April 24, 2012--Snowbirding: Dead End

Can I help you?”

We had been visiting my mother and were heading down the hallway toward the elevator. In the other direction Rona noticed an elderly man who seemed lost.  He didn’t respond so she turned toward him and said, “There aren’t any apartments down that end. Just the staircase. It’s a dead end. If you want the fifth floor, it’s one flight up. But,” noticing his cane, “if you want to go up there or down, it’s better to use the elevator. That’s where we’re headed so if you want . . .”

“I’m looking for my girlfriend.”

I thought, considering who lives in the complex with my nearly 104-year-old mother, here’s someone else who is beginning to lose it. Sad. But isn’t it remarkable, I almost said out loud, that he has a “girlfriend.”

“Does she live on this floor? The fourth?” Rona asked as compassionately as possible.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet her. . . .  Somewhere.”

“Where?” By then Rona had walked to his end of the corridor. “Somewhere on the fourth floor?”

“No. In the lobby.”

“That’s on the first floor. Do you want to come with us? That’s where we’re headed.”

“Where’s that? On this floor?”

God, I thought, this is going nowhere and will take forever. We’ll probably have to traipse all over the building to find his girlfriend. Assuming he even has one. I was eager to get started so as to miss the rush hour traffic on I-95.

“No. Downstairs on the first floor. Come, let us show you.” Rona helped him turn around to face in the direction of the elevator and took his arm to walk side-by-side with him.

I strode slightly ahead thinking that if I moved it along they might speed up and we could help him with whatever and then get on the road. It was a quarter to four and I knew traffic was building.

“She’s a lovely girl, my girlfriend,” he said.

“How long have you known her?” Rona asked.

“I just moved in. I think it was three months ago or maybe last year. I get confused about time.” I turned back toward them and saw his apologetic smile.

“I do too,” Rona said reassuringly, “If I don’t get the New York Times and see the Dining section on Wednesdays and the Arts section on Fridays I wouldn’t know what day it is.”

“So you’re retired too?” He asked. “You look too young for that.” He winked at her and I realized that in spite of whatever deficits he had he was still quite the lady’s man.

“Thank you,” Rona smiled and tipped her head in his direction, almost touching his shoulder, “But I am older than maybe you think I am.”

“I try to read the Times at least once a week. Especially on Mondays. They have a good Sports section then. Though I get confused about that too and think maybe its Tuesday when they have Sports.”

“On Tuesday they have the Science section,” Rona said, “Because, as I confessed . . .”

“Otherwise you wouldn’t know it’s Tuesday?” He grinned, clearly proud of himself for knowing the sections of the Times and the days of the week.”

We were at the elevator by then and I pressed the down button, tapping my foot in a futile attempt to speed it up. It moves at a snail’s pace to accommodate all the residents who shuffle along with canes and walkers.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Rona asked, noticing the book that he had tucked under his arm.

“What floor are we on again?” he asked, still confused about where he was.

“We’re on four,” I said, noticing that one of the two elevators was out of service. “This is going to take forever,” I muttered to myself.

So I asked about his book. “The book,” I said, “The one under your arm there. What are you reading?”

“I just got it from the library. It’s new. Let me see. I forget titles as well as days of the week and numbers.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“Let me see,” I reached toward the book, which slipped from under his arm and fell to the floor.

I bent to pick it up and as I did the elevator finally arrived and the doors trundled open. It was packed with residents, their aides, and a tangle of walkers. Frustrated, I signaled to let it pass by since there wasn’t room for the three of us. Perhaps Rona and I could have squeezed in but here we were, thanks to her, with someone we were now committed to staying with until he located his girlfriend.

The book of his, in the meantime, was quiet a surprise. Not what I would have expected someone as confused as he would have selected. It was something I too had just purchased and enjoyed —The Righteous Mind, by social psychologist Jonathan Haidt.

I couldn’t help but ask, “You’re reading this? He nodded. “Very impressive.” I tried to stop myself from sounding condescending.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “’How could someone who doesn’t know what floor he’s on read a book about moral psychology?’”

Before I could pretend to deny this, he waved me off. “Things, as well as people, aren’t always what they seem. That’s not the theme of the book, but it’s one thing you could take from it. How human motivation and behavior isn’t always the result of what appears to be true.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I agree with you, that’s a subtext of his main thesis.”

“Which is?” his eyes now were clear and sparkling. His girlfriend and what floor he was on now forgotten.

“It’s more about moral intuition and how . . .”

“You two fellows can carry this conversation on later,” Rona interjected. “We need to get on the next elevator and get him together with his friend. She must be worried sick, wondering where he is.”

“I doubt it,” he assured us, “To tell you the truth she’s the same as I.”

“Meaning?” Rona asked.

“That she’s probably in the other building thinking it’s this building. But then again,” he looked blankly off into the distance, “maybe she’s in the right building and I’m . . .”

“You’re just fine,” I said, now wanting to know more about his reading.

“Tell that to my sons,” he said. “They’re the ones who want me living here. I was fine in my condo in Miami. Who cares what day it is? As long as you have your mind. I mean the mind you need to read books like this one.”

“I agree with that,” I said.

“Here’s the elevator again,” Rona said. “And there’s plenty of room for the three of us. Let me help you. Don’t worry about the door. It closes very slowly.”

And it descends slowly. Enough so that he told me that he agreed with the book’s main point—that these moral intuitions are so powerful that our reason—Plato’s “reason”—stand in service to them.

“If you’ve lived as long as I have—I’ll be 96 next July, or is the one after?—and paid attention to world events—wars, poverty, bigotry—and studied human behavior, you know that he—Haidt—has it right.” Clear eyed, he was now smiling broadly. “About emotion and reason.”

I nodded to indicate sincere agreement.

“Well here we are,” he said as the elevator bounced to a stop on the first floor. “And there she is—my beautiful girlfriend. Say hello to my new friends,” he said to her. “I didn’t catch your names. But you are a wonderful couple. And it is Monday isn’t it? I read the Sports section this morning.”

And with that they walked off together toward the card room. “We play canasta every afternoon,” he said glancing back at us. “Every Tuesday and Thursday.”

He laughed at his own joke and whispered to his girlfriend so that she would be in on it. Our last glimpse of them, as they turned the corner toward the lobby, was of the two of them with their arms around each other.