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CHAPTER FIVE

TERRY

The pool group consists of about fifteen women and two men: Harvey and Al. Harvey and Al never say anything, though. They just sit there and let the women talk. The only time I hear them say anything is when they greet each other. "Hey fella!" they say. I love that. A lot of old men call one another "fella." It's what my grandfather calls me. I think it's an awesome term of endearment that deserves a comeback as soon as everyone gets tired of saying "dude" and "my nigga."

Harvey is round and Al is very skinny. They're a funny pair; they look like Mister Rogers crossed with Ernie and Bert. They're both widowers, and wear extremely yellow cardigan sweaters. It never seems to bother them when they show up in the same outfit. In general, I enjoy looking around the pool at everyone's retirement outfits. Most senior citizen retirees here spend their day in leisurewear: soft, loose, easy-to-wash cottons with bright, colorful, somewhat loony patterns. Elderly women often wear matching sets of clothing. They wear "outfits." Who does that other than babies and elderly women?

Shirley, the redhead from the Pool Group, explains it to me one day. "It's from back when we used to vacation," she tells me. "We used to dress up every day. Men would wear a shirt and tie every day. So our retirement clothes are different, they're crazy, they're wild! They let you know you're on permanent vacation!" One night, I see a ninety-year-old woman wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a white leather biker cap, and gigantic sunglasses.

The men wear unmatched clothes. It appears to be an act of defiance. They are outfit outlaws. At breakfast one day, I see a man whose every article of clothing is a different shade of blue. Light blue slacks, dark blue cardigan sweater, royal blue base-ball hat, blue socks, and navy striped sneakers. He looks like Mister Rogers crossed with Cookie Monster. I doubt he spent more than a few seconds pulling those clothes together; no fretting in front of the mirror worrying about whether his light blue slacks went with his dark blue shoes.

Elderly retirees class it up when they're going out for the night. The women wear blouses, sweater sets, brooches, and makeup. There is a weakness for enormous earrings. The men often wear blazers, especially if they're going dancing afterward. On the plane down to Florida, I sat next to a man wearing a blazer. He looked at my
T-shirt. It had a cartoon dragon eating ice cream on it.

"Is that how you travel?" he asked.

One afternoon, on a whim, I purchase a zip-up white terry cloth shirt in a local flea market. Back home, if I wore a terry cloth shirt, it would be tantamount to personally inviting people to kick my ass. I wear my shirt to the pool one afternoon. What fabric is better than terry cloth? It is extremely comfortable. I feel like I am wearing a koala bear. The late-afternoon sun is shining down on me. A breeze blows into the terry cloth and through my chest hair, cooling me off. I know I look good. Several hours pass, and the sun begins to dip low in the sky. My cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my cargo shorts, and rather than answer it, I just let it massage my lower thigh. After a long while, I open my eyes, and Harvey and Al are crossing past me in their matching yellow cardigans, lit from behind by a halo of warm orange.

"How you doing?" I say.

"Hey fella," says Al.

All around, I have to admit that felt pretty good.

CHAPTER SIX

TWILIGHT

At five most evenings I hop in my rental car and go out for dinner. It's comforting but weird to drive the same Florida roads that we used to drive in the rental convertible when I was a kid, visiting my grandparents. Back then the Lionel never stopped oozing from the radio. Will there even be convertibles when I retire again, later in life? Will there be Lionel?

This retirement, I rented the cheapest car possible, a Spectra. It's a flimsy automobile with the acceleration of a sea monkey. I like that it forces me to drive with caution, like an older person might. Whenever I pull out into the street from Century Village, the other cars get backed up behind me, waiting for my car's pickup to kick in. They're young professionals who just finished work and can't bear to wait. They end up honking and speeding past me on the road's apron. I know it's old people that have the bad driving reputations, but I can tell you firsthand that it's thirty-five-year-olds who drive like assholes.

I'm amazed by how many retirees eat all their meals out. Nobody cooks anymore. The only people I've met who claim they cook are a few widower men who dutifully try to follow their late wives' yellowed recipes. It's a way for old men to pick up old women, because the women, at least the women I've spoken to, do not cook. I'm learning that the whole "just like Grandma used to make" saying is bogus.

"I cooked for forty years," a woman in the clubhouse said to me the other day. "Why would I want to cook now? Let somebody else cook for a change."

Value is the big concern for people who are living and eating on fixed incomes. At local supermarkets, there is a senior citizen traffic jam at the free sample areas. I've never seen a person work harder than the man dispensing these samples--his bicep is thick from handling thousands of pita crisps an hour. "Go check out The Boys," one woman told me, recommending one of the local markets. "You can eat a whole meal there for free!" But for senior citizens, the quest for value doesn't end at scamming free meals at the supermarket. The seniors at Century Village also flock to the many local restaurants that offer complete meals for under ten dollars, as long as you show up to eat before 6 P.M. These are, of course, known as "early bird" or "twilight" specials.

For a young man, it feels very unnatural to be eating dinner at a quarter to five. It's summertime, and the light outside is still bright. My body seems to be saying to me: "Are you for real, dude?" I have to force myself. I've been going to all the senior citizen standbys: Bagels by Star, the Bountiful Buffet, the Two Jay's Deli, and, of course, Nestor's, one of the most famous early bird restaurants in South Florida.

(This excerpt from Early Bird ended on page 29 of the hardcover edition.)

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