Expect Some Delays: Short Stories About Detours in a Long Life

By Carolyn Gaye

People over 50 puzzle out their future in tales of men and women (and a robot), who are poised on the brink of a precipitous challenge. There are a wide variety of personalities and situations they have gotten into, but they all find a way forward. A comedian wants to be taken seriously in his old age, a 60-year-old robot has high aspirations when it is upgraded, the proprietress of a Dodge City saloon tries to write a memoir, and a food critic learns to enjoy food again. The characters in these stories have arrived at life-changing crossroads, giving readers a chance to wonder about which path they will choose. It doesn’t help they have entered a new territory of life where the signposts have changed, the landscape looks different, and choices aren’t always clear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665700412

Carolyn Gaye

Carolyn Gaye knows what it’s like to be getting along in years. She is so old she literally belongs in a museum; she has a master’s degree in museum studies, and also in developmental psychology from San Francisco State University. She attended University of California, Berkeley, before getting married and raising two daughters. She is a grandmother of five, and currently lives in Walnut Creek, California.

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Copyright © 2021 Carolyn Gaye.

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without the written permission of the author except in the case of

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-0040-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0041-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020924933

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/10/2023

Decisions, decisions, decisions

Anonymous

Contents

To Clown or Not to Clown

The Little Blue Things

The Doodler

Lulubelle Writes a Memoir

Nola

The Critic

Igor and Ana

Twinkles

Second Honeymoon

Fish Story

The Oasis

Introduction

This book is for old people, anyone who knows old people, or anyone who contemplates becoming old. It assumes that we develop wisdom as time pushes us along in years and that we try to make good decisions as we approach obstacles that often involve a loss of control over our relationships, finances, minds, bodies, occupations, and our day-to-day routines. Our usual path has disappeared, but time keeps pushing. Which way to turn; in the direction of freedom or responsibility, acceptance or resistance, involvement or independence? The answers are not always clear.

The working title for this collection of short stories was Fairy Tales for Old Folks, and initially, this concept seemed a promising endeavor. After all, fairy tales deal with universal and timeless truths, but the old people in them are usually marginalized. Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother just laid around in bed and in the wolf’s stomach. Even fairy godmothers merely popped in now and then to wave a magic wand. Why not, I thought, turn fairy tales on their head and make them about old people. I felt qualified to give it a try as my vantage point is more from Red Riding Hood’s Great-grandmother than that cute, but rather myopic little girl.

However, the characters rebelled, they didn’t want to be shoehorned into the stylized structure that fairy tales require. They wanted to be free to lead ordinary lives as they entered the Portal of the Retirement Years and ventured far into the Land of the 55 Plus. Traces of early fairytale ambitions may still be detectable in the stories; Igor and Ana start life together in a Polish cabbage patch and end up in a Beau Arts tower overlooking Central Park, while Twinkles and Doodler did not seem to mind a very small dose of magical realism thrown into the mix. For the most part, however, the characters wanted the stories to be straightforward and have a happy ending.

To Clown or Not to Clown

Sometimes fate arrives wearing funny clothes

CUT! HEY, JACK, groaned the director. There’s white hair showing from under your wig again, and for the hundredth time, think Laurel and Hardy, not Shakespeare. It’s a comedy about an old Musketeer having trouble doing the things he used to do. I know you did Shakespeare in Cincinnati, but that is not your bread and butter, so let’s get on with it please; you are not addressing a soliloquy to the Roman troops, you’re an old guy brandishing a sword while diving off a balcony onto a swinging chandelier. You’re old, you’re a little scared, and you’re embarrassed because you remember how you had done those things in the past. It’s complicated, but just remember—the most important thing for this movie—you are Jack Wilder, the comedian; Jack Wilder, who was born to make people laugh!

Jack slunk over to the dressing table, humiliation rising red in his cheeks. He yearned to be an actor with gravitas, to be taken seriously; what kind of an old man is a clown? Clowning around when you are a kid may be funny, but at seventy, it can make you look like a fool. He longed for a part that would let him express hard-won, profound insights and desires; to be offered the drama of life, not its absurdities. Sure, he thought, life has its funny side, but from his perspective as an older man, it seemed humor was only a part of the larger drama that smoothed the edges and made life more palatable. He wanted the dignity of heroically facing this graver aspect while cameras rolled him into posterity.

A crew of assistants mobbed him and interrupted these grandiose thoughts. They dabbed him with fresh makeup, then adjusted the long, curly Musketeer wig that was dark but sprinkled with a few distinguished, attractively placed grey hairs. Someone from wardrobe, just inches from under his nose, sewed on a stray collar button. It was a marvel, he thought, how choreographed they were; they never got in each other’s way. If only actors and marriages were like that.

That’s right ladies, keep working until I look twenty years younger.

There were the usual giggles all around that could be counted on whenever Mr. Wilder sounded like he was making a joke, and that instantly improved his mood.

Okay, Mr. Wilder, we know all the tricks, said the makeup artist, you’re a handsome man.

Especially for a man of your age, added the hairdresser, a little less kindly.

But when they were finished, he looked in the mirror and still saw the jowls of an old man who was compelled to make a funny face at himself in the mirror. Always the clown, he thought ruefully.

WHAT’S GOING ON. HARRY? Lorraine, the head producer of the movie. emerged from her hiding spot in the shadows.

I swear, Harry, you’ve been directing this thing for weeks and I haven’t heard a peep from you.

Oh, Lorraine, said Harry, how long have you been lurking back there. I thought you were busy with another project back East and your assistant was watching over things out here.

In the old days, Lorraine had been famous for popping up at odd moments while spying on how her projects were doing. Years ago, it was thought she had a crush on Jack, everybody told him so, and she would turn up at the oddest moments to the point where he couldn’t tell whether she was just a micromanager or a stalker. To Jack’s relief, she had moved to the East Coast decades ago and there had been no Lorraine sightings for a long time. She became a distant memory until her assistant producer turned up with the script for the Old Musketeer.

Jack couldn’t figure out what Lorraine had been thinking when she pegged him for a role meant for a man twenty years his junior. Now, he was turning the old musketeer role into something more like a geriatric musketeer, too afraid to take the simplest risks, and yet, like a stubborn old fool, he insisted on doing his own stunts. It was true, he had made Lorraine a bucket of money and there were no other comedians around who could pull off a convincing sword fight. Funny how things turned out—he had taken fencing on an impulse when he missed the tryouts for the high school football team, and despite his clowning around, he was good at it and had won a few championship medals.

If Lorraine had not considered the ravages of time when seeking him out for this movie, neither had Jack expected what he saw while peeking between the assistants’ busy elbows as they fussed over him at the dressing table. He’d looked up at the sound of a familiar voice, it seemed to be coming to him out of the past, but it was talking to Harry. He had to blink; were his newly discovered cataracts and the stage lights blurring his vision—could that strange-looking woman be Lorraine?

From his vantage point, she looked like a whacky version of the subdued, sophisticated woman he remembered. Was she going to a costume party with all that shiny, clunky jewelry and burgundy-color pixie haircut that dazzled in the strong studio lights? A girlish, short, and tight skirt, coupled with thigh-high patent leather boots that accentuated her tall legs; it all seemed calculated to subtract from a proud and dignified look that one might expect of someone who had spent half a century producing movies. Had she purposely turned herself into a clown?

What happened to that woman who had dressed entirely in dark monochromes so that the first thing one noticed were her expressive, sometimes needy eyes. She never laughed overtly, never audibly chuckled. When something was really funny, she might utter a tiny ‘tee hee’, which was interpreted as a big laugh coming from her, and this was oddly demure for a powerful woman in Hollywood. Comedians rely on laughter for sustenance, and since Lorraine was a producer on a few of his comedies, he had found her reserve unsettling.

Jack looked in the dressing table mirror and tried to smooth a new line on his cheek. He stared harder into the mirror and visualized that handsome young man who had dazzled Hollywood for a few years. Then he saw the attention-seeking class clown who made faces behind the teacher’s back and finally, the image degenerated into a desperate kid who would say and do anything for a laugh. Harry’s clap and shout snapped him out of it, and the make-up assistants faded away.

THE CAMERA RECORDED the action as Jack descended the staircase while employing fancy footwork and clever fencing skills against his arch-rival. The villainous Duc de Montbleu was attempting a hasty retreat while having to parry and thrust backward down the stairs, then make a break for the chateau’s front door. Jack was supposed to leap off the balcony onto a swinging chandelier to foil his exit, but instead, he stopped mid-action to address the villain’s girlfriend.

Cut, cut, cut! Harry’s grey ponytail waggled back and forth in disapproval. Terrific fencing, Jack, but where do you see ‘Alas, fair maiden, doth thou forgive me, I’m afraid your Gustavo may not see the dawn’ in the script? And you look angry—this scene is supposed to be lighthearted; you’re making a fool out of the arrogant Duc, who needs to be taken down a peg or two. You should be happy.

I can see the crew laughing at me, this is supposed to be lighthearted, not hilarious. There are some serious elements in here that could be illuminated.

No, Jack, it’s supposed to be very funny, said Harry, his ponytail resting sadly over one shoulder. Okay, everybody, let’s call it a day. Jack, we both go home in the same direction, let me buy you a drink at the Seaside Café. It’ll do us all good to get out of here.

Jack and Harry found a table by the beach boardwalk. Barefoot, radiant young people in bathing suits and skimpy outfits sauntered around like the world was theirs. It appeared the two of them were the only oldsters in the place, and Jack began to feel his chin-line turning to rubber and earlobes drooping as he watched the young crowd.

Okay, Jack, this movie is going nowhere unless you stop acting like Hamlet—and also, you can’t do your own stunts anymore. You’re supposed to act hesitant before you jump off the balcony, a little scared maybe, that’s funny, like any mature Musketeer in his right mind would; but just before you jump, that’s when the young double will come in—it’s not going to work if you look petrified.

Whatever, whined Jack. This movie is more slapstick than I hoped it would be.

I’m giving it to you straight, old friend. You’re very boring when you try to act serious; just relax and take home the money. It’s your subtle expressions and body language that the camera will pick up—they’ve really become quite nuanced with age. Trust me, with your mature comedic sophistication, it’ll be a big cut above slapstick.

Whatever, but never again, I’m not happy about it!

Oh, Jack, spare me. I wish I had your troubles.

A FEW MONTHS AFTER the release of The Old Musketeer, Harry and Jack were celebrating on the deck of the Seaside Café. A stiff breeze was pushing storm clouds south and a cobalt sky opened up before them. At times, they were forced to shout over the 10-foot waves that were churned up during the storm. Jack stuffed a slice of lime into his beer, and they clinked bottles in tribute to another movie wrapped up together.

Harry, you’re the best. I know I’ve been hard to work with this time, and I didn’t want to jeopardize our relationship.

Well, it all turned out fine; you did a great job once you settled into the comedic aspect of the role.

Thanks, but never again. I’m determined, next one, if there is one, will be a drama—no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Okay, said Harry in an oddly strained voice Jack hadn’t heard from him in all their forty years of friendship. Whatever you say. I’m not getting any younger either, you know, and so it was important to me that we ended this on a high note and we did. The movie’s broken even so far and it’s gaining momentum on streaming platforms. You’re a hit in many countries for your very funny, conflicted take on a geriatric Musketeer.

Swell.

Oh, Jack, get over yourself. You might have to settle for being a heroic, geriatric comedian.

Yeah, I guess, mumbled Jack, as he stared beyond the breakers into the distance, as though imagining himself as a young man escaping his future on a merchant ship in the South Seas.

"What should I do about Lorraine? She just won’t take no for an answer! I keep getting emails and phone messages from her to sign onto an Old Musketeers sequel. That woman doesn’t listen when I say no, I don’t want to do another comedy."

"She really does have her sights set on you for a second Old Musketeers! Careful, or she’ll wind up on your doorstep again, joked Harry. I don’t know, you may be missing out on something, the movie wasn’t that bad and it made me laugh out loud even after seeing it so many times in bits and pieces during production."

It’s just not how I want to be remembered.

I’d be happy with your gift—you can create an intimate connection with a good laugh, whether it’s on the screen or in person. When I meet someone I want to impress, I instantly bore them with dry, monotonous details and I can see their eyes lose focus. It’s really a problem in my business when I have to connect with people.

But Harry, I just…

Oh, boo hoo.

Sometimes, when people laugh at me…

Oh stop! When did you turn into such a baby?

Jack stared at Harry—he didn’t know whether to be mad at him or to make him laugh. He did neither—he just mumbled something Harry couldn’t quite hear over the pounding surf, but Harry knew better, as any long-time friend would, than to ask him to repeat it.

When Jack spoke up louder, he said I think I’ll have a party for some connected people. Maybe a little get-together where I can impress people with my newfound gravitas.

JACK’S THROATY FERARRI sped along the bluffs of Malibu. The morning fog was lifting, revealing a line of pelicans flying low over a shimmering ocean. He rolled the car window down to take in the fresh salt air, but the moment was wasted—all he could think about was the party. He was already short of breath