I’m not supposed to tell this story.
But sometimes, stories just want to be told.
When Indy And Willie moved to their independent living facility, they believed it to be nirvana. There’s a pool and pool table. A movie theater and classes to get them moving. A café with groceries and a bus to the grocery store.
They still believe it to be nirvana, a reward for a lifetime of hard work.
I think it’s high school for septuagenarians.
Don’t get me wrong. I love it. It suits Willie and Indy like ketchup suits French fries.
But it’s still high school.
Rivalries abound. Indy and Willie’s neighbor, for example. Much like Captain Kirk has no idea Khan sits for decades on Ceti Alpha V, his grudge against Kirk festering, this neighbor has no idea Willie sits in her apartment festering a grudge of her own. But the day that neighbor told Willie that she – the neighbor – was in charge of Willie’s hallway and therefore in charge of Willie, she signed the death warrant on any friendship they may have forged.
Nobody puts Baby in a corner, and nobody is in charge of Willie.
Indy gets along with this neighbor just fine. But then Indy gets along with most people just fine.
Then there’s the board, made up of residents who plot each other’s demise like elderly Macbeths. Willie was elected to this board about five minutes after she moved in because Willie is positively Machiavellian. With everything.
When she tells me the goings-on within the board, all I hear is Cersei telling Ned Stark that in the game of thrones you either win or you die. As Death already looms in that place, board members can be as cutthroat as their ambitions allow. So what if you anger a fellow board member by angling for their position? One of you is likely to die long before that fight can turn into the Hundred Years’ War. Or even the Seven Years’ War. Or even a Jeopardy! Tournament of Champions.
Willie and Indy’s facility – should we call it the Temple of Doom? – also has a hierarchy. If cheerleaders are the top females in the high school caste system, then the cheerleaders at the Temple of Doom are the ladies who work the front desk.
Willie not only works the front desk, by the way. She was just put in charge of the front desk. She is, essentially, head cheerleader.
The ladies at the front desk buzz visitors through the locked front doors at the Temple of Doom. And with COVID times, they make sure you fill out a pandemic questionnaire.
Try to walk past that front desk without filing a questionnaire. Sweet old ladies with glistening white hair and stooped spines suddenly become Charlie’s Angels, leaping after you with guns drawn. They are so ardent about stopping COVID interlopers, they’ve tackled Indy a few times. Indy, who lives there and is exempt from the pandemic questionnaire.
Although they might be tackling him because Indy looks like Harrison Ford. And likes everyone just fine.
Then there’s the gossip mill. When Willie was put in charge of the front desk, she told no one. Yet within a few hours, she was greeted with “Congratulations” by other ladies as she strolled the hallways of the Temple of Doom. Some were happy for her. Some were snide. But everyone knew.
“How did they know?” Willie hissed at me as she recounted the tale. “I didn’t tell anyone. Who told? Who was talking about me?”
So now that you understand why I say the Temple of Doom is high school for the AARP set, I will tell you the story I’m not supposed to tell. Both the story and the directive not to tell are about as high school as anything I’ve ever experienced – and I’ve seen every episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 at least three times.
The Temple of Doom has a community table. This community table is basically a garage sale. Have an item you no longer need? Put it on the community table. Someone in the Temple of Doom probably needs it and will happily scoop it from the community table.
I’ve seen everything from shoes to Hummels to four Coke cans still in their plastic six-pack rings on the community table. They’ve all found homes. One man’s trash is truly another man’s treasure.
The community table is in a room filled with other tables, because the thing you want in a place where forgetfulness is about as common as bifocals is a single table for donated junk next to fifteen other tables where people leave things behind then scream “Mine!” like the seagulls in Finding Nemo if you so much as glance at their stuff.
Well, one day Indy happened by the community table. Nobody and nothing were about. Just an item Willie and Indy needed. Indy, who never met a dime he wouldn’t part with, hightailed it back to his and Willie’s apartment.
I can’t tell you what the item is. Not because of the nature of the item – that’s perfectly innocent. On the odd chance anyone in the Temple of Doom sees this, I need some level of anonymity in the story. I might need to deny, deny, deny.
And I couldn’t sleep last night. Worry kept me awake. If I identify the item, I’ll never sleep again.
Anyway, Willie agreed this free item was the answer to all of life’s woes. She urged Indy to grab it before another classmate – sorry, resident – could get to it.
Indy returned with the item. Opening it, he and Willie discovered the item was still filled with the previous owner’s belongings. This set off no alarm bells for either Willie or Indy.
They just removed the belongings, replacing them with their own.
Indy was in charge of filling the item with his and Willie’s belongings, which was good for both Indy and Willie. For days, Indy labored.
Until the knock at the door.
It seems this item belonged to the Temple of Doom. Some lady we’ll call Regina George is in charge of the item. She’d been working on it at the table next to the community table when, for some reason, she left it behind.
Now I maintain that, given the vitriol that came next, Regina George forgot the item. Regina George knows she forgot the item. Regina George knows how close she came to social annihilation, because if anyone in the Temple of Doom realized Regina George’s mistake, she’d become an outcast. So Regina George needed to make someone else the outcast.
Regina George demanded that Willie and Indy replace the belongings they’d removed, then return the item.
Willie – because she wasn’t dealing with me – immediately acknowledged the error and agreed to replace the belongings. No sweat. They’d get right on it.
Well, just like Regina George couldn’t let “fetch” happen, this Regina George couldn’t let the mea culpa happen.
She reported Indy and Willie.
Reported them.
The manager called Willie down to his office. Willie hit the mea culpa again. The manager was fine with the apology and the agreement, both from Willie, that she and Indy would restore the item to its previous glory.
Regina George was not happy and would not be made happy.
Now, Willie has never met a task she couldn’t make more complex. While I suggested Willie glue the belongings into the item and write “Property of the Temple of Doom” in black Sharpie all over the item so she could tell Regina George no one would ever again futz with the item SHE left behind, Willie had other plans.
The belongings are mismatched, making the item look erratic. So Willie has painstakingly set about resizing the belongings, enhancing the aesthetics.
Which has taken her weeks.
This has led to what I presume are members of The Plastics catcalling Willie throughout the Temple of Doom complex, demanding to know when Regina George will get the item back.
It’s the senior citizen version of the Walk of Shame.
Willie has demanded I keep this story under wraps. She is convinced that Indy’s mistaken dumpster dive will be construed as dementia. The powers that be in the Temple of Doom will force Indy into the dementia wing of the Temple of Doom, which, judging by Willie’s fear, is that part in the Temple where they rip your heart barehanded from your chest just before lowering you – still alive – into a pit of molten heat.
Like I said. High school.
Apparently, if this piece ever sees the light of day at the Temple of Doom, if Regina George ever realizes she’s been called out, if The Plastics ever get wind of Willie’s gossiping, Willie and Indy will become social outcasts.
Or get expelled.
That’s pretty badass for a head cheerleader.