“Tell me about your roommates.” I cut to the chase—I needed to know about this fashion designer, fictional niece, everything.
He unfolded his napkin and put it in his lap smoothly. “Breanna is my niece, and we’ve been close for ages. She’s my best friend, and quite possibly the best nurse you’d ever meet. She is the head night nurse at one of my homes. Steven, her husband, is studying law at the moment. I own a few units down by Strawbery Banke, and they live above me, but it’s all connected. I like the company. Next door is my dear friend Harvey and his partner, Claude. Above them is a hippie couple that just smokes pot all day. I think Harvey enjoys the contact high.”
I laughed, “Sounds like a full house.”
“It’s a good time. There’s always someone around to talk to. And it’s big enough that we all have our privacy. What about you? Have you lived at your town house long?”
“A few years,” I replied curtly.
“Where did you live before?”
I shrugged, trying to shake the nervous feeling of having to talk about myself. “College and grad school at Boston University. I prefer New Hampshire to Mass, though.”
“I like the Seacoast better than the city,” he agreed.
“Where did you go?” I asked.
Now it was his turn to laugh nervously. “I’ve moved around quite a bit, and transferred programs more than once. Penn State, Villanova, even Columbia for a time. No school ever really gave me anything I could use until I got my MBA. Gave me the practical knowledge I needed to run a business.” His smoky eyes widened with interest when he began to discuss his job.
“You really seem to like what you do. Most people I know don’t smile when they talk about work,” I joked.
“They love visitors, and it’s nice to make someone’s day. Their stories are great, and having someone new to tell usually gets them all revved up. It’s entertaining. Just last week, this spitfire named Viola moved in. She told me stories about how she was the only woman at her art school, and how she’s mastered at least a dozen positions in our Elder Yoga class. It’s nice to just be an audience, sometimes.”
I nodded in agreement. “Kids are like that. They love substitutes. They tell me all about the teacher I’m covering for, who’s dating whom, and the like. People don’t give teenagers much credit—they can be pretty great people. I’ve actually gotten to know a few of them pretty well, despite being a substitute.”
He leaned forward emphatically. “I feel the same way about my residents. Elderly folks get a bad rap in our society, when in most cultures, they are revered. I wonder if it’s fear of age that makes us keep them at arm’s length.”
“And jealousy of teenagers’ youth.”
His expression darkened. “Youth is an illusion.”
I pursed my lips, not knowing what to make of the comment.
“I just mean that people can do what they want at any age, but they fear other people’s judgments. Youth doesn’t mean a thing.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Just last week, I was up at York Beach and there were three or four guys in their late fifties learning to surf for the first time. A few teenage girls walked by and made a joke about the geezers trying to be young and cool. Poor guys just finished their beers and left.”
“So why is youth an illusion?”
“It’s just something that limits people’s behaviors. People should just do what makes them happy.”