and you had control of the conversation, which further bolstered point number one. It seemed so easy, so obvious. Sometimes we eschew the answers that are most obvious while we waste time searching for a greater truth. There was no greater truth here; Deirdre was some sick chick who got off on making people squirm and enough was enough.

As with Devin, the time had come to make a stand and let her no in no uncertain terms that whatever I am, the thing I am most is unafraid. Unafraid of her and her tactics. Unafraid of her badgering. Of all the things she had taken over the course of eight months with her unwanted emails, phone calls, and harassment, what I wanted back most was my time. And the time had come to begin collecting.

“There has to be a reason you persist with the phone calls and emails, Deirdre, and I think I know what it is: You just really dig me. You shouldn't be afraid of admitting it. Perhaps when you were younger you were the type of woman who never really knew how to pursue a man, who never really knew how to work within the social conventions of guy-and-girl chemistry, so this is how you went about it.”

“Now wait just a minute,” she began, but I cut her off before she could say anything else.

“So you keep tabs on me with a phone call now and again, and some emails every so often, and you think you are playing it all fair and square. Find out where he lives, who he sees, how he acts…I mean, you have to know everything there is to know about the person you like, right?”

I paused just long enough to get a breath. I had no idea where this was going but I knew as long as I could keep her from speaking it would send the message that this wasn’t her game any longer.

“And once you meet me in the flesh I know you’ll really want to get to know me, if you take my meaning. So why not ditch the formalities, MacKenzie, and say what you’ve been wanting to say for a while now: You want me to fuck you.”

“Shut up!” she screamed but I talked louder to drown out her protests.

“I bet you’ve been dying to have some man in your life who can overpower you and beat you into oblivion sexually. And you know what I am capable of so naturally your interest is piqued. Why not, you think I’d love doing it to you, and that really gets you off. I bet you are the type who likes public thrills too, so maybe we’ll get a room and bend you over in front of the glass balcony sliding doors while you scream out in ecstasy, half begging me to stop but not really meaning it. We all know 'no' means 'yes' anyway.”

My voice kept getting louder and louder. “In truth you want me to be that guy, you need me to be that guy for you. But I don’t think you have it in you, I think you are one of those broads who secretly relishes the opportunity to have a scandalous sexual lifestyle but are too afraid to pursue it. So come on, here is your chance.” I paused and for shock value I added, “Maybe I have some friends who will want to take turns with you. Who knows, that could be the way you get off. We'll have to see what you like and what they say. If I use women and toss them aside like you think I do then why not be my biggest conquest?”

Click. She hung up. I wish she could have seen the smile on my face. Things were looking up.

There was a rapping at the door. It was my mother. “I heard yelling, is everything okay in there?”

Oh, nothing mother, just the most satisfying phone sex I have ever had. Finally I got the finish I was looking for. I opened the door and strolled out, smiling. “No, it was nothing. Just getting rid of an unwanted caller.”

I sat down and she joined me on the couch. “Well, you seem very chipper. Since you are in an upbeat mood I suppose this is as good a time as any to ask. There’s a dinner at the club tomorrow night, a black tie affair. I thought maybe you could make an appearance so people don’t think you are some sort of reclusive Boo Radley.”

I shook my head and laughed. Even my mother was giving it to me.

“Charity ball?” I asked.

“No, it’s a twice yearly thing the ladies’ society puts on. It’s a grand menu, here I’ll show you.” She went over to an end table and sorted through a few leaflets before returning.

She held out her arm firmly with an invitation dangling from her fingers. “Take a look for yourself.” I took the stiff ivory paper and began reading: “Brentwood Country Club ladies’ society cordially invites you to the 23rd annual Fall Ball, a night of gourmet dining, dancing, and entertainment.” I followed the invitation further down to the menu.

Dinner to include:
Pumpkin soup with Creole lobster
Smoked turkey with cane syrup-coffee glaze & breaded oyster corn dressing
Sweet potato gnocchi with pecans and brown butter
Crème Fraiche biscuits
Red velvet cake with cream cheese ice cream

Wines to be served with dinner courses include:
2004 Chateau Soverain Savignon Blanc
2003 Castle Rock Pinot Noir
2002 T-Vine Petite Syrah

After dinner cordials and dessert wines available

“What do you think?” she asked. “Consider it a favor to me. This will be the first function the club has held since your father’s passing. Remember, he was a well-liked guy in these parts, and there may be a lot of reminiscing. I might need someone to lean on.”

If I declined I would be declining not just my mother, but the ladies’ society of which she was a member. And then there was the part about my father. How could I refuse a request like that?

“Okay mother, count me in. I wouldn’t want to disrespect the ladies’ society. What would they say about me then?” I mocked.

“They gossip enough about you already, since you keep to yourself. Just show up, be sociable, and I am sure everything will be fine,” she replied.

She stood up almost in anticipation of the rap at the door which followed seconds later. She walked over to answer and I stood up and smoothed a thick wrinkle in my jeans.

“Gertrude,” I heard her say, “You’re early. Come in, come in.” The door creaked shut and my mother came back into the living room followed by a matronly woman of about the same age. She was wearing a polyester powder blue and pink blouse with some kind of white rayon slacks. Ultra white Reebok walking shoes poked out from the slack bottoms.

“Reed, this is Gertrude Lowenstein. She is on the ladies’ society with me.”

I came forward and held out a hand. “A pleasure.” She took it and shook weakly.

“We are going to the clubhouse to check on some last-minute items for tomorrow night. I have a list of things we need from the store on the kitchen counter. Would you mind picking them up from Gelson’s?” She turned and started heading for the door, followed by Gertrude.

I bent my fingers at the knuckles and put them in my mouth, biting down to appear caught in a dilemma. “But if I do that I will have to – gasp – go out in public. Out there, where people are. But I'm the type that hides away at home, keeping far from prying eyes. If I go out, what will they say about me then?” I let a slow smile form across my face as I said the last sentence. Gertrude's eyes met mine, a sour scowl on her face. The last thing I saw as they made their way out the front door was my mother slipping me a quick grin and a wink.
__________________________________________________________________

If galas weren’t big enough in and of themselves, galas planned by and attended by retirees might take the prize as the event with the biggest deal made by its attendants. As far as galas go this one wasn’t any more grandiose, lavish, or lively than any other I’d previously attended. All the gentry was represented, with men dressed to the nines in tuxedos, black suits, and a wide variety of ties from the dapper bow to the classy black-and-gray striped formal tied in a Windsor knot, while ladies walked about in a assortment of formal gowns, opera house wraps, and sequined numbers. Being a party for and of the retired, they made a big deal of the occasion. Despite the formality it felt like the Lawrence Welk Show without the bubbles and Mr. Welk himself.

After shuffling through the door following a solemn introduction of “Mrs. Becker and son,” I mingled through the crowd, attempting to find our table. Everything was assigned of course and my mother, being on the committee, knew exactly what table in a high visibility spot in the north-northeast corner was ours. I mowed through the crowd and endured a number of “good to see you, son” and “so glad you could make it” from assorted unfamiliar people before the masses parted and I located our table.

The night was everything I thought it would be, given the age difference and having nothing in common with any of them: Long, boring, and were it not for the ample supply of alcohol, uninteresting. Every old coot’s presence was announced via their over applied perfume or cologne, long ahead of their appearance in the flesh. Every gent smelled of Aqua Velva and lime after shave; every woman of jasmine, cocoa butter, and Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds. By the time the evening began winding down and I was done acting interested in what these people had to say, my cheek muscles were frozen in place from the smile I had been forced to wear as I listened to their stories.

I made for the bar at the back of the room, nursing my jaw and hoping the bartender had a strong Glenlivet or something to help ease the throbbing pain in my face. He made small talk while he reached above him for the bottle and poured me a generous amount, adding with a smile that he hoped the evening had been everything I’d expected. He was trolling for a good tip. I brought out a few bucks from my inside jacket pocket and thanked him for the liquid relief.
When I turned away was when I first heard it: “That’s right, his name is Reed. Youngest son of the Beckers. You know the Beckers, they live here at the club. Scottish family. Father made a living in defense contracting and patented a few designs in the 80s. He died a few months ago.” The voice was male, and young. I turned to see who was talking. A blue-haired woman looking like every other lady retiree in the ballroom was listening to a short, stout man of about thirty in an ill-fitting suit which was too tight across his chest. His face was reddened in various areas, a little bit like a pickled beet, a little bit like an eczema rash. He swirled his half empty drink and continued speaking, apparently not aware I was turned towards him and listening in on the conversation.

“He’s a very strange one. Since returning from burying his father overseas he’s done little more than withdraw from society, hiding out in his mother’s house most of the time. Doesn’t even come out. He’s shut down altogether.” He continued facing the woman and swirling his drink, still unaware he was speaking above earshot and that I was standing right behind him.

“The boy will be in line to take over the Becker fortune – whatever the family has made from the patents – and you know what they say about eccentricity and the rich.”

I cleared my throat to speak up. “No, I’m unfamiliar with that proverb. How does it go?”

The man seized up a bit and turned slowly to face me. He came up to just past my shoulders, surrendering to me a good six to eight inches in size. He looked at me, unfazed. “Do I know you?” he asked, smiling.

I returned his smile. “The question really is, do I know you?” I responded. “Reed Becker. I heard my name being cheaply thrown about.”

The man turned back towards the woman whose attention he had been engaging, a hand reached outward as if he were to make a presentation. “Ah, Mr. Becker, I see you…”

I didn’t let him finish. “Here’s what I am having a difficult time wrapping my head around: See, to my knowledge we have never before met, and yet here I find you, not knowing me one bit, and dragging my name through the mud based on who knows what you have heard from somebody second hand or in passing.”

The man tried to cut back in. “I was only telling her –“ but again I didn’t let him finish.

“What have I ever done to you?” I asked. I nodded towards the elderly lady. “Or you. Have I begrudged either of you in some way I’m not aware of? Is there anything wrong with maintaining some privacy and some decorum when you are a grieving family trying to return your lives to normal?” I leaned in towards the man. “How dare you?”

I waited for the man to say something – anything – but he remained silent, his eyes firmly locked on the parquet floor beneath us. Luckily I had managed to keep my voice low enough to not attract unwanted attention or detract from the night’s hoopla. Despite my boredom it was a memorable event for these people and they didn’t deserve to have it cheapened by our dispute.

When I was certain the man wasn’t going to say anything, I turned and flagged down the bartender for another scotch. The bartender was halfway through his pour when I heard him behind me again:

“Oh yes. The rich and their sense of entitlement, it makes me wretch.”

I shook my head and sighed softly to myself. Approaching him again, I tapped him on the shoulder this time. “Might I have a word with you, over here?” I did an ambiguous circular point towards the corner where the exit was. He shrugged and began walking as I followed behind, a scowl on my face. From her corner of the room my mother saw me leaving with the man and mouthed a what towards me. I motioned a come here in response.

When the man reached the corner I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Outside.” I opened the door and motioned him through. When we were both outside he stopped and began turning towards me.

“I don’t know what we have to talk about,” he started.

Have you ever punched a person in a fit of rage, as a premeditated action you’ve thought out minutes before actually carrying through with it? It’s nothing like what you see in movies, where a clean hit across the jaw sends your recipient crashing to the ground in a mangled heap. It is also nothing like any fight you might have had in childhood, where the schoolyard laws of fighting were less boxing match and more mixture of slapping, half-punching, kicking, and tackling. One adult punching another is an action carried out in an instant, one where the hand is pushed back from the face by the force of action-reaction physics, and both people feel pain.

I balled my right hand and swung around just in time to meet his turn as he finished saying we had nothing to talk about. Just before my fist connected with his nose and cheek I saw his eyes register what was going to happen and the muscles in his face go limp. My fist made contact first with his nose and then with his cheek, moving deeper and deeper into the valley between the two before the reaction force coming off his cheek bone pushed my fist backward. My arm recoiled and instantly I felt the pain of bone-to-bone contact in my fist. The man dropped to his knees and immediately grabbed at his face, screaming. I opened, closed, and re-opened my fingers, trying to get the pain to subside. Before long I saw some drops of blood dribble between his fingers and fall to the ground.

I stood above the guy as more and more blood dribbled from his fingers. A small crowd began to gather outside, my mother among them.

“Don’t ever come in here looking to degrade me or my family based on hearsay and gossip, especially when you don’t have the guts to confront me straight-on with it. I don’t ever want to hear you’ve besmirched my family’s name, got it?”

I came around to his front side to face him, and jerked a tuft of his hair so that he would be forced to look at me. Blood dripped from his nose, and his entire cheek shared the same reddish pink hue as his eczema. “And if you are going to gossip, at least get reliable information. You want to come at me, then fine. But leave my family out of it. And do your research next time. We're Scot and Greek. Lie about something that can’t be verified, asshole.” I let go of his hair and his head dropped back into his hands. I looked over the faces in the crowd for the blue-haired woman the guy had been talking to inside, but she wasn’t there.

A security guard hired for the night emerged from the crowd. “What is going on here?”

My mother broke from the group and stood in front of me. “This man on the ground is trespassing and harassing club residents. He may have been invited, but as one of the organizers of this event I want him thrown out for causing interruption to an otherwise lovely event.”

The guard reached down to help the man up. He didn’t resist, as he continued holding his face in his hands. We watched as the man was led off towards the security building and in the distance, the country club gates.

My mother turned to face me. I was still messaging my fingers and knuckles. They weren’t feeling any better.

“Sorry about the mess,” I started.

She held up a hand. “You are not a violent person, so I know whatever reason you have is a valid one. It sounds like you were defending family honor; how can I scold you for that?” She ran a hand across my cheek. “It looks like you sustained some damage as well. Let’s go home and get you an ice pack for your hand.” She wrapped her more tightly around her shoulders and took my uninjured hand in hers as we began walking.

“Standing up for yourself and your family takes a lot of courage, Reed. It stirs deep pride within the soul. I think you might be coming back to life just yet.”