I live in a 50 story tower in downtown Manhattan, in one of the 500 tiny apartments in the building that stacked up one on top of the other. That forced closeness leads us to keep a respectful distance -- just a polite "hello" while on the way to the trash chute, or while in the laundry room, and seldom anything more.
When the pandemic hit we all hunkered down in our little cells -- umm, apartments - listening to the sirens wail all night. Paranoia set in, and almost all interactions were avoided.
The only other person in the building who I knew was the retired schoolteacher across the hall in 15G, Laurie Robertson. She was thin, kept herself in shape with yoga, and looked more like she was 65 than the 70-something that was her true age.
I'd help her out with her groceries and packaged, and in return she'd bake cookies or muffins as a "thank you," which she didn't eat many of herself -- "would ruin my figure" she'd say, although she was flat-chested and didn't have much shape at all, to be honest. I kept an eye on her as the pandemic raged, picked up groceries for her, dragged in heavy cases of cat litter, and she kept baking for me.
I liked Laurie. She had an irreverent sense of humor that surfaced after her second glass of wine during our pandemic get-togethers -- we'd each sit just inside our apartment doors, each with our own bottle of wine, and talk about anything and everything.
I liked her despite the fact that she was opinionated and bossy -- probably from years of teaching kids, when she had to take charge of a classroom - but being opinionated in New York is obligatory, or you get eaten alive.
One day, as the pandemic was waning, she told me she was moving to "a new facility." I was more disappointed than I would have expected, and told her so. My reflexive remark would have been "Hey Laurie, WTF, huh?" but I kept it civil.
"I'm not getting any younger!" she said with a chuckle. "I found a nice 'transitional living' place on the New Jersey shore called 'Greystone'. They probably should call it 'Greystroke' -- or maybe 'End of The Line' " she said with another laugh, but her new place sounded nice.
I helped her move out, gave her a strong hug goodbye, and wished her well. I told myself that people come and go in New York all the time, and once again immersed myself in my work, living alone in my apartment.
It was about four months later that her email popped into my inbox with pictures of her townhouse, a breezy update on her life, and an invitation -- of sorts. She was loving her new place, her new freinds -- but needed some things done, pictures hung, a bit of painting, some hinges tightened.
"Hiring a strange handyman gives me a bit of the creeps - bring your tools, and I'll bake some muffins" she wrote, more of a command than an invitation -- typical of Laurie.
I booked a train for later in the week, and that Thursday was pulling out of Penn Station on New Jersey Transit's 6:15pm to Bay Head Junction.
I had expected a dreary place full of doddering old people -- but it was the complete opposite. "Greystone" was nice, safe and neat behind gates, on a section of the New Jersey Coast that wasn't overrun by cheap motels, arcades, day trippers, dive bars and college students.
Her section of the development, for people who were still completely independent, was a cluster of tidy, tiny cottages on a rise overlooking some dunes and the beach. Each unit had a small yard surrounded by a privacy wall, a two car garage, and interior layouts with everything you'd want and then some, like emergency call buttons for assistance. Laurie had upgraded her unit with a small heated pool in her tiny yard.
She welcomed me with a smile and a hug. "Nicer than my apartment in New York, no? And you can't beat the view!" She got me settled me into the guest room, gave me a list -- she was very well organized -- and asked me "what the plan was," more like a command to "get going."
That night I took an Uber to the closest Home Depot to get the stuff I'd need - hooks and screws and spackle and the like - and when we got up Friday I started working through the list. By late afternoon I was done.
I thought I might hit the beach for a bit before heading back to the concrete canyons of Manhattan, but to my surprise she told me that she was having a few friends over for an after-dinner cocktail hour. "Barb and Sally are coming over -- we do this once a week. We've become great friends since I moved in."
"And their husbands don't mind them coming over?"
Laurie laughed, a bit wryly.
"Sweetie, bad news for you -- you're a youngster at 62. By my age we've either buried our men -- sometimes more than one - have them in wheelchairs, or, well, they're just useless, sitting in a shapeless lump with sports on the headphones as they watch old World Series games that they've forgotten. Barb's second husband died five years ago, and Sally's has been in the 'memory care' wing here at Greystone for nearly four years. 'Memory care' my ass - he can't remember a darn thing, let alone her name. So much for caring for his memory!"
Her friends were scheduled to show up at 6:30 -- not quite the "after dinner" slot that I had imagined, but eating early, as in the 4pm "Senior Citizens' Special," seemed to be a real thing here at Greystone.
"I've got to change for the cocktail -- be right back" said Laurie, as she disappeared into the master bedroom, only to emerge five minutes later in a tie-dyed caftan -- a big, shapeless thing that swam all around her thin frame like a sheet billowing in the wind.
"That looks...comfy" I said. "If I knew I would have...well, I don't know, I don't have a caftan."
"Of course you don't. Men don't wear caftans. But my friends and I have reached an age when we can do what we want. Have you ever read that poem about purple hats?"
"Purple hats?" I asked. "No, can't say that I have."
"It's about a woman of 'a certain age' deciding she will wear a purple hat to express her freedom."
"Oh. OK...sounds...different" I said flatly.
"Different?! Stupidest thing I've ever read" said Laurie. "Who wears hats any more? And purple, for God's sake? Please, who looks good in purple? We decided that purple hats were ridiculous. So we wear colorful caftans at happy hour. That's MUCH more practical than a silly purple hat. I might want to be buried in mine. It makes me happy. And is easy to wash. And it was cheap, too!"
That seemed very much in character with the Laurie I knew. Practical, no b.s. I made one of those "hmmm" sounds and was nodding, as if that all made perfect sense, when the doorbell rang.
Two older women came in without waiting for Laurie to open the door, entering in a swoosh of perfume, laughter, simultaneous "hellos," air kisses, and clinking wine bottles as multi-colored caftans billowed around them.
Sally had been there for five years, and Barb was a newcomer like Laurie, having moved in three months ago. They had a routine -- Barb opened the wine, Laurie set out the snacks, and Sally passed around napkins, forks and coasters. They seemed to all be talking at once, not that I had any reason to try to get a word in.
We polished off the first two bottles of Chablis pretty quickly, and by 8pm, when Laurie's grandfather clock chimed on the hour, the third bottle was half empty. On cue they all stood up as the clock chimed, their caftans flouncing around them. I sat there quietly waiting to see what was next - It seemed early to turn in, but since dinner had been at 4pm I wasn't too sure.
