Mid-Life Crisis
An Amazing Author Ezine Column by Jack Riepe
The Visit
By Jack Riepe
© Copyright Jack Riepe 1998
My mother retired to an “adult” community in southern New Jersey several years ago. There are a number of differences between an “adult” community and an “adult” movie. For one thing, you would never want to see the majority of residents in an “adult” community without their clothes. Lots of clothes. And if they have sex the way they drive, life insurance would be prohibitive. Retirement communities come in varying stages. There is the “adult” community, the “mature adult community,” the “assisted care” community, and Pharoah's tomb.
My mother's community is the world's largest air force base without a runway. It consists of 250,000 identical houses, available in two models (right and left handed). I think the houses are designed this way so that if the occupants become confused, they can just go into the nearest one and spend a few days without missing a beat.
I certainly get confused. I've learned not to walk around town after having a few beers or I become hopelessly lost. I once tried to solve this problem by buying mom a unique-looking mail box. Her neighbors thought the little farm-truck motif was so nice, that fifty of them ran out and bought the exact same ones. And a substantial percentage of these folks are blonde widows, who wear glasses (just like my mom). I once stayed for a weekend—and painted two rooms—in the house of a total stranger.
“I wondered why you kept calling me mom,” the nice blonde lady with glasses said. “But I decided to keep my mouth shut when you started painting.”
On my last visit, I arrived at my mother's with a laptop and a file full of work. It seems I'm always looking for some paper, or a notebook, or something, and whatever the hell it is invariably turns out to be buried under stuff in my truck. This particular evening was no exception, and 2 a.m. found me trundling outside to the Suburban to root around for some data.
While I was outside, my mother awakened and determined that I went off to sleep leaving all of the lights on and the house unlocked. The old dear dutifully locked the front door, shut out all the lights, and returned to the sleep of just. (It is a little-known fact that the just sleep like the mummified remains of the Pharaoh Mohetep IV.) I found the missing document, and uttering a maddened laugh, scrambled out of the truck. I realized the vehicle had been unlocked on the street for three days and remedied the situation. All five locks clicked shut in response to the electric stimulus of the button on the door.
It was then that I noticed that the house was somewhat darker than I had left it. I don't usually turn out every light in the house as this is an open invitation to passing vampires. I looked over my shoulder to be sure there were no vampires passing at the moment, and ran the fifty feet to the house. Naturally, the door was locked. I reached for my trusty key, which is always in my trusty pocket, and discovered that I was wearing my trusty underwear, which while chockfull of entertainment value, offers little in the way of door-opening apparatus.
The plot was beginning to thicken.
I dreaded the thought of waking my mother by ringing the doorbell, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I tapped the little illuminated button next to the door in an apologetic way. I distinctly heard the chimes respond on the other side of the door.
There was no response.
I waited, smilingly imagining my mother scrambling for her robe, switching on the lights, and running for the door. Two minutes later, I pressed the doorbell again. And again. It occurred to me that perhaps my mom slept in seasonal way, and didn't intend to stir until spring.
I ran around to the back of the house and began to tap on her bedroom window. After several hours of insistent rapping, mom realized she wasn't dreaming of woodpeckers, and reacted by calling out to me, who she thought was asleep in the room across the hall.
“Jackie! Jackie! There's something trying to get in my window! Jackie! Where are you?”
The houses are rather close together here and my concern at this point was for not rousing the local militia.
“Mom,” I hissed. “It's me. I'm out here. Let me in.” I may have actually said, “Let me in, goddamit,” but my memory fades on this inconsequential point. My mother is one of those utterly fearless types, who wouldn't have hesitated to personally investigate a blood-curdling scream coming from a darkened basement. Through her bedroom window, I watched her run to the front door, and throw it open.
By the time I ran around the front of the house, the door was again closed and locked. Through another window, I could see her heading toward the porch door. One more time, I arrived a second too late. But it wasn't as if I couldn't attract anyone's attention. The only police car that I have ever seen in this community during the last 15 years began trolling with a spotlight. It was going to be Amateur Night In Briefs, apparently, and I would be the star attraction. I sprang to the parked truck with the hope of hiding inside, and dashed that same hope with every door locked.
I was bathed in light an instant later. Not the light of the constabulary, but the yellow haze of the porch light (which was certainly bad enough, under the circumstances). I saw my mom looking out at me through the sliding glass porch door in stark amazement. She let me in, and asked:
“Are you some kind of an idiot?”
I think I must be.
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