The Girl at the Front Desk

By Linda Kay Silva and Alex Westmore

Her senior year wasn't supposed to be spent with REAL seniors who often couldn't remember why they came to her reception desk...but as Brook's heart opens to these colorful and eccentric people, her whole world is suddenly turned upside down. When 4 female veterans, a man who thinks he is a time traveler, and a host of other unique elders befriend her, the almost dead seniors teach her what it means to be truly alive, and Brooke comes to the realization that there is little difference between seniors in high school and seniors in senior living. 

 

Alex's 45th novel is poignant, funny, and should be read and enjoyed by anyone 15-85.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Westmore
• Release date: Sep 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223911517

Book preview

Chapter One

9:22 pm.

Mr. Jones was right on time for his daily dose of eye-filling cleavage. Every night for the last week since I started at Glendale Senior Living, old Mr. Jones would waddle down the stairs in his favorite red suspenders and chest-high khaki pants and stand in front of my reception desk just to stare at my cleavage.

He never said a word.

Ever.

He just stared.

And stared.

For approximately one full minute, he would unabashedly and without explanation openly gaze at my size Double D breasts.

The first time this happened, I kept waiting for him to tell me what he needed. In a home for the elderly, it takes a lot of skill and experience to figure out what some of these octogenarians want at any given moment. Most of the time, whatever thought they had in their apartment was long gone by the time they made it down stairs.

Most of the time.

He never said a word that first time. He stared, offered me a polite grin, and then shuffled off to get his evening snack of almonds from the battered machine in the corner of the dining hall. The second night, I realized where he was staring, and by the third night, this cute and somewhat odd behavior simply became a nightly ritual. I didn’t see any harm in giving a ninety-year-old man something to look forward to at the end of the day. I mean, who was it hurting anyway?

I know, I know. Any card-carrying feminist would cringe and then lecture me on the rights and wrongs of allowing such behavior.

And I would silently disagree.

If someone’s behavior isn’t hurting anyone, what’s the beef? He was harmless. Hell, he was at the end of his life with so very little joy left. Sometimes, common sense beats politically correct behavior. Actually, the world could use a little more of the former and a lot less of the latter.

Anyway, tonight was no different; and I was beginning to see that my evening shift among the walking dead would be punctuated by many strange and consistent moments like the one I was sharing with Mr. Jones.

And boy, were those moments already adding up.

There were bizarre nightly phone calls from a woman who sounded like she swallowed flaming pieces of gravel. I had deliveries from the Jewish deli that smelled like something had died, come back to life, and then died again. There were two people who had to be reintroduced to me every single time they met me because their short-term memory had flown the coop. There was a woman with a dog that wasn’t really alive. Then there was the woman who waited every evening for a husband who would never come; because he was dead.

An elder care home is not far from being a looney bin, and, at times, I had to be reminded which one I was receptionist for.

When Mr. Jones finally had his fill of my big bazooms, Dash, one of the residents’ favorite caregivers sashayed on by.

Dash was one of the most colorful human beings I had ever met. He dressed in wild and outrageous outfits, was flamboyant and loud, and was loved by everyone.

He totally reminded me of Ru Paul and was fond of saying you could tell he was gay from outer space.

He wasn’t wrong.

The man would have made Liberace look straight…at least…that’s what one of the female residents told me my first day.

They weren’t wrong.

Honey, some dead feminist somewhere is rolling over in her rainbow grave when you let that wrinkled old pervert objectify you.

Staring up at Dash, I realized he’d come bearing gifts: Starbucks coffee.

Rumor has it, darlin’ you’re still in high school. Is that true? If it is, how ever do you manage?

The rumor or the job and school?

He rewarded me with a marrow-rattling laugh. The melodrama of high school with the boredom of this place…or the rumor. Up to you.

In that instant, I loved this gay guy.

Both. Either. He waved a heavily braceleted arm in the air. Or make something up. Lies are always so much more interesting than the truth, don’t you think?

I never really looked at it that way, but I suppose you’re right.

So lie to me. Tell me you’re really a princess trying to see what it’s like to work in the US of A…a child princess with no parents to support you and you are forced into working here in order to pay for your schoolbooks.

Damn.

He wasn’t even that far off. I’m eighteen, if that’s what you’re asking.

Ah. Late bloomer. Roger that. So the rumors are true.

About high school? Yeah. I’m a senior. Two days before school started, my parents told me they were not going to pay for my summer abroad next year.

"So you took a job here? What’s wrong with working retail or as a waitress like your friends probably do, instead of working with the nearly departed."

I had to smother a laugh. First off, my friends are country clubbers who don’t have to work. Secondly, I’m not a fan of being on my feet all night for people who are too cheap to leave more than a ten percent tip.

Well, isn’t that the truth? I’d say waiting tables in akin to slave labor, but that would be politically incorrect.

But you’re black.

Isn’t that also the truth? Black and beautiful, sweet pea. I am political incorrectness incarnate. I say we all need thicker skin and a healthier sense of humor, and we’d all be much better off.

"Why are you here?"

Dash leaned across the desk. He had straight white teeth, full lips, and a broad nose, and wore eyeliner on his lower lashes below perfectly plucked brows. He was, perhaps, the most quaffed man I’d ever met. Quaffed was an SAT vocabulary word I had just studied. I’ve got a little secret…

Whatever it was he had planned to tell me would have to wait. My second ritual of the evening was ringing the desk phone.

Mrs. Lowenstein.

This old Jewish woman had the voice of a 3 pack a day smoker who swallowed flaming swords for a living. Her scratchy voice actually hurt my ears and the volume usually left my right ear ringing for a few minutes.

If I had to choose who to spend five minutes alone with, her or Mr. Jones, I’d pick him ten times out of ten. At least he was quiet.

Front desk, Brooke speaking. How can I help you?

I’m ready to go to bed! Mrs. Lowenstein barked into the phone. Was it a bark or a phlegmy cough? I couldn’t really tell.

Ready. Right. Now.

Of course she was.

She was ready every single night at this time.

I don’t know what it is that makes so many octogenarians lose words like please and thank you, but many of them do. It’s why they so often deserve the term curmudgeon; another SAT vocabulary word.

I was ripping it tonight.

My parents taught us that manners will take you a long way in life. At eighteen, I have seen the wisdom of their ways. My history teacher believes Americans have very little civility left. It’s not just the young. The old have forgotten the magic words as well, so where does that leave us?

Right here, where the elderly, who have been torn from their beautiful homes and placed in what amounts to a decorated cell, are so bitter about it, they are mean to everyone.

I’ll send someone right up.

Well hurry it up. I’m ready for bed! Then she did as she’s done every night since I got here: she hung up on me.

No sooner had I hung up the phone than a new resident named Edna wheeled over to my desk.

Edna was a tiny, frail, wisp of smoke with oversized glasses that gave her an aging owl appearance.

Hi Edna, I said, offering her my best, no, I don’t know smile. Edna’s loop was unlike anything I had ever experienced and was as funny as it was sad.

Hello, honey. Edna leaned as far as she could onto the desk. My name is Edna. Now, there’s two things wrong with me. The first is, I have problems with my short-term memory. The second is…

I waited her out as she stared me up at the ceiling like a fourth grader doing long division. When she finally brought her gaze back to mine, she said, I forget. What was the first thing?

Short term memory.

Ah right Yes. That. Okay. Well, then, whatever I was talking about must not have been very important.

I continued smiling at her. That’s okay, Edna, it happens to all of us.

What does?

Here we go.

Forgetting things.

Oh. Yeah. Right. What were we talking about?

And that pretty much sums up my first week at Glendale Assisted Living.

Prior to this job, I’d dealt mostly with my own mentally well grandmother, so a great deal of what was going on around me in this place was foreign to me. But once I got the phones down and learned how to use the many walkie talkies used to contact the care staff, I figured I could only believe ten percent of what the residents said. I was already a pro.

Who knew old people lied so much?

Chapter Two

How was your first week of working with the nearly dead? Monique asked, closing her locker.

I looked over my shoulder at my best friend, Monique, Seriously.

She shrugged. What? Am I wrong?

You’re dumb and insensitive. It was… interesting. Pulling my straps on my backpack, I hefted the damn thing over my shoulder and wondered how it was I hadn’t hurt my back carrying that weight around since I was 12.

It was practically child abuse.

Interesting? Ugh. Those places smell like five-year-old farts, which is not far from the odor of its counterpart, the Nut House, which I understand smells like piss and putrefaction. I don’t know how you can stand it.

Putrefaction…a word Monique missed on her practice SAT’s.

It’s not nearly as bad as that. Glendale is nicer than most.

Really? Old folks in diapers is a pretty gross concept.

Monique’s parents always told her she lacked stoplights between her brains and her mouth. While they were not wrong, it was one of the things I loved most about her. If you didn’t really want to know if your jeans made your ass look big, don’t ask Monique.

There are some pretty fascinating characters in the Home.

Home? More like the Island for Misfit Toys. My grandfather was in one for a nano before he decided he needed to go-go. She laughed at her own joke. Another thing I loved about her. Monique loved Monique.

Well, like my grandmother always said, when it’s time, it’s time.

Monique glanced at her humungous watch. Shit. I forgot I have a meeting with the Megi’s.

Megi’s, pronounced ME-GEEs was Monique’s acronym for Mean Girls. In our school, they were particularly mean and most of the rest of us cut a wide swathe to avoid them. We were unsure why some girls suddenly turned into raving bitches, and truth to tell, I didn’t care enough to find out. I just avoided them as much as possible.

We started walking toward them. Because I was considered a decent student who didn’t bother anyone, they tended to leave kids like me alone. Megi’s seldom attack someone who could bite back, and they were never sure whether I was one of those or not. That’s why I had contempt for most of them. I am not fond of cowards, and the Megi’s were about as cowardly as it gets. Alone they could be kind of cool…but as a group? I’d rather swim with piranhas. So what’s this about?

Monique sighed. "Celeste is writing a report on what it’s like to be a financially impaired student living around rich kids and wants to interview me. Isn’t that a hoot? Financially impaired? Are you fucking kidding me? I figure it can’t hurt to ed-u-mi-cate the rich, white masses around here."

That’s very generous of you, poor little black girl.

She threw her head back and laughed. Isn’t it though? I thought you were going to say it was very white of me.

We both stop walking to laugh.

You know someone is your best friend when you can just laugh at all the stupid things you say to reach other without getting butthurt.

I always wonder what you two always find so funny all huddled together the way you do. Everyone around you thinks you’re laughing at them.

Turning around, I came face-to-face with my two-year long crush, the left-handed, artistically inclined, super dork, David Mays.

"Oh. Hi. Uh…well it’s not at you if that’s what you wonder."

Or so we’ll let you think, Monique added, continuing on toward the Megi’s. She always made herself scarce whenever David came along. I think she thought she was doing me a favor, but so far, he hadn’t picked up on any of my let’s hang out clues I dropped like a fifty-pound bag of dog food.

Boys can be so dense sometimes.

I never really know when she’s kidding, David said as we walked into biology. David was a smart kid who joined everything and knew everybody. He was on the debate team, the Chess Club, was the editor of the newspaper, and he played baseball. The smart position, or so he told me.

That’s part of her charm, I said winking at him before taking my seat.

Man, we’re not in school two weeks before all anyone can focus on is the antiquated Homecoming Dance. Sure makes me wish I played football.

I frowned as I glanced over at him. His light blue eyes and left cheek only dimple were so easy to fall into. He had the kind of genes that only got better with time. At fifty, he’d be even better looking. I don’t get the connection.

Football players are only worried about the game, as they should be. You know…no peer pressure about who you goin’ with if you even want to go.

I smiled, Peer pressure? There’s no peer pressure where the dance in concerned for guys.

He tossed his back and laughed. Not one tooth had a filling. How could that even BE? Like hell, Brooke. I get asked half a dozen times a day who I’m taking.

Oh how I wanted to be one of those six at this moment, but I just didn’t have the guts, so I let it go. Monique would have just plowed ahead and asked, regardless of who it embarrassed. Must be such a burden to be so well-liked.

He chuckled. See? I know you’re teasing me. If that would have come from Monique, I’d be scratching my head in wonder. The girl is hot and cold, and I really don’t get her.

I didn’t doubt it.

All summer long, Monique had tried in vain to get me to agree to asking him to the dance, and as much as I wanted to, I just didn’t have the courage.

Rejection is something I have hard time with. My biological dad took off when I was two, and I think I never recovered. My real dad, however, is so awesome, that the sperm donor that was my biological father did me a huge favor. My adopted dad was one of the good ones. He was smart, kind, funny, and most of all, wanted me for his daughter.

I was luckier than most girls my age where dads were concerned.

As our biology teacher, a man known simply as Froggy, walked up to the board, I pulled out my notebook and turned to the last set of notes I took before looking back up to see if Froggy was wearing his white lab coat.

That always meant dissection day; a day loved by dudes but hated by nearly every girl in class…except the lesbians. Don’t ask. I have no clue.

He’d always been Froggy as far as anyone could tell because of the frog dissections he seemed so fond of. Ugh. After the fetal pig we had to dissect in Anatomy and Physiology, I wondered why he wasn’t called Piggy.

Under the last note I’d taken was a note to myself: Don’t forget Mrs. Z’s root beer.

I had to smile. It was a reminder about a resident I adored: Mrs. Zuckerman. I thought about Mrs. Z sneaking over to the front desk to suspiciously drop tootsie rolls or Swedish gummy fish next to the calendar like she was a cat leaving a mouse as a gift for her owners. Or maybe it felt more like a bribe. I wasn’t sure which.

Yeah, that was it. A bribe. She wanted me to let her walk across the street to the store so she could buy her favorite root beer.

She was one of those old folks who lived on sugar. I’d looked up an article about why many elders gorge on sweet treats. Apparently around 60 we start losing taste buds as well as experience changes in how we smell, so we seek out foods higher in salts and in sugars. They typically crave one more than the other, and for Mrs. Z it was the latter. Why she felt she needed to sneak her wrapped up sins was beyond me, but I played along and would look side-to-side before quickly opening the desk drawer and swiping them into it. This was always rewarded with a wink and a finger on her lips followed by Mum’s the word.

Yeah. That was a bribe for shore!

I know, I know, it’s for sure…but Monique always mispronounces it, and now, we both say for shore when we really mean it.

Miss Burns?

I looked up from my notebook, dear in the headlights as Froggy addressed me the way he always did. I had no clue what the lesson today was about. No clue whatsoever. Yes?

It’s not like you to not be the first to tell us what your next bio log is going to be about. Are you with us?

Oh, Yeah, Sorry. I was just thinking about it.

And? Froggy moved from the whiteboard and crossed his arms like he always did when waiting for an answer.

I inhaled deeply. I am simply not a good liar. I’m going to write about why we lose our sense of taste as we age.

Crickets.

There wasn’t a sound.

As my gaze drifted beyond him and to the whiteboard I knew why.

The class topics ranged from dieting to steroid use to social media’s impact on our health. You know, subjects teenagers usually find interesting or relevant.

Mine? Not so much.

Really? Froggy said, the corners of his mouth twitching. You never cease to amaze me, Miss Burns. I can honestly say in twenty years of teaching, no one has ever picked that topic.

I could feel my whole face get warm with blush. Is that a good thing or a bad thing, Froggy?

Turning back to the board he said, I suppose time will tell. I wish you luck with your paper.

Three hours later, I was back behind the front desk for an afternoon and early evening that was crawling by. Some days, the only time the phone rings is when Mrs. Lieberman calls to growl at me.

My pile of sweets was now too big for the desk drawer, and Leila, the woman who worked the front desk from 8 - 4 politely asked me to keep my stash somewhere else. While I was in the kitchen looking for a bag, an elderly woman named Queenie followed me into the closed kitchen.

Do you play poker? she asked, gazing down at me through intense blue eyes. Queenie stood somewhere near