This repetition took place all the way until I reached the dining area. I looked at the clock on the wall: 7:40. It had taken me over thirty minutes to walk a little over a hundred feet. This didn’t bother me a bit when compared to the distance I had walked over the last two years. As I sat at the dining table, a staff member asked what I would like for breakfast.
A voice to my left warned, “Don’t get the sausage biscuit. It tastes like leather, and you’ll need a laxative to get it out.”
The dining facility staff member glared at the man’s advice, but I laughed. She must be responsible for more than just getting the residents’ food from the kitchen. Enjoying this man’s humor, I asked, “What do you recommend?”
“McDonalds’ down the street, but if we left now I don’t think either one of us could make it there before lunch.”
This guy was a riot. I guess once you hit a certain age you just speak your mind instead of sugar-coating anything. He had snow white hair, silver-rimmed glasses and a scowl that had probably been there for decades.
I asked the lady for toast and jelly, she turned around and headed for the kitchen. Then the old man claimed, “I should have had you order some for me, too. She spits on all my food.”
“How about when she comes back I’ll split mine with you, then if we’re still hungry, I’ll ask for some more.”
“Sounds like a plan. The food here is shit: overcooked, cold, and for added fun - pureed. Say, you’re a little young to be hanging out in this place. You got a thing for old men?”
“Yeah, especially the ones that hike the waist band of their pants up to their boobs; that’s a real turn on for me.”
The man laughed so hard his dentures came loose, and I thought he was going to fall out of his chair. The scowl on his face evaporated and he lit up. He stuck out his hand, “My name’s Joe. Sure is nice to have someone around here with a little spunk again! What are you in for?”
No one had asked me this before. Not wanting a lot of questions that I wasn’t prepared to answer, I just told him, “I was in an accident.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“I’m Lauren.”
In a louder than necessary voice, he asked, “Loraine?”
“No, my name’s Lauren.”
“Well, Loraine…that’s a beautiful name. How about after breakfast we go for a walk in the garden?”
“Joe, are you kidding me? You’re old enough to be my grandfather.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart, I just want to go outside to smoke. I had both hips replaced, and I can’t smoke in this God-forsaken place. I’m not allowed on the grounds without an escort. I can’t stand the staff; they all just lecture me about how much better my health would be if I quit. Obviously, I’m older than dirt, so whatever I’m doing is working for me.”
“Maybe you didn’t see me walk down here. I’m not all that mobile yet.”
“Then I’ll be your escort and you can be mine. Fresh air will do you good.”
Just like that I had a new best friend. Joe was eighty-two, a smoker, an avid-reader, had run marathons, had fought in World War II, outlived two of his children and his wife, and was quite likely the funniest person I had ever met. He told me story after story about his life: the crispness of his memory was nothing short of amazing. I think his hearing was going, though, because no matter how often I corrected him, he was sure my name was Loraine.
It turned out he smoked every couple hours, and that first day it took me thirty minutes to walk from the recreation room to the outside and another thirty minutes to walk back in when he was done. By the end of the week I had shaved ten minutes off my speed each way. With each trip outside, I could feel my body getting stronger and my fondness for Joe increasing. He told me he was going to go home in another couple weeks, so that was my new target. I didn’t want to try to make a new friend in this place because most of the people here weren’t like Joe and me. This was a last stop before they cashed in their chips.
Joe and I spent most mornings and early afternoons together. The only time we were separated was when one of us was in physical therapy. My visitors arrived most evenings around 5:30. We were falling into a pretty comfortable routine when at the end of our first week together I realized he hadn’t had any visitors at all. He never mentioned it, and tried to make himself scarce when my family and friends arrived. It’s not that they didn’t welcome him - I think he just felt a little self-conscious around them or something.
My room was becoming more and more homey. My mom brought in pictures and knickknacks from my bedroom at home. Every night when she came in, the first thing she said was that she still hadn’t heard from Max, but she was sure he would call soon. The first few nights I nodded, believing that whenever he got the message he would call immediately. But as the days drew on and no call,
