Mesa Flats Resort

By George T. Lindsey

The residents of the Mesa Flats Resort in Arizona have done it allcareer, marriage, divorce, kids. You name it, and youll find someone whos lived through it. Mesa Flats is a retirement community for active, fifty-five-and-up folks who enjoy warm weather, golf, and heady banter. The HOA keeps an eye on everyone, but lately it seems like the HOA needs someone to keep an eye on it, too.

Larry Armstrong, an Iowan by birth, serves as the HOA president. Marge Dunlap, the consummate event planner, works with a sidekickSissy Sprattle, a feisty, eighty-two-year-old from DCto keep the entertainment ball rolling in Mesa Flats. Dennis Packard does the handy work, and Carl Ziggler, a retired Omaha policeman, heads security.

Things get a little flashy, though, when Marges old friend, Gail, comes to visit. Gail Simmons is from Columbus, Ohio. She loves seeing her old friend Marge; she loves the hot Sonora Desert weather, too. Maybe love is just in the air, especially when Gail meets Larry. Marge has her eye on a particularly charismatic prospector from Colorado, but bad seed Jack Stoker has his own outcome in mind. Things arent always relaxing at the Mesa Flats Resort but theyre always unexpected!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426958526

George T. Lindsey

An award-winning poet, short story writer, and documentary filmmaker, the author has written, produced, or directed over two hundred film or video productions, winning over fifteen regional and national awards. He graduated as an English major from the Ohio State University and became a writer, producer, and director while at WOSU TV, moved to WITF TV, Hershey, then to WRC NBC TV, Washington, D.C. He is a freelance writer and lives with his wife, Ada, in California and Arizona.

Book preview

Contents

The Wheelchair Brigade

vs Youth of America

Novel Characters’

Pretenders’ Ball

When a Trojan Horse Invades

the Gates

Then the Kitchen Band Played On

The Great Halloween Debate

Election Night Fireworks Fiasco

Halloween Parade

Saturday Football at the

Gray Coconut Lounge

Shootout at Mesa Flats

Real Race of the Electric Vehicles

Salute to the Vets

The Ping Pong Tournament

Death in the Family of Mesa Flats

Birthdays are not Forever Events

A Step to the Plate

Finding Christmas

The New Resident

Let’s Go to Egypt

Casino Night Out

Burt and Gloria’s New Car

Valentine’s Day Sock Hop

Where People Laugh and Joke

and Sometimes Cry

The Pickleball Heard ’Round

Mesa Flats

Channel 22 at Mesa Flats

Digger’s El Dorado

The Hill Looking Up

A Gem Glistens for Digger

Ancient Egypt is Bigger

than Death

Night at the Jacuzzi

Three Hole Golf Course Tournament

Summer Exodus

The Hill Looking Down

Monsoons

Eruption at Swan Lake

Off Road

The End of Another Year

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Wheelchair Brigade

vs Youth of America

missing image file

Mesa Flats Active Adult Resort (MFAAR), like a desert mirage, wafting in the morning sunlight, revealed its metal skin trailers surrounding the large club house with the tennis courts, swimming pools and the Three Hole Golf Course, as a slight breeze rustled bushes. MFAAR appeared to the early rising, somewhat senior residents, like a desert mirage of circled wagons.

The eighteen hundred active, but grudgingly, aging residents looked out to the morning, wondering what the dry heat of the Sonoran Desert would bring.

The early morning sun of Arizona illuminated the very essence of Mesa Flats. Some residents were riding bicycles around the resort-like streets, their gray hair ruffling in the breeze. Every lane of the two pools was occupied by swimmers, some serious, some playful; others were socializing in the Jacuzzi while nursing the aches of backs and joints. The tennis courts and the paddleball courts felt the patter of competition. The golf greens were awake with enthusiasts wanting to score for tournament play. In the Recreation Center, the smashing sounds of pool table balls filled the air as they collided, and the sounds of ping pong balls were heard being batted across the nets, while outside, the smack of softballs pierced the solitude—as the Mesa Flats Resort residents stretched their muscles for another day in the sun. People were walking, running, exercising as if daylight touched the inner core of their being, becoming energized or exhausted for the warm sunny day ahead; all this, while most of the residents in the nearby small town of Copper Bluff were wearily on their way to work.

Dennis Packard, a 62 year old maintenance man, with a good build and graying hair, drove his electric vehicle, EV, or otherwise known as a golf cart, down a street. He waved at people as he passed. How many aging trailers from the sixties and seventies had he repaired—roofs, air conditioners, locked bathroom doors, toilets, and even furniture. He was Mr. Maintenance and didn’t charge much. He had a wife, a unit, and use of all of the Mesa Flats Resort facilities. He glanced at the passing signs the owners proudly displayed in their tiny front yards: Omaha, Nebraska; Detroit, Michigan; Winnipeg, Manitoba; Fargo, N. Dakota. Some were snow birds who deserved a shot of Arizona sunshine, and he was part of them, but was a permanent fixture, remaining in MFAAR year round, even during the hot summer months.

He waved to Marge Dunlap who appeared in her Arizona room with another female. Marge was large boned but not overweight with shiny long white hair and twinkling blue eyes. Marge waved and Dennis pulled over, anxious to hear any recent gossip.

Marge hugged Dennis. Hi Dennis! This is Gail Simmons, a long time friend. She’s from Columbus, Ohio.

Dennis climbed out of the golf cart and politely shook Gail’s hand. Hi Gail. You’ve come to a people friendly community.

Not many of those left in this country, Gail answered, with a wide smile across her rounded, soft face, the eyes laughing along with the mouth. She was inches shorter than Marge and slighter in stature, but filled out in the right spots for Dennis.

Nope. That’s why I’m here. Anything I can help you with today, Marge?

No. We’re just about to take a ride.

Have a good one, Dennis replied, jumping into his EV and pushing on the accelerator.

Gail walked to a large saguaro next to the Arizona room; the room, in this case, was no more than a covered patio on the side of the trailer. You have a nice place and a wonderful saguaro!

It makes living in a trailer court, or as we now call them, our units, a tick up the scale.

It’s cozy.

And relatively cheap, Marge added. We get the Arizona resort sun without the resort prices. Of course it helps that we can travel during the hot summers. These units can feel as if they are simmering or burning. Many were brought here and put up on blocks over thirty years ago as people decided to stay.

Gail waved her hand around the environs. It’s so compact. I’ve never been inside a trailer park before, or do I say unit park?

Years ago this place began as a trailer court, but now people have moved in with those large recreational vehicles and mobile homes, some now even have manufactured homes. As a compromise, they like to call our trailers a park unit.

Gail circled the saguaro. You have your own private cactus too.

The cactus and the tin Lizzie. Quite a contrast! Marge laughed. Or is it? Glad you could visit. You’re going to love this place. Great view of the mountains and the people are a couple of cuts above; they are a well educated group trying to get away and have fun.

Thanks for the invite. Septembers in Ohio are not exactly conducive to sun tans, dips in the pool and starry night walks.

Marge watched as Gail continued to admire the gigantic cactus. I’ll lecture you later about summer nights in the desert. Do you still cycle?

Gail shook her head. Not since we rode them at the university.

That’s been a long time ago, my dear, Marge answered, wheeling out a bicycle from the shed behind the Arizona room. It’s about time you regained that skill, and started your second childhood. I own two. You can ride the year ’round, not like the winters back there, and this place is not that far away as the big bird flies.

You’re right. It’s not a bad flight to Tucson. A second place here might be just great.

Marge parked the spare bike next to hers. People here are so friendly and are from all over. Most residents have a sign in front of their place telling where they’re from. Some are even snow birds from Canada.

Snow birds? Gail asked, adjusting the seat of the bike.

They come here to escape the cold weather and return to the north at the end of April when it begins to heat up here. Fortunately I have a good air-conditioner.

At the front gate, in the heat of the afternoon, a group of young people walked around, shouting, raising signs which read: We need a place to live, Cheap Housing, 55+ discriminates against youth, Give us housing, Give us jobs!

The youth milled around outside the gate and had slowed the traffic. Entering the park, Phil Digger Duncan was in no mood to be detained. The six foot one, wiry looking cowboyish ex-prospector with a wrinkled parched face, parked his pickup truck and stomped toward the guard house to confront Carl Ziggler, head of security, who leaned against the guard house watching the youthful activities.

Why don’t you clear ’em out of here, Carl? Digger demanded, taking up a viewing position next to his friend. He stood inches taller than Carl and was a lot trimmer. Carl was a retired cop from Omaha, Nebraska and retained that Midwestern meat and potato stature with a balding spot, which lent a Friar Tuck persona.

Hi Digger, Carl replied. They’re not in my domain as yet.

Digger squinted his eyes. Got us confused with FEMA or something else government, don’t they?

I think maybe they want in. Some want jobs, Carl replied, with no great urgency in his answer.

Digger took up one of his defiant stances. The people here live on a fixed income and clean their own trailers. Ain’t no good payin’ jobs in our whole tinny kingdom ’less it’s yours or Dennis’.

Carl watched an energetic youth direct the flow of the half dozen milling protesters, shouting encouraging remarks to them. He wore a large button with YA. My job pays about as much as a retirement check to a bean baker, and Dennis does most of his odd jobs on the barter system. No bank breaking collateral in either job. That one looks like the ring leader, huh? Well, I called Larry.

Two blocks away, as measured in trailer sites, Larry Armstrong was riding his bicycle toward the front gate and pulled over when he spied Dennis removing tools from his electric cart. They just called from the main gate. There’s some kind of demonstration going down. Larry smiled the same wide smile he used for every occasion.

Dennis glanced toward the main gate as if he could see every movement of the protest. Now who would be foolish enough to start a riot in the middle of a desert against senior citizens?

Maybe we drive too slowly for them, Larry answered, with the same smile. I’ll try to fix it. I may need some help. You willing?

Sure, always willing to help the President of our Home Owners’ Association out of an impossible situation. I’ll be along in a minute. You might see if Marge is in. At least you’d have another board member with you. Larry pedaled off as Dennis loaded up his maintenance cart.

At the front gate it was a stand-off. Carl, the security guard, and Digger carefully watched the protesting youth.

Maybe we should join their ranks, Digger suggested.

Carl closed his eyes. Guess we’re too old for them.

Inside Mesa Flats Resort, on Oro Road, Larry Armstrong, with his thinning blond hair blowing, a smile on his still youthful but age-fattened face, pedaled his bike toward Marge’s unit and pulled up just as the two women climbed onto bikes. You gals mounting to ride into the blazing day?

Hi Larry! This is a friend of mine, Gail Simmons. Larry is president of our HOA.

Larry climbed off Stallion, the name he awarded to his bicycle, and shook her hand. Hope you enjoy your stay, Gail. Anything I can do let me know, and then he turned to the board member. Marge, looks like we might have some trouble developing at the front gate. As a board member you might want to ride over. Don’t mean to interrupt your visit, Gail.

Gail climbed onto the bicycle. I’m eager to see the operations of Mesa Flats and what better opportunity than the president in action.

Larry gave her one of his smiles. To tell the truth, Gail, I’d rather be cleaning out a sewer than confronting a mob of unruly kids on the warpath. Had enough of that as a school principal.

He jumped on his bike and was off in the desert sun. Marge and Gail followed, Gail a bit wobbly, but then adjusting to the bike.

At the front gate, Digger and Carl continued to watch the crowd of young people. Dennis arrived in his converted golf cart, serving as his maintenance machine.

Are you going to call the police, Carl? Dennis asked, turning off the power.

I called Larry.

Dennis climbed out of the cart. Saw him. He stopped to get Marge.

Going to make a show of force, huh? Digger interjected, walking toward the group. Lot of good that will do. Looks like that kid over there is in charge.

Carl called to Digger. Let’s wait for Larry. He’s our best negotiator.

Digger looked back and smiled. Retired grade school teacher best negotiator? What do I see wrong with that?

He was also the principal, Dennis yelled.

Digger continued his walk. Sorry. Principal of a grade school, our best negotiator?

I don’t want to mess with them, Carl. You know how kids are, Dennis replied.

Digger returned. Think I recognize one, but I’ll wait for our negotiator.

Negotiating is not in my job description, Carl replied. I’m here to give directions and keep the traffic flowing. Chief of Security just got tacked on somehow or other.

Larry, followed by Marge and Gail, rode up and climbed off their bikes. Larry spoke first. Anyone from that group say anything?

Digger joined the circle. Don’t have to. Read the signs. They have been shouting too.

Hello Digger, Marge gushed.

Mornin’, Marge, Digger replied, in steroid harshness.

This is Gail Simmons, a visiting friend.

Call me Digger, Gail.

He runs the Lapidary Shop.

The what?

Prospector of gems and things and glittering do-dads.

And this is Carl Ziggler, our top notch security chief.

Top notch security who won’t chase off the interlopers, Digger added.

What do you think, Larry? Should I step in or call the police? Carl asked haltingly.

Larry studied the milling group. Has anyone talked to them?

Hell no. We’re waiting for our top notch negotiator, Digger answered, pointing toward the crowd. Think you need to talk to that kid over there. Want us as bodyguards?

Naw, Carl and I will mosey over.

Sure you guys can handle it? Got to make a phone call, Digger started to leave. See you later, alligator.

Larry picked up on the old time rhyme. After while, crocodile. Digger, don’t you own a cell phone?

Digger narrowed his eyes with annoyance. Insult to the human ear and down-right sleazy weapon against quiet-loving humans. Digger turned and walked toward his pickup truck.

Larry and Carl walked toward a young wiry youth who was instructing the protesters. He held a loud speaker but did not use it as the opposition approached.

Are you in charge? I’m Larry Armstrong, President of the Mesa Flats Resort Association. Carl Ziggler is Chief of Security.

I’m Tod Baker, and we think it’s a disgrace that you don’t allow young people to live in your trailer park. We need housing too.

It’s not a trailer park, it’s a community for us older folks who have downsized; we’re not set up for young people or families. We don’t have the conveniences for children. It’s cramped living in there.

You’d better get ready. Our union wants affordable housing for us.

Union? What’s the name of this union? Carl asked with his note pad at ready.

Youth of America!

Never heard of your union.

Now you have. Tod declared.

With whom are you associated? Larry asked.

For whom do you think? The Youth of America! That shouldn’t be too difficult to comprehend. Tod answered belligerently.

Carl scratched in the notebook. You don’t belong to a recognized union?

We will in time. It’s all about change!

Your name? Looks like we have to make this official. Carl commented.

Tod Baker. Yours?

Larry already told you. Carl Ziggler, spelled with two gs.

You know we can call the police, Larry interrupted the dispute.

Call them. We welcome TV news and cameras.

You’re going about this the wrong way, Tod. Larry said flatly.

It’s Mr. Baker to you! Tod shot at Larry.

A young, shapely woman protester joined Tod in the heated debate.

Mr. Baker, these are not rich people you’re picking on. These people are retired.

My people will someday have babies they must feed and shelter and educate.

Larry turned and swept his hand across Mesa Flats Active Adult Resort. Tod, Mr. Baker, these people have a fixed income to provide their food, shelter, and to pay medical bills including expensive prescriptions. You want sympathy, go after city hall, go after the mob, go after the bank robbers and terrorists.

Tod pointed toward the picketers, My people are not politicians, criminals, or terrorists. They should be given the freedom of choice to enter your world.

Our world is not exactly Beverly Hills, Larry answered.

Mr. Baker, Carl interjected. We’re going to walk away and allow you freedom to assemble outside our gates for another half hour then we’re calling the police, and my brother who heads the local TV news center.

The two dejected Mesa Flats Resort representatives walked back toward Marge and Gail. On the way, Larry turned to Carl. Is your brother director of news?

He’s a tape editor so he’s sort of in charge, edits the tape that gets on the air, or at least that’s what he tells me.

They joined Marge and Gail at the front gate attempting to look victorious.

What’s the verdict? Marge asked.

We gave them time to cool off, Larry replied, clearly not happy with the situation.

Carl examined his Mickey Mouse watch. One half hour to be exact.

Then what?

We call the police, Carl answered, with authority.

And the news media, Larry added.

Marge shook her head. That will look bad for us.

We don’t look like terrorists or red necks, do we? Larry asked rhetorically.

We’re not exactly representing the optimum of diversification, Marge answered, keeping an eye toward the young people.

Many of us are respectable parents and grandparents who wish to live our lives without youthful exuberance, Larry philosophized.

Carl smiled. Come on. Old folks are next to motherhood in status.

Maybe in China. Not here. Not when they won’t allow everyone in. The news might sympathize with them, Marge answered.

Then let’s make sure they see us in a sympathetic position, Larry proposed.

Marge again looked at the young people milling. How do we do that?

Larry hesitated, allowing the creative juice to flow, then a smile appeared on his face. Larry kicked up a jig. Got it! We’ll round up our wheelchair people and have them sit out here in a counter demonstration. That should intimidate these kids and impress the media.

Carl eyed the parking lot. For once we can fill all the handicap spaces.

Not bad, Marge replied. We should do that before you call the media. Maybe it will drive these carbon copies of the sixties away.

Who are they, anyhow?

The YAs, Carl answered, glancing again at the group now gathered around Mr. Baker.

Never heard of that organization, Marge replied questioningly.

Youth of America, Carl answered and shook his head. Change is in the wind.

Marge shook her head again. They should be in college studying civic lessons instead of protesting.

I have never been in the middle of a protest, Gail volunteered.

It’s not a protest, Carl was quick to answer. It’s a demonstration and one about to fizzle, we hope.

Marge turned to Larry, I like your idea of the wheelchair brigade. How many do you think we need?

About half a dozen, Larry conjectured Not many have returned yet. He turned to Gail. Too early in the season.

I have a list of telephone numbers and addresses in case of an emergency, Carl said and walked into the guard house.

Marge followed. Let’s round them up.

In the Lapidary Shop, Digger was on the phone while he tossed a gem up and down in his palm. Digger was manager, and owned most of the equipment. The shop was a work in progress, a maze of dust laden machinery, rocks, gems, crystals, maps, folders, discarded jewelry and nuggets. It was a battleground with no prospective winner, which made Digger comfortable. Digger was intent on the phone. Need a favor. We got some kids out here at the front gate protesting. Think you know one. Seems they want to strike down the age barrier. Better get right over ’fore it gets ugly.

Half an hour later, when Digger returned to the front gate, a small brigade of wheelchairs stood sentinel, their occupants shouting: Leave us alone! Larry and Carl watched from the guard house as Marge and Gail served drinks of Gatorade to the wheelchair warriors.

The wheelchair foray seemed to have had little effect on the demonstrators. A Mercedes pulled up outside the main gate and parked nearby. A lone man climbed quietly out and approached the leader and his girlfriend. He talked to Tod and the girl for a few moments then left.

Tod called the group together and they dispersed immediately. The wheelchair brigade cheered. Some of them stood and danced. Digger watched from a distance then turned and walked away.

Good job, Larry, Marge cheered along with the rest. Looks like the brigade drove them away.

Maybe, Larry answered, watching the protesters leave. Maybe not. Who was the guy in the Mercedes?

Could he be a friend to the protest leader? Gail asked.

I’ve seen him around town but can’t button him, Carl said, walking into his guard house and feeling safe.

Larry turned to Marge. Why don’t you show Gail around. Our wheelchair warriors will want to hang around and chat about the victory.

Marge took Gail to the paddle ball court where an aging instructor was giving lessons to two older players.

They watched and Gail spoke at last. It looks so easy!

Marge smiled. It just looks easy. We’ll try it tomorrow.

I’m out of shape even for that. How about a putting green?

Marge led Gail to their bikes. We have one, but you should see our tennis courts.

They rode to the four tennis courts across from one of the pools and sat watching as an energetic senior-looking couple played in one court.

The practice balls are free, Marge volunteered. Want to try a game?

I haven’t played in years.

Marge laughed. It’s not difficult when you play my kind of tennis; it’s called ‘pick ’em up.’ Like the bikes, I own two rackets, and you’ll be happy to learn I don’t move as fast as I once did.

Gail shook her head. Fast is not the word. Vertical is more like it. Staying vertical without great quantities of movement.

Marge smiled again. Use this as your training camp and you’ll be touching your toes in no time.

At the swimming pool, Marge and Gail straddled their bikes looking through the fence as a shapely older woman climbed up the side of the ladder from the pool water.

We have two large pools, Marge explained. Comes in handy on the hot days and a great way to stay in shape. The Jacuzzi is packed every night.

Is that where you met Digger?

I met Digger over a diamond I took him for appraisal. It turned out to be a fake. Marge smiled. As if I didn’t know. He doesn’t swim much or take Jacuzzis. Too busy with work. He needs guidance in the relaxing department.

At the large modern Mesa Flats Resort Club House, Marge led the way into the cavernous structure with its ballroom, dining room, and spacious kitchen. We have parties and dances here. We even have our own little newspaper, ‘MFAAR News.’

Gail looked around in amazement. It’s like a small town.

A walled-in, geriatric, tin fortress town. You must see our putting green, and the Three Hole Golf Course, three rounds to a game. It’s the only one in the world, I think.

Miniature golf is a big adventure for me anymore.

After walking through the club house they pointed the bikes toward the putting green, which flanked the Three Hole Golf Course. Marge explained that the putting green actually had nine holes for practice putting.

One of the Mesa Flats Resort residents was showing a young boy how to putt as Marge and Gail rode up and straddled their bikes.

Marge nodded toward the youngster and commented to Gail, Children, or more likely grandkids, are allowed to visit but not for more than a few days. An owner must be over fifty-five, but anyone over fifty can rent a temporary space for their unit and use the facilities. There is a specific space with hookups for these visitors. Many of the same renters come every year. The Mesa Flats Resort is strictly for active seniors, and we run it. The residents run everything here!

Digger’s Lapidary Shop, situated on Arts Drive, between the pottery and computer shops, blended a Dickensian flavor to the shack-like buildings comprising the arts and crafts section of Mesa Flats Active Adult Resort, a section which Marge frequented due mostly to the position of the Lapidary Shop and Digger, who was polishing a stone as they entered.

Digger! We drove them away! Marge exclaimed.

The machine stopped in respect for the visitors. Drove who away, when?

The protesting kids.

How did you do that?

Larry shamed them by creating the wheelchair brigade.

Digger stared at the gem he held. Drove ’em away, huh?

There was a white Mercedes and a man, Gail interjected into his silence.

Yeah. He waved. Digger said, setting the gem aside.

Marge squinted her eyes. How did you know?

Acquaintance of mine from consulting work. He’s one of them liberal lawyers.

How did he break up the protest? Gail asked, looking bewildered at the unkempt shop.

Digger turned his attention back to the machine as if wanting to turn it on and be rid of these intruding females. Son was the leader of the group. He’ll put the kid’s nose back into joint and fix the shoulder chip. Owe him one, though. Don’t like being indebted to liberals.

Marge lowered her head. Larry will be crushed that it wasn’t his wheelchair brigade idea that chased them away.

Gail walked around the shop inspecting things, leaving the two alone in their banter.

Don’t tell him, Digger stared at the machine. Don’t hurt what people don’t know, and he’s up for reelection in a couple of weeks. Be good for him to be a hero.

Gail returned from her inspection tour. This is a well equipped shop. Not exactly spotless, but well equipped.

It serves me right. Digger brushed off the machine in front of him.

What if I buy you a drink for defending the fort? Marge volunteered.

Never turn down a free offer with no strings attached.

I didn’t say anything like that, Marge answered. The ball is only a week away.

Don’t dance. Don’t attend balls, and more than six talking human beings is too much for my hearing aids. With that said, I accept your offer for a drink.

They walked up Arts Road, past the building where computer lessons were given, then approached a gray nondescript older structure.

The Gray Coconut Lounge was a combination of mixed mentalities. Larry conceived the idea, but each board member for the past ten years, wanted improvements, changes, or quirky additions. With each improvement, if they could be called that, came a renovation, a window here, a window there, drapes, television sets, bar arrangements, games and generally eclectic variations until the structure didn’t meet fire regulations but passed on its perverse personality. In the fall it became the varsity club where every Saturday was a mirage of college football games. Then there were the golf matches, the baseball season, the Indianapolis 500, the car races, the Kentucky Derby and subsequent Triple Crown races, the basketball season, the hockey season, even the soap box derby. All this, and not one life was taken inside the establishment during these fiercely supported competitions. The Gray Coconut Lounge was popular in Mesa Flats Resort. They owned a liquor license, but preferred to think of the lounge as a social club, using vouchers and promises instead of actual money exchanging hands.

Larry and Dennis sat at the bar of the Gray Coconut Lounge having beer and reviewing the protest demonstration. Larry smiled. Maybe we should install sprinklers at the front gate. We can turn them on in case of future demonstrations.

I can see the headlines: ‘Old folks attack innocent demonstrators with water sprinklers; three drowned.’

Larry lost his smile. It’s only water.

Dennis took a sip. We don’t have enough of it as is.

Marge, Gail and Digger entered and took seats around the bar. Marge poured beers and pulled her file to enter the purchase.

You do drink beer? Marge looked inquisitively at Gail.

Larry laughed. There’s not much of a choice. Wine and liquor are not allowed until it’s pink on the mountains.

Gail picked up the bottle and read the label. Mesa Flats?

Marge signed a chit. Mini-brewery. We have our ways.

How much do I owe you?

Dennis held a finger to his lips. Shhhh! We don’t use money in here.

Marge returned the chit. I’ve put it on my tab.

Heard about your wheelchair brigade, Larry. Good thinking, Digger commented, staring at the mirror which reflected Marge.

Larry smiled. I’m happy it worked. Just came up with another idea.

Dennis stood up to leave. Don’t even mention it, Larry. Jodi’s gonna be calling. Tell her you saw me driving slowly toward home.

Larry laughed. Sure. With a beer in your hand. Thanks for the help, Dennis.

Think of me next time you need your roof fixed. Larry, you have our vote, you know. Dennis walked out the door, after depositing the empty can in the recycle container.

Mine too, Larry, Marge said. Digger, how about you?

Digger raised his beer. One vote for Larry Armstrong for president of our HOA!

Thanks. I’ll need them.

Gail walked around the room. I’m impressed with your resort.

Larry smiled. It’s democracy in slow motion.

Digger took a drink. More like a bunch of old farts covering each other’s backside.

Gail returned to her brew. I might purchase here. It would be nice to have a second place.

Tomorrow I’ll show you the best unit at the best price. Just came on the market. Larry promised, raising his glass…

Novel Characters’

Pretenders’ Ball

missing image file

Two bicycles wheeled along Oro Road in the active adult resort. Larry Armstrong pulled to a stop and Gail Simmons applied her brakes. Larry pointed out a rock in the front yard, inscribed with Clay Town, Ohio. Did Marge point out that everyone posts signs indicating where they’re from, originally?

Gail pulled to a stop and straddled her bike. Yes. It’s so unique. Maybe there will be one from Columbus, Ohio.

You’re going to love Mike’s place; it’s well kept, Larry said, as an SUV, packed with suitcases, approached from the front gate. Larry waved it down.

An Afro-American man and woman climbed out of the SUV and advanced toward Larry and Gail.

Hey Larry! the tall large man said, his voice resounding from a deep cavern. How’s the fort holding up?

Larry shook hands with the hunk of a man and hugged his wife. The fort is full of wrinkles, but tough as a ’gator tree. Larry turned to Gail. Gail Simmons, this is Sally and Jonathan Johnson, returning from our Capital. Gail’s looking for a second home.

Larry, we live in Maryland, not D.C., Sally corrected with good humor, then turned to Gail. We have made this our retreat for two years and love it.

And retirement’s just a few months away, Jonathan added. I’m on vacation leave until November.

Larry leaned into the conversation. You never have told me what you do?

Sally smiled. He worked for the army at Fort Meade, and that’s all he tells me. For thirty-five years that’s all he said about his job. He works for the army.

Have any prospects in sight, Gail? Jonathan asked, ignoring the conversation.

Larry leaned on his bike. We’re on our way to see Mike Peters’ unit.

Did Mike leave us? Jonathan asked with concern.

Moved to assisted care at Sand Manor.

We’ll miss old Mike. He was a wonderful bridge player, Sally said, turning toward the SUV.

Only when he forgot he was the opponent. By the way, Larry, Jonathan paused, pulling out a coupon from his pocket and handing it to the association president, This was sent by Jack Stoker. He promises a DVD player to any couple who’ll vote for him as our association president.

Larry looked at the paper.

You can keep it. For us, we don’t need a DVD player, Sally remarked.

Thanks. Are you going to the NCP Ball?

NCP? Sally asked.

Novel Characters’ Pretenders’ Ball, Gail answered, taking the paper from Larry. It’s one of Marge’s projects. You come dressed as a character from a literary work.

Yes. I read about that in the newsletter, but forgot about the event, Sally answered.

A Mesa Flats moment! Jonathan smiled.

Sally punched him in the arm. I was busy packing our suitcases!

It’s tomorrow so you’re just in time, Larry added.

What’s your character? Gail asked.

Cervantes’ Cyrano de Bergerac, but I’m having trouble with the costume.

Larry! The Ball is tomorrow night! Gail exclaimed.

You can arrive with a sign tied around your neck announcing the character. It can be that simple, Larry explained.

Gail curtsied. I’m going as a maturing Cinderella. Marge helped make my costume.

Jonathan responded with deep laughter. Always something to do here. We’ll give it some thought.

Six o’clock at the club house tomorrow evening. We’ve got to go. Can’t keep a real estate agent at bay. It’s Jodi Packard.

Jonathan climbed into the SUV. Good choice. Happy to have met you, Gail, and good luck with finding the right unit.

They drove away as Larry and Gail pedaled up the street toward the unit for sale.

Jodi Packard was puttering around the yard trying to improve the worn-down looks of the place. Gail and Larry rode into the patio and parked.

Larry walked to Jodi and hugged her. Jodi Packard, this is Gail Simmons, and as an aside to Gail, commented, Dennis is the other half of the Packards. Sorry we’re a bit late. Met the Johnsons on their return to Mesa Flats Resort. Think they’re going to stay this time ’round, retired.

Jodi shook Gail’s hand. Dennis has told me all about you. All good. He left out how good looking you are. Of course, Dennis would do that.

Dennis does freelance maintenance work here, Larry added.

Gail glanced around the yard. Maybe he can help me with this place.

Oops. I tried to call you at Marge’s. Jodi said with dejection. Looks like bad news. Jack Stoker put down a deposit on this unit with another agent.

What’s he want with this place? Larry asked himself, looking around.

Jodi shrugged. Rental would be my guess. I can show you around just in case it falls through.

The next morning Digger was busy polishing a gem, humming along with a ’50s record on his old Victrola when Marge entered the dusty environs carrying a piece of chocolate cake. Thought you could use a little lifting-up.

Digger stopped the machine. Good timing woman. Could use a bite of chocolate.

What character have you chosen for the ball? Marge asked.

How about Clint Eastwood? Digger asked.

Marge handed the cake and a plastic fork to Digger. He’s not a character. He acts them.

’Fraid your fussy ball ain’t for the likes of me.

Marge tried to smile. I could go as Bonnie and you could go as Clyde.

Digger took a big bite of cake without using the fork. You don’t look like a killer. Don’t like to pretend, Marge. Ballroom’s not right with me. Gives me indigestion.

You promised, Digger. Don’t get sticky feet. You promised.

Take you to a Clint Eastwood movie to make up. Promise.

"Your cake is filled