Reap the Wind Crest

Mom had sent me to fetch her mail. Along the way I stopped in the Gaming Room. I was immediately confronted with a hero.

"Wait. Not THE Max Landon???"

I mean, Founder of Saturday Morning PUTT-PUTT. In this very building? And it's not your run-of-the-mill windmill PUTT-PUTT, either. It has to be shouted, as you play. I'm PUTTING, you bawl. BACK AWAY. Also, you really take a fly at those fuckers with your driver. Because the balls on those par .05's are not going to roll to the hole on their own... unless there's a clown mouth with a chute thingy.

I wandered about the sacred, deserted space, shooting like Annie Leibovitz on a bender with Mick Jagger and Andy Warhol and Max Landon.

"Sweeeet. They've got card tables. And everything."

I whirled about. And this thing! On the wall!

A picture of billiard balls, 

so you won't get confused and bowl.

I was coming in for a few more snapshots of Mr. Landon (Michael's grandfather?) when I heard a rustle as dry as paper. Egyptian paper. The kind for wrapping mummies.

"Excuse me, young man. May I ask what you are doing?"

Two elderly ladies looked at me. I lowered my phone. "Young man? Oh, you're talking to me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I'm just making fun of stuff around here. You know, how lame it all is. Ha ha."

"I don't see anything funny about Max. He was a lovely man."

"Were you his lover?"

The woman gasped and clutched at her onyx pearl lorgnette. I gave the lady a slap on the rump on my way out.

"Nice talkin' to you, toots."

"Fourflusher!"

I buzzed around the olds on their scooters and got to the mail boxes. There I scooped out heaps and heaps of mail for Mom, barely able to carry it all.

"Oh, no," Mom said, with faux dismay. "I have so much!"

"Yes. You do. Too much. It makes me wonder if you're running an envelope business out of the Caymans."

Mom and I were at the Flyin' B Cafe, a place with a big radio controlled plane soaring maj... mani... uh, soaring over the cafeteria.  A man at the next table was dying.

"You think he'll be okay?" Mom said.

"He's dead, Mom."

"I'm not dead yet," the superseptoctnonacentenarian said. "Wait. There it is."

Wind Crest personnel hustled the dead body away so we could concentrate on our fruit cups. Mom shook her head, sorting her mail into many piles. She had a system, she insisted.

"In this pile are my bills. In this one are my charities. In this one are my fruit cup. Nurse? Can you clean up my fruit?"

A woman in her early 120's came by, wearing a mask and face shield. 

"You gotta wonder about people that old caring about covid at this point. But I suppose you like living no matter what century you're in."

"They have a memorial service every month here," Mom said. She made a face. "A bit creepy, if you ask me."

"Just chuck the bodies out the back instead?"

"What?"

"Hey, is that..." I stared off in the distance. "Is that Max Landon?"

"Who?"

"Mom, don't you know anything about where you live? That man over there looks just like the man who founded the PUTT-PUTT league. You know, PUTT-PUTT."

"Shhh. People are dying."

The man, robust, with an agile gait and confident grip of his cane as if a PUTTer, came by our table.

"Excuse me, sir," I said. "Are you Max Landon? And would you like to meet my mom? She's a bit lonely, and she needs a man who has a good stroke, if you catch my meaning about intercourse."

The man looked us both over. "My name is Horatio," he said with comic enunciation. "I am not Max Landon. And that woman has her dog eating from her fruit cup. Good day to you, sir."

With dignity, the man went on before collapsing. Wind Crest personnel hustled his dead body away. He was 47. 'Tis my distinct displeasure to inform you.

"Well, you screwed the pooch, Mom. That was your big chance."

Mom clutched at Bailey. "I would never screw my pooch!"

"Precisely, Mom," I said. "Precisely."