Sorta Like a Rock Star(27)

Because she loves being evil, Joan of Old agreed to play her part right away, and it has really improved morale at the home very much—or at least that’s what the residents tell me anyway.

The front of the Methodist Retirement Home has these huge slavery-times plantation columns and a porch with wooden rocking chairs that look out over a big old rolling lawn, but I use the back entrance, where you have to sign in and pass through security, which—on Wednesday afternoons—is pretty much Door Woman Lucy.

So I park Donna’s bike behind a bush—hiding my ride, so it won’t get stolen—grab BBB, and then walk into the visitor’s entrance with my pup in one hand and the hot chocolate in the other.

“Ain’t no dogs allowed in this building,” Door Woman Lucy says from behind her desk, shaking her head slowly, staring into my eyes. “You know the rules, Ms. Appleton. I don’t make ’em, and I need to get paid, so that funky little rat’s gonna have to stay outside.”

“DWL.” That’s what I call Door Woman Lucy to her face, and I think she likes the nickname, because she always smiles when I say it. “It’s cold out.”

“Sure is.”

“Too cold for a dog to be outside.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Bet it gets cold every time that door opens.”

“Sure does,” Door Woman Lucy says, lifting one eyebrow.

“I just bought this hot chocolate here, but I’m not really feeling much like drinking a delicious wintertime beverage right now. But it would be a shame to throw it away. I’d really hate to chuck a fresh cup of hot chocolate.”

“Ms. Appleton, as you know, I’m not allowed to accept bribes from visitors, but if you left that drink on my desk, knowing that it won’t change the fact that that dog of yours must stay outside the building, I’d maybe see it don’t go to waste.”

Very slowly, I place the cup on her desk, lay the Snickers across the lid as an added bonus, sweetening the deal—because I really do dig Door Woman Lucy—sign the clipboard with all the lines and names of people who have visited today, record the time of my visit, and then I step away slowly, making my way into the building, BBB under my arm.

“Thanks for leaving that dog outside, Ms. Appleton. I’m sure you understand that rules are rules,” Door Woman Lucy says.

“Oh, I understand,” I say.

BBB barks once to convey that he understands as well.

And then B Thrice and I both walk through a second door and into the home.

We make our way through some depressing hallways with dusty fake plants in the corners, but we don’t see any staff members.

There is a great cheer when I walk into the common room.

I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m sorta like a rock star to these people.

I slip BBB to Knitting Carol, who hides my pup in a lap full of yarn. B Thrice loves to sleep in yarn, so no worries. Knitting Carol loves dogs, so it’s a match made in heaven. With B3 in her lap, she’s smiling like a little girl on Christmas morning. True? True.

“All right, kid,” Old Man Linder says to me, massaging my shoulders from behind. “The old broad has been mumbling nasty things about you all week. She’s coming at you hard today. Don’t let her rattle you with any low blows, because the wrinkly bag’s brimming full of ’em, as you are well aware.”

Old Man Linder is my manager. He’s something like a hundred and fifteen years old and has to drag around an oxygen bottle that pumps pure air through these clear tubes that are stuck up his nose. His breath stinks and he has spots all over his face, but he is a kick-ass manager, and he hasn’t thrown in the white towel on me yet. He’s tough as nails, so I trust him to manage my corner.

Big Booty Bernice has shut the common room doors, so the staff won’t hear the cheering and come break up the battle in the middle of my exchange with Joan of Old.

All of the old people are slowly pushing chairs and wheeling the wheelchair-bound into position, so that everyone can see and hear, which means that everyone has to be really super-mega close to the battle, because old people don’t see and hear too well. Word.

White hair abounds, along with homemade sweaters, no-name dress sneakers, cough drops, ear-hair, yellow fingernails, shaky limbs, wrinkles, diapers, and an intense hospital smell that dries out your nasal passages in—like—ten seconds.

Joan of Old is in her wheelchair, front and center, staring me down with her wrinkly pink eyelids, trying to psyche me out. She might weigh eighty pounds if her clothes were soaking wet. She’s wearing all black like always, still mourning her husband who died—like—thirty years ago. True.

Joan of Old wiggles an old pink finger at me and then shakes her head so that her black bonnet falls a little to the left, so she straightens it with her bony shaky hands.

Joan of Old has no manager, mostly because everyone in the home hates her. She is such a downer most of the time, and she likes to quote depressing Nietzsche 24/7, which, of course, wins her no friends.

I take my place by the sunniest window in the room, and Old Man Linder says, “Remember, the crowd doesn’t always get your newfangled MTV kid references, so keep your jokes age appropriate. You’re battling for our happiness. This is the only thing we look forward to all week. Besides this weekly battle, our lives bore us to death. This is the one thing that’s different and exciting, so don’t let us down. You making that old crusty broad smile—this is something to believe in. It breaks the awful chain of days. So for us, please just keep going at her until she smiles. No mercy!”