Writings

(Part One appeared in our “Harmony” Issue)

Dottie was humming a tune at breakfast, sharing a large round table with Pearl, Olive, Maynard, Myrtle, Fiona, Matilda, and Fern. Despite the impending lukewarm gruel, prunes, and coffee-flavored tepid water being plopped in front of the sagging residents, tunes from long ago were dancing in Dottie’s head. Without realizing it, she was humming “All In and Down and Out Blues.” It came to her after listening to the news of the economy.

“Feeling chipper today, there, Dottie? The rest of us would appreciate it if you’d can it and let us eat in peace,” said Maynard.

“Speak for yourself, Maynard. I rather enjoy it. At least one of us is feeling lighthearted for a change. Maybe it will be contagious; you never know,” said Matilda.

“Contagious, my arse. Only thing that’s contagious is when you’ve gotta go but your arse says no,” said Maynard.

“Pipe down, will ya? I’d like to eat my Oliver Twist special without uninspired banter,” added Fiona.

“Alright, alright. I’ll keep my humming to myself, then,” said Dottie.

“Wait, Dottie! I remember that one. It’s hippity hop to the bucket shop. I’ve lost all my money, and now I have flopped. It’s hard times, pity poor boy.
It’s hard times when you’re down and out,” sang Pearl.
Olive took the next verse. “Now this is the truth, and it certainly exposes that Wall Street’s proposition is not all roses. I put up my money to win some more. I lost all I had and it left me sore.” She sang with a hoarse voice, but could definitely carry a tune.
“I thought I would drink to wear it off. Bootleg’s so high that it left me worse off. If they catch you with whiskey in your car, you’re handicapped, and there you are.” Despite not being able to sing on key to save her life, Fern clapped and threw her head back in glee.
“For some people, singing should be illegal. They should give out tickets, particularly to those who sound like tortured fowl,” added Maynard.
“I suppose you’d be the one to hand them out. Wouldn’t you, Maynard? King of nothing,” snorted Olive.
“Did you all hear about Lottie’s striptease act?” asked Maynard, trying to upstage the singing.
“No, and we don’t want to hear about it, either,” said Fiona.
Maynard continued, “She wandered into a neighbor’s pool, buck naked. Story goes that she scared some school children, who called the police. They came, wrapped her up, and returned to sender. Where’s the caring concern when you need it?”
“Oh dears” circulated the cafeteria and the residents returned to shoveling gruel and prunes into their mouths, most of them thinking they could be next. When it came to sudden bursts of outlandish behavior and/or death, they all felt as if they were on deck.
“There he goes again, raining on everyone’s parade,” said Matilda, shaking her head.
“If this is a parade, I’d hate to see a funeral march,” added Maynard.
“Good for Lottie; she’s reveling in what God gave her. Wish I had the nerve to do that. People are always saying that we’re not in our right minds when we do that kind of thing. I beg to differ,” said Olive.
“I want a cappuccino!” shouted Mavis. “Now! Bring me a cappuccino now!” she slammed her tray on the table and the contents went flying, colliding with her neighbor’s and toppling orange juice glasses in a domino effect of cascading breakfast items. “Where’s my cappuccino?! I ordered it an hour ago!”
Several attendants came running to investigate the commotion. “What’s going on in here?”
“Mavis suddenly decided she wanted a cappuccino, like most mornings,” said Myrtle. “I know how she feels. This coffee is for the birds. Hell, the birds wouldn’t even drink it.”
“Mavis, you know we don’t have cappuccinos—only Folgers,” said an attendant.
“Reminders don’t help where dementia’s concerned. Or maybe you missed that lesson in nursing aide school,” said Maynard. “Put this one in your noggin’; dementia equals short- and long-term memory loss.”
Mavis slammed her fists against the table, causing the silverware to dance. Three attendants came over to restrain her. “Let go of me! Let go of me!”
Maynard leaned over to Dottie and said, “Watch this caring concern.” Seconds later, the attendants forced a pill down Mavis’s throat by shoving it into her mouth, tipping her head back, and keeping her mouth closed until she swallowed. Although they had to repeat the sequence several times, they were eventually successful.
“What was that you gave her? Risperadol? Klonopin? You know some of that stuff kills us old folks. Read about it in the New York Times on Sunday. Could have a lawsuit on your hands, if you’re not careful.”
The three attendants shot him looks of annoyance. Most attendants couldn’t decide if they preferred the residents catatonic, demented or lucid. The lucid ones were always meddlers and know-it-alls.
“Somebody’s gotta keep you honest,” Maynard said, reading their minds.
Lulu came running over to Dottie, cell phone in hand. “Dottie, it’s for you! Jillian called like she said she would.”
“Maybe Jillian’s coming to get me!” Caring Concern, the cafeteria and all its inhabitants became a blurry beige background as Dottie snatched the phone from Lulu. Residents always tried to squeeze new possibilities out of phone calls from family members.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Maynard said, and then under his breath he added, “Brought to you by the Council on Broken Promises.”
Pearl hit Maynard on the arm and said, “Pipe down, you old coot. Let her have her hopes and dreams. What else will keep her going?”
“Not knowing what’s on the other side. Isn’t that what we all live for?”
#
Lulu approached Mrs. Hoover one morning as they were allocating the Pill Time! pills into little Dixie cups on a cart with wheels. “I was thinking the other day. You know how the residents have been complaining about the totally dullsville activities around here? What if we recreated speakeasies with mood lighting, jazz tunes, boas, candy cigarettes, and martinis? We could do karaoke with old school tunes. Don’t you think the residents would dig the scene, Mrs. Hoover?”
Mrs. Hoover froze mid-pour and looked up at Lulu. “Turn the community room into a jazz club and concoct bathtub gin?”
“Yes, exactly! Right on, Mrs. H. Well, we wouldn’t have to brew bathtub gin. That’s probably not allowed here.”
“Absolutely not. Out of the question. Are you concentrating on the pill allocation?” Mrs. Hoover glared at Lulu with venomous eyes.
“Yes, dude, I mean Mrs. Hoover. But don’t you think we need to shake things up around here? Everyone is all geezed out.”
“Excuse me?” she said as she poured Remeron dissolving tablets into everyone’s tiny cups. All the residents took sedating antidepressants for sleep.
“Oh, you know, they’re all acting like old geezers.”
“That’s because that’s what they are.”
“But being old doesn’t mean you have to get all geezy. Think about it. When you’re old, will you want to go to Brain Calisthenics or Smooth Move Meal-time Management? Snoozer city. When I’m old, I’ll want head bangin’ music cranked, spiked OJ, computer games, cake dancing, and psychedelic Sundays.”
“Lulu, don’t go getting creative on me. We don’t need creative; we need rock solid dependable, pills on time, meals on time, bathing, diaper changing, and age-appropriate activities. The last girl who took it upon herself to free her inner artist was shortlisted. Speakeasies and other such wanton activities would be bad for their nervous systems.”
#
Lulu loved her self-appointed assignment as a secret agent plotting a top-secret operation, although she regretted not having some experience in considering all the variables, coordinates, inputs, outputs, and planning accordingly. Surely with her inexperience in secret agenting, something would fall through the cracks. But she had lined up the karaoke machine with classics from the 1920s, 30s, and 40s; boas, sparkly flapper hats and candy cigarettes for the women; and zoot suit hats and candy cigars for the men. And she would mix martinis for all. Alcohol was strictly prohibited in Caring Concern. But Prohibitions encouraged prohibited behavior. Her friends thought she was wickedly sick for pulling this off in an old folk’s home.
Lulu made sure to schedule the speakeasy when Mrs. Hoover was off and the more malleable, compassionate charge nurse was on duty. She also simply told the attendants and residents she had a special karaoke event planned. “Carry what?” said the residents. One said, “Carry okey, artichokey,” and then erupted in a fit of laughter.
Lulu’s fellow attendants reminded her that “creative” activities such as this that were frowned upon by The Vacuum, as they had dubbed Mrs. Hoover, after Lulu had observed that she sucked, funneled, and destroyed everything in her path.
Molly, the admin girl, radioed Lulu to let her know that The Vacuum’s Buick boat had motored out of the lot. She had been charged with being the eyes and ears of the command center. Molly was also given strict orders to take out the easy listening CD and pipe red hot jazz tunes throughout Caring Concern.
“Coast is clear,” Molly said after she had practiced her delivery a few times, settling on a James Bond spy girl tone.
With that, Lulu unlocked a utility closet with all the speakeasy props spilling forth. She loaded the arms of her assistants and ordered them to hurry. “We have no time to waste.” She wondered if she was being a bit dramatic, but she enjoyed feeling like a cross between a stage director and a secret agent. In no time, the attendants, normally filled with ennui and slow as molasses, had transformed the Community Caring and Sharing Room into a moody, candle-lit, sparkling speakeasy jazz club. She had given all her assistants feathered boas, and sequined hats, which they wore over their pastel scrubs. From assisted living attendants to sassy flappers in one fell swoop.
Lulu made an announcement on the intercom system. “Let the speakeasy begin!”
Like the other residents, Dottie attempted to clear her ears, thinking she had misheard the announcement. Lulu sped over to Dottie’s room and said, “Ready for some singing, Mrs. M?”
“Some what, dear?” Lulu jolted Dottie from her state of permanent ennui.
“You’re going to a speakeasy, Dottie!”
“Oh, don’t be silly. A speakeasy? Where?”
“Right here! Start doing some vocal warm-ups; you’re the headliner!” Dottie glanced up at Lulu, thinking she had lost her marbles, but when Lulu wrapped a red boa around Dottie’s neck and shoulders, Dottie was distracted by the silky fluffiness of the feathers and repeatedly swiped the boa against her cheeks and lips.
“Dear?”
“Yes?” said Lulu.
“I’m going to need a little red lippy. You can find it in my cosmetic kit in the bathroom.” Lulu fetched the red lipstick and painted Dottie’s lips. Lulu held up a mirror and, as Dottie inspected, she grinned from ear to ear.
“Perfect, dear.”
“You look like a hottie, Dottie.” They both broke out in hysterics.
#
The residents were positioned around the speakeasy candle-lit tables with party favors and plastic martini glasses. The attendants poured watered-down martinis and passed out candy cigarettes and cigars. Lulu stood proudly at the front of the lounge, holding the karaoke microphone in hand.
“Say goodbye to Arthritis Relief and Smooth Move Meal-time Management and hello to Caring Concern’s first Speakeasy!” The residents broke out in applause. “I invite all of you to grab the mic and take a stab at singing some of your old faves. The song list is on your table.”
Fiona was the first to take the microphone and request “Barnie Google.” She crooned like a loon that had lost its note while all the residents politely pretended not to notice. Hazel agreed to sing only if Pearl would do a “Toot Toot Tootsie” duet. The duo sounded like two plucky, clucking hens with excess hormone in their feed. The microphones were too close to their mouths and distorted their hen pecking sound. The residents got a kick out of it, and everyone shared a laugh.
The clucky hen duet was followed by Edwina singing “Yes We Have No Bananas,” Cornelia doing “Swingin’ Down the Lane,” and Mavis covering “Ain’t We Got Fun.” Most couldn’t remember the lyrics or read the screen, so they la-di-da-ed over the words.
Lottie was next, one of the few residents for whom mobility was not an issue. She chose a sexy slinky number and was adding boa-aided theatrics to her piece. She twirled her boa, then wrapped it and unraveled it, moved it back and forth on her backside, like drying her bum with a towel. The residents hooted and hollered and egged her on as she pulled her shirt down to bare her shoulders. Maynard, Thaddeus, and Virgil whistled. Encouraged, Lottie began unbuttoning her shirt to reveal her cross-your-heart Playtex bra propping up her sizeable bosoms. She threw her shirt to the side and shimmied. Her massive chest jiggled and wobbled and she swirled her hips to boot.
At about the time she began unbuttoning, none of the attendants, including Lulu, knew what to do, so they did nothing. Striptease acts weren’t covered in the senior living attendants’ week-long training session, but then, of course, neither were speakeasies.
“Lordy, lordy!”
“Someone, please stop her!”
“Lord have mercy! This isn’t a striptease joint, there, Lottie.”
Lottie spun around and started unclipping her bra in the back. Maynard’s eyes popped out of his head in anticipation of the massive bosom show. Lulu ran in and stood in front of Lottie. She knew she hadn’t anticipated all of the possible snafus and a striptease act was the last possible incident she would have imagined at a senior living facility. Lulu whispered in Dottie’s ear and helped her rebutton her shirt.
Maynard said, “Just when this was starting to get good.” The two other men agreed it was a shame to stop there.
To distract everyone, Lulu thought this was as good a time as any to ask Dottie to come forward to sing a few numbers.
“Oh great, another tone-deaf loon,” added Maynard.
Lulu pushed Dottie’s wheelchair up to the karaoke machine and handed her the microphone. Dottie handled the mic like a pro—knowing exactly how far to hold it from her mouth.
“What will it be, Dottie?”
“’Dream a Little Dream of Me.’ Hit it!” Dottie’s voice sounded scratchy and hoarse at first, but as she sang, she blew out the dust, mold, and cobwebs and a rich, earthy, resonant sound emanated from her vocal chords.
“She’s lip synching!” shouted Edwina. Lulu shook her head, no and held her finger in the shhh! position.
Dottie hit the high, the low, and the in-between notes. She held notes so long, the residents were worried that her lungs and ticker would give out. She slid and scatted and dooby-doo-wopped, and carried her fellow residents away to a place and time they thought they’d never see again. When she finished her set, the ones who could were on their feet; all were chanting, “Encore, encore, encore!”
The residents didn’t let anyone else sing for rest of the speakeasy. Although some protested, Maynard shut them up by saying, “We’ve got a pro in our ranks. Do you want to turn this into amateur’s night?”
Dottie started singing an upbeat rendition of “I Found a Million Dollar Baby.” Feet and fingers were tapping, heads were swaying, and eyes were closed in glee. Mid-refrain, Dottie abruptly stopped as the karaoke machine’s back-up music played on. At first she looked like she was trying to recover lyrics from the far corners of her memory, but then her face scrunched up and she scowled.
Her audience starting chanting, “Dottie, Dottie, Dottie, Dottie!” wanting more from her. But she dropped the microphone on the floor with a loud kerplunk and lowered her eyes and head as if trying to disappear inside herself. Lulu ran over to her, placing her hand on Dottie’s back and squatting down to talk to her. Dottie started shaking her head and cupping her hands over her eyes. “I gave this up long, long ago. I don’t want to do it anymore.” Looking out at the candle-lit residents, she said to Lulu, “Tell them to go away. All of them.”
Lulu decided that the best thing to do was to take Dottie back to her room. She unsecured the wheelchair brakes and began rolling Dottie away. The residents, unsure of what was happening, broke out in applause, bravos, and whistles. Lulu gestured for them to stop. As she pushed Dottie out of the speakeasy, and turned toward the residents’ rooms, a large, looming figure caught her eye. The Vaccum.
The Vacuum had been summoned by someone, who would never admit to paging her, and stood in the back of the community-room-turned-speakeasy lounge, looking at the disobedience, sin, and ruckus.
The Vacuum approached Lulu and Dottie, saying, “Lulu, I’ll take it from here.”And then in a voice that not even Dottie could hear, The Vaccum added, “If you ever set foot in here again, I’ll see to it that you’re locked up for trespassing. And, believe me, the local police and I are on a first-name basis.” The Vacuum pointed toward the door. As if Lulu couldn’t figure out where the door was, she would later tell her friends, after she said, “We did the Prohibition right—doing what was prohibited.”
Lulu and her boa and sparkling flapper hat left without a chance to say goodbye. And without a chance to see that Dottie actually bounced back and became an instant celebrity at Caring Concern. And that she started singing her way through the days and long, arduous nights. Lulu left without the chance to learn that the residents were bee-bopping and do wopping for weeks, remembering what they could and recreating the scene in their vivid and sometimes distorted imaginations with a live jazz band, real flappers, free-flowing martinis, gambling, and a striptease act. Of course, everyone remembered who the stripper was, except for the stripper. Maynard now had a school-boy crush on the stripper who couldn’t remember, so much so that he was giddy, giggly, and gay—actually gay almost every day—and like a bee to honey with Lottie, always hoping to sneak a peak of her bountiful bosom.
#
Lulu, in very un-Lulu-like garb, with big sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat with flowers and ribbons, and a frilly dress, entered the pink and mauve lobby with the oversized ceramic vase as the centerpiece with zig-zaggy bare branches jutting out in different directions. Impressionist prints lined the entryway with muted pastels. Why everything had to be lamo pastels, Lulu didn’t get. Perhaps more nervous system preservation efforts. What were they preserving their nervous systems for anyway? She wanted to go out with a short-circuited bang. Maybe even mid-orgasm. She smiled and twirled her tongue stud.
Lulu snuck by the front office and headed back toward Dottie’s room, Pink Panther music playing in her head as she slunk down hallways and around corners, low florescent lighting and more corporate old folk home art. Lulu came upon Dottie’s room, 342, and noticed that Dottie’s name plate was gone. Her heart fluttered when she thought that Jillian had finally done her mom right. How that must have delighted Dottie to finally be with her family. As she cracked the door open, she noticed that there were no personal effects anywhere, no signs of Dottie’s life in a box, just a clinical hospital-looking room, polished and scrubbed and functional, waiting for the next prisoner.
Lulu sat on Dottie’s bed remembering the first time she showed Dottie her iPod and Dottie had thought Lulu had earbugs. Lulu’s peeps got a good laugh out of that one. She could hear Dottie’s jazz renditions at the controversial speakeasy that cost her job. Speakeasy come, speakeasy go.
“Lulu! What are you doing here?” asked Mia, appearing from out of nowhere. “You’re not supposed to be here. If The Vacuum sees you, she’ll go postal.”
“Dude, chill. I was just coming back to see Dottie. But it’s cool; I see she’s gone home with Jillian.”
Mia’s gaze dropped and darted back up to Lulu. “No, Lulu, she’s not with Jillian.”
“Where is she, then? Not with that bunk son of hers.”
“Lulu, she passed a few weeks ago. I’m sorry no one told you.”
Even though Lulu knew that old people came here to die, she was startled. She removed her sunglasses and shook her head. “You’re shittin’ me—right? She wouldn’t have kicked off without saying goodbye.”
“Yep, happens all the time here. Hate to say it, but you get used to it after awhile. You just try not to get too attached. I mean, God’s calling them home. It’s a blessing, really.”
“Holy shit.” Lulu’s crying always began with what felt like a mini-heart attack, transmuted into a suffocating feeling, and then all hell broke loose. She pressed on her heart to short circuit the chain reaction. She didn’t want to be gossip fodder for The Vacuum and her sucking up sidekicks.
“Stay right here; I have something for you,” Mia said in her calming Mother of the Abbey voice. Mia stepped out for a few minutes and was back clutching a brown paper bag. “Here, I saved this for you. Dottie left a Post-It Note on this stuff that said ‘For Lulu’.”
Lulu peeked inside the bag and pulled out the LP—Dixie Land Jive, Dottie and the Street Lanterns and 25 containers of glitter.
“Right on! She was always going to play this for me, but we didn’t have a record player. Thanks, Mia, this is tres clutch!”
#
The next day, Lulu carted her mother’s record player to her band’s rehearsal. They all gave her shit about going old school on them. “What’s up with the vinyl? What’s next, the phonograph?”
Lulu waited with her hand holding the needle above the record until their chiding subsided. “You done yet? Dudes, I have a song I want us to cover.”
Lulu carefully placed the needle on the vinyl and watched the black grooved disk rotate. Crackling preceded the brass section’s bold entrance. She closed her eyes when Dottie’s voice began like a woman’s silhouette entering a smoke-filled tavern, all eyes searching for the woman behind the shadow. Dottie’s smoky, sultry voice began.
I let a song go out of my heart.
It was the sweetest melody.
I know I lost heaven ’cause you were the song.
Since you and I have drifted apart.
Life doesn’t mean a thing to me.
Please come back, sweet music, I know I was wrong.
The band members were mesmerized by the vinyl, the record player, the brass, and the jazz rifts, imagining an era of sequins, gin, glitz, and glamour. “Dude, she’s the bomb. Where’d you find this? Who is she?” they asked.
“She was this really famous kick-ass jazz singer in the golden era of speakeasies and bathtub gin. She asked me to cover this song.”
Lulu popped open the containers of glitter and ran around the room sprinkling the band members, thoroughly glitterizing their rehearsal space. They all exchanged WTF expressions.
“And these are her ashes.”

Ann TinkhamAnn is a writer based in Boulder, Colorado. She has coauthored a nonfiction book, Climbing Mountains in Stilettos (SourceBooks, 2007). Her fiction has appeared in All Things Girl, Apt, Dark Sky, Double Dare Press, Edifice Wrecked, Hiss Quarterly, Lily, Miranda, MotherVerse, Scruffy Dog Review, Short Story Library, Slow Trains, Stone Table Review, Syntax, The Battered Suitcase, Thirst for Fire, Toasted Cheese, Wild Violet, Word Riot, and Writethis.com. Website: http://boulderbadgirls.com/

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