MR. MIDNIGHT GRACIOUSLY INVITES ME TO SPEND MY LAST WEEK AT his den of iniquity in order to, as he says, “live the life.” Intrigued, I accept, and trade the dependable comforts of Dave and Betsy’s place for the vagaries of bachelor living.
To further get into the swing of things, I finally rent a golf cart at a dealership in downtown Sumter Landing. I’ve resisted renting one until now because my travels have frequently taken me beyond the borders of Gary Morse’s “golf cart nation.” But according to a state transportation study, as many as ninety percent of all daily trips made by Villagers remain within The Villages—and that doesn’t even take golf carts into account. If it did, the number would be closer to ninety-nine percent. It’s not unusual for Villagers to go weeks without leaving their all-inclusive community.
After looking around the glitzy showroom, I choose a worn rental in a dull shade of cream from the back parking lot. It’s the sort of clunker you’d expect to see on a public golf course, and it even comes with a clip on the steering wheel for a scorecard and two stubby pencils. My humble ride is a far cry from the pimped-out leisure chariots with their supersize aluminum wheels, chrome grills, and burled dashboards that I see many seniors tooling around in.
Golf carts were introduced on a grand scale in the early 1950s. Lazy golfers immersed in a car-crazed culture weren’t the only reason. Golf carts sped up the game so that more paying customers could be cycled through a golf course. Perhaps it was the introduction of the Pope-Mobile or the Queen Mum’s royal golf cart that spurred interest in taking golf carts off the golf course. They are now ubiquitous in many gated communities. The Villages’ own golf cart dealership, which displays its models just like automobiles, sells a few thousand golf carts a year. There are several private dealerships off campus that seem to be doing a swift business as well. The vast majority of Villagers own a golf cart in addition to a car and many homes even have separate five-eighths-scale mini-garages to house them. It’s not the fastest means of travel, but when you live in a retirement community, what’s the rush?
Half an hour and many miles later, I pull into the driveway with the Playboy bunny ears. Mr. Midnight shows me to my room, a tiny but pleasant sunporch with a leaky inflatable mattress. His friend Harry is also visiting this week, he tells me; otherwise, I’d be staying in the formal guest room. He hands me several clean towels and tells me I can use the bathroom in the hallway.
On the bathroom counter are all sorts of hotel-sized soaps and shampoos as well as a sign that instructs guests to ring the front desk if they have any additional requests. Like Betsy, Mr. Midnight also has Mardi Gras beads on display; his hang from the showerhead. When I ask him how the celebration compares with the real thing, Mr. Midnight says there’s one distinct difference: “Here we give the ladies beads for not showing us their breasts.”
When Mr. Midnight sees my golf cart, he asks me how it runs. “I don’t think the rentals go too fast,” he says, putting on his sunglasses and adjusting his flip-flops. I challenge him to a drag race. We line up at the edge of the driveway and Mr. Midnight counts to three. Sensing trouble, I lead-foot it on “two.”
My cart accelerates smoothly at first, but then the engine hesitates as if to say, “Hey, not so fast, buddy.” As we careen around the block, Mr. Midnight keeps gaining on me. I gun the engine, swerve to and fro, and try to cut him off on a tight turn. But it’s hopeless; Mr. Midnight wins by more than three cart-lengths.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I must have had the wind on my back.”
I hop into his cart, and we drive to a nearby pool. Along the way we see an ambulance speed by with lights flashing. “Looks like another tee time has opened up,” Mr. Midnight says.
We make a quick pit stop at the neighborhood mailbox gazebo. “I have to pick up my Viagra,” he says, and soon returns with a brown package. “It’s not that I need it, mind you. It’s an enhancement, like whipped cream and nuts on a sundae. If it’s a special night, I might take 100 milligrams. If it’s one of my regular honeys, I’ll probably pop a fifty. Friendship only goes so far.”
When we arrive at the pool, Mr. Midnight pauses and carefully scans the crowd, which is mostly female. “Not bad,” he says. “Not bad at all.” Despite copious warnings, Mr. Midnight is addicted to sunbathing. He sprawls out on a lounge chair and scoffs at the mention of sunscreen. He then glances through his mail, which contains his financial statements.
“I’m not greedy,” he says, putting his mail away. “All I care about is getting my money’s worth. I mean, look at all we have here.” He points to a collection of shapely younger visitors sitting along the pool’s edge, their long legs dangling lazily in the water. He sighs, and readjusts himself on the lounge chair.
I ask him if he wants to read the newspaper after I’m finished with it. “Nah,” he says. “The news doesn’t really interest me. I guess I wish the world was a better place, but I somehow feel distant from it.”
Early in the evening, we head to the Bistro in Spanish Springs and sidle up to the bar. I spot an older couple dancing slowly in a tight embrace. “That’s ‘the Prosecutor’ with his new girl, Holly,” Mr. Midnight explains. “He’s in love. I’ve never seen the guy so happy. It’s like he’s a new man. You can’t pry those two apart. It’s truly sad, but it’s a fact: for some people life is better when they’re in love.”
An hour or so later, I head out back, behind the bar’s small patio, where all the guys go to pee. The bar has only one toilet for men, and few can hold their bladder long enough for the wait. Frankly, after a few beers, I can’t either.
When I emerge from the bushes a few moments later, I’m embarrassed to find a couple sitting down at a nearby table and toasting themselves with glasses of wine. It’s the ebullient Prosecutor and his attractive new girlfriend.
When he sees my notebook, he waves me over and introduces me to Holly. His smile is so genial, and his red Hawaiian shirt so casual, that I wonder how he got such a belligerent nickname. “This is the most remarkable woman I’ve met in the six decades of my life,” he tells me warmly. “I never thought I’d find someone like her. You can write that down!”
He points to Holly’s lantern-lit shadow on the outdoor wall. “Look at that profile. Isn’t it the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen?” Holly blushes and takes another sip of wine. “I thought it was too late for me,” the Prosecutor continues. “But something continues to burn within the human breast.”
A man walks outside and catches the tail end of the Prosecutor’s pleasing homily. He lights up a cigarette, and then flashes a kindly smile at the doting couple. “Ain’t love swell?” he says.
“You’re a smoker,” the Prosecutor snaps back. “Obviously you don’t have any love; at least not for yourself.”
I look at Holly, and then at the man with the cigarette. We’re all too stunned to say much. The man awkwardly extinguishes his cigarette and hastily walks back inside.
“You see, we know what love is,” the Prosecutor continues. “We’re in love.” He takes a sip of wine and slowly savors it. “This place can be a real meat market, but Holly is different from the rest. She understands that real love is different, and that women must be subservient to men, because that’s the way God intended it to be. That should be the first question a man asks in any relationship: ‘Will you respect me as your leader?’ Every ship needs a captain.”
Holly looks at me and clears her throat. “I think there can be more than one approach,” she manages.
“Sounds a bit like a dictatorship,” I blurt out.
“That’s because it is,” the Prosecutor responds. “Men are meant to lead and women are meant to follow. That’s what it says in the Bible. Or haven’t you read it?” He takes another sip of wine. “Are you married? If you are, your marriage won’t survive. I can guarantee that. But I’m here to tell you that you can find love again, even at my age.”
I excuse myself and walk back inside, where I recount my bizarre encounter to Mr. Midnight. “Why don’t you ask the Prosecutor whether he goes down on Holly,” he advises. “Tell him you’re writing a book and you’re looking for the one guy in The Villages who refused to pleasure a woman. That son of a bitch is one squemish lover. As for Holly, I could help her get over the heartbreak.”
I leave the bar early, and hurry down to Sumter Landing in my golf cart to catch the last showing of the remake of King Kong. The theater, despite its enormous screen and stadium seating, is crowded, so I pick a seat high up in the back row. After the movie, I stick around for the screen credits to gather my thoughts, and ponder the sad fate of the colossal gorilla. When I finally stand up to leave, the lights are on and theater is empty.
As I exit the row, I’m surprised to see that the wall behind me isn’t really the curtained panel I distinctly remember when I first sat down, but rather a two-way mirror concealing a luxury skybox. The lights are on inside and I spot an older man with white hair surrounded by what I assume to be grandchildren. For a short moment our eyes lock and I feel goose bumps form on the back of my neck: I’m staring at the elusive Gary Morse and he’s staring right back at me through half an inch of soundproof glass.
Can this really be happening? I stand there like an idiot, my face close enough to the glass for my breath to leave a circle of moisture. Should I knock on the window and wave hello? I’ve fantasized for weeks about interviewing Morse, but not like this. This is too weird. Frankly, I’d given up on ever meeting him. I had located Morse’s private home, his eating club, and even his airplane hanger, but I never caught a glimpse of him.
Did he know I was digging around in his business? Was he keeping tabs on me? Given his abundant wealth, did he even care? Apparently not: Morse quickly loses interest in my gaze and exits through a door leading to a hidden corridor, trailed by a small coterie of rambunctious children.
I rush outside. It’s after 11 PM, and Sumter Landing is deserted. The only sound I hear is Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” merrily wafting from the lampposts to an audience of one—me. I figure that Morse must have a hidden exit, so I run to the back of the building where the dumpsters are located. I find nothing but unmarked doors, all of which are locked. I wait a few moments and run back to the marquee. Ten minutes later, there is still no sign of Morse.
I jog down the street and look for signs of life at Morse’s private eating club, which, unbeknownst to residents, is hidden above a popular Italian restaurant. I run up an unmarked staircase at the back, only to find the club door locked and its windows dark. Resigned, I walk back to my golf cart, but I soon notice, across the parking lot, a lone SUV with its lights on, idling. Curious, I walk toward it. The driver puts the car in gear and slowly drives off. I watch the red taillights grow smaller as the SUV heads toward the big white spot in middle of the map.
I’m left wondering what I might have asked him, if given the chance. In some ways, Lester is right—the story of The Villages’ is really about the residents: why they’ve chosen to live here, and what they make of it. But Morse is the one who created this kingdom of leisure that will one day be home to 110,000 retirees. Is the wizard pleased with his creation? Does he have second thoughts about his impact on the region, let alone the end result of the lifestyle he is selling? And why does he keep such a tight rein over his residents and the region as a whole? Does he consider such measures necessary to protect his investment? Or is he simply monopolizing local politics and the media because he can? After all, The Villages isn’t a charity; it’s a business. If there’s one thing I feel reasonably certain about Morse, it’s this: he has an uncanny ability to provide people with what they want, and make a fortune doing so.
I toss on a sweater and drive my cart back to the house with the bunny ears. Mr. Midnight is still out, most likely at Crazy Gringos with the usual suspects. I sit down at his computer to check my e-mail, but I’m distracted by an instant message query in the form of a purple and pink cat with long lashes winking repeatedly in the middle of the screen. “Hey, Mr. Midnight. Are you there? My kitty’s purring for you.”
A few days later, the ground collapses beneath a house in the Andersons’ village, while a utility company is digging in the area. The collapse causes the house to shift dramatically, and a gas line springs a leak. There’s no explosion, but the place looks like a disaster zone. The flashing emergency lights and yellow crime scene tape look acutely out of place. Neighbors do their best to simply ignore the mess as they go about their daily business. When I ask Dave about the sinkhole, he expresses little concern. “I’m sure they’ll patch it up soon enough,” he says.
The lead story in the next day’s Daily Sun is decidedly upbeat: “Study Reveals People Living Longer.” Farther down the page is a short article addressing the neighborhood calamity. The reporter extensively quotes a utility foreman on the job, who explains in excruciatingly technical detail how his crew executed the dig to exacting standards consistent with industry regulations.
I read the story two more times, but still can’t figure out what happened. Nowhere in the article is it explained how or why the ground collapsed. I recognize the byline; it’s by Kim, the reporter I met at The Villages’ government orientation class. I call her cell phone.
“It was a spontaneous sinkhole,” Kim tells me flatly. “It had nothing to do with the digging. I tried putting it in the story, but my editor deleted it. When I complained, he told me to stop bulldogging the story. The Villages doesn’t want to admit sinkholes exist, because they’re related to the aquifer, and that scares them. So, we’re not allowed to mention them.”
By now, my own “Village vision” dims my concern over the incident and its outrageous yet predictable manipulation. I’ll be leaving shortly, and after weeks of hustling around from morning to night, I want to relax and try living like a Villager.
And so here I am. The sun is shining, the gentle breeze smells sweet, and I have a golf cart to tool around in. If the sinkhole doesn’t affect me directly, then why should I care? I have my own concerns back home to worry about. Sinkholes aside, life in The Villages is relaxing, pleasant, and comfortably predictable. I spend my last days lounging at the pool with Mr. Midnight, going to the movies with Sassy, and lingering over lunches at outdoor tables in sun-splashed Spanish Springs.
Waking up on the little sunporch, I face few bigger decisions than which friend to visit during the day and where to go out at night. Sometimes, the decision isn’t even that difficult—friends often come calling at Mr. Midnight’s. It’s not unusual to wake up from a lunchtime nap and see a caravan of golf carts turning into the driveway.
“Hey, is Midnight around?” a friend named Danny shouts across the yard one day. He’s wearing an open shirt, a big floppy straw hat, and a stripe of zinc oxide down his sunburned nose. His attractive young wife sits beside him and waves pleasantly. Another three friends pop open beers and wait in a second golf cart decked out to look like a fire engine—it even has miniature ladders. I squint into the sunlight and explain to Danny that Mr. Midnight’s probably at the pool scouting bikinis and popping Viagra.
I hear a shuffling behind me and turn around to see Harry, Mr. Midnight’s best friend from back home, who is visiting for several days. To his credit—as I mentioned earlier—he has been assigned the coveted formal guest room reserved for non-female A-list visitors. Harry, like me, is hungover. He reminds me of a college freshman the morning after a blowout party, but half a century older. His beer belly is sagging over a pair of polka-dot boxers and his skinny legs.
“Hey, Harry!” Danny calls out. “Some night, eh? Welcome to ‘the lifestyle’! Sure beats shoveling snow, don’t you think?” Harry belches and nods.
“Hey, why don’t you and Andy join us for a few beers at the pool?” Danny asks. “You could use the sun. You look like a plucked chicken.” Harry stares down at his pale legs and knobby knees. Four aspirins later, Harry and I hop into my cart and join the caravan.
One day I peel off from Mr. Midnight and his crew while they hack their way through a few holes of golf. I don’t play golf, and I’ve already soaked up a bit too much sun, let alone beer, so I resolve to visit Wendy Marie, who spends most days cocooned indoors.
On the way over, I get lost yet again. After all this time driving around The Villages, I still find that its sprawling suburban layout frustrates my otherwise adequate navigation skills.
I pull over and wave down an approaching golf cart. Its lone occupant is an African-American man in his mid-sixties, one of the very few I’ve seen since arriving. I ask him for directions, and then inquire about The Villages’ black community. He tells me there are about 250 African-Americans living in the development.
“We’re here for the same reason white people are: we enjoy the amenities,” he tells me. “I came here because I’m accomplished and I can afford to. I’ve proved everything I wanted to prove. I excelled in a white man’s world. I climbed the corporate ladder. Now it’s my time to relax. I don’t cut my own grass or do anything else I can pay someone else to do.”
When I arrive at Wendy Marie’s house, she’s giving a tour to a realtor. “I’m thinking of selling,” Wendy Marie says. “But I still don’t have any concrete plans. I don’t know where to go.”
I take a look around the house. It’s small and tidy. Nothing about it betrays the fact that the woman next to me has a penis under her skirt, except a small collection of pickle-ball trophies on which her name appears as Donald. After the realtor leaves, Wendy Marie prepares tea and we sit in her mint-colored living room to drink it. I compliment her on her appearance.
“I just had a visit to the Hair Club,” she says. “I’m actually balding a bit, so they cement hair to my head. I figure in my situation, good hair is an absolute necessity.”
I ask how her plans are progressing for the big operation.
“I’m going to Thailand in October,” Wendy Marie responds. “They have a really good program there. And it costs a whole lot less.” I caution that perhaps price shouldn’t be the most important consideration: does she really want to cut corners when cutting off her penis?
“Oh, they know what they’re doing,” she says. “Thailand is like the sex change capital of the world.” Wendy Marie begins to describe the procedure in painfully graphic detail, but then stops.
“I don’t really want the operation,” she says. “The only reason I’m doing it is so I have a shot at a relationship. Not too many people would want me in my present condition, and I want to love and be loved.
“But even after the operation, I’ll probably still be lonely here. They say it’s better to start fresh somewhere. But where? I have no place to go.”
I ask Wendy Marie if she has heard of a new retirement community for lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transsexuals in the Santa Fe area, or about plans for others around the country. She hasn’t. We go to her computer and get online using an old-fashioned dialup modem. “Have you thought about getting broadband?” I ask. “What’s the rush?” she responds. “I’m retired. I’ve got plenty of time.”
When I find the community’s home page, she grows excited. “Print it out! Print it out!” she fairly yells. “Maybe there is a place for me.”
But once she looks at the information about prices, her enthusiasm quickly deflates. “I can’t afford it. The only money I earn is from my military pension, and from dog sitting. And that money is going toward my operation in Thailand.”
“Maybe there’s a way,” I say, trying to pierce the gloom.
“Maybe,” Wendy Marie softly replies. “Maybe.”
For dinner, I’m invited to a potluck meal at Ellen’s Sociable Singles club. Ellen tells me not to bother bringing anything, but I’m embarrassed when I arrive empty-handed and everybody else is unwrapping platters of food. Most of the women have brought casseroles. The few men who attend mostly bring pizza and doughnuts, except a guy named Woodrow, who brings a poached salmon with homemade cilantro relish. “It’s amazing what you can do with a microwave,” he says.
Another man brings chocolate-covered jelly rings with a clearance sticker still displayed on the cellophane-wrapped box. His name is Hugh, and he tells me he’s lonely. “I would love to meet someone,” Hugh says. “My wife died nine years ago. There’s nobody in the house but me.”
“Have you met anyone at these meetings?” I ask.
“Nobody has chased me yet—and I don’t run too fast,” Hugh responds. “One day the right one will come along. I’m still hopeful.”
Before we can eat, we have to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and listen to several club announcements. Ellen delivers the club’s financial report. “We have $1,123.67 in the bank,” she says. Next, she pitches a day trip: a river cruise. “It only costs fifteen dollars, and soup and salad bar are included,” she says. “We need a minimum of eighteen people to sign up, and so far we only have eleven.” Ellen then notes that only seven members showed up for a recent scavenger hunt. “That was disappointing,” she says.
Each table is called up to the buffet at random. Mine is next to last. When I scoop up the meager remains of a lifeless chicken noodle casserole, a woman behind me gives me the evil eye. “That was my casserole,” she snaps. “And now you’ve finished it before I even got a taste. That’s the last time I’m making that dish.” She slams the metal serving spoon against the Pyrex dish and bitterly pushes the now empty casserole aside.
I stare down at the cold noodles and one lonesome chunk of poultry splayed across the center of my paper plate. I don’t know what to say. What can I say? I didn’t even bring something to offer as compensation. Ellen jumps in and tries to defuse the situation. “That’s good if it’s gone,” she says cheerfully. “It means that everybody liked it!”
The sharp-tongued woman who brought the chicken noodle casserole ignores her. She looks around the buffet table and motions at the rest of the food. “What is this crap? It’s all pasta. My dish had chicken in it.”
Back at the table, Ellen leans forward and whispers in my ear. “No wonder she’s single!” Then she imitates the woman. “Everyone ate my green beans! I got none to bring home. Poor me! No green beans!”
The following night, Dave and Betsy Anderson invite me over for a going-away dinner. I soak in the simple comforts of their tidy home, careful to not walk on the white carpet. Betsy prepares a tasty meat loaf, and after dinner we spend an hour or so chatting easily on the lanai.
When I ask if they have any plans to travel, Dave responds, “Not at all. We’re in no rush. It’s like we have all the time in the world. When the mood strikes, we’ll just hop in the car and go. But take a trip? I can’t think of a reason.”
“I’m already on vacation,” Betsy says. “The comfort level here is wonderful.”
Betsy points out a neighbor’s latest bit of handiwork—an outdoor light that illuminates a backyard palm tree. “Isn’t that nice?” she asks. “It took him most of the morning to put it up.”
“A lot of these folks feel a need to keep ‘doing,’” Dave says. He gestures in the direction of various neighbors. “This guy over here lays tiles to keep busy. That one over there helps people file their taxes. He really likes to crunch numbers.
“That’s what some people need. I don’t have that one. I’m happy with who I am. I don’t need to keep ‘doing.’ Some days if I feel especially ambitious I might put up a shelf or fix a light, but most days I don’t. On the golf course, I’m competing against myself, not others.”
“Leisure certainly has its benefits,” I say.
“The Villages isn’t about leisure,” Dave responds. “It’s about opportunity—the opportunity to pursue one’s real interests.”
“What I want is peace and quiet,” Betsy says. “I don’t want to join clubs and get involved in anything right now. We wanted to shed our obligations when we came here, not increase them. But that will change. Before we moved, I did a lot of volunteer work and I enjoyed it. At some point I’ll probably volunteer here as well.”
“Back home, the future I could see was very limited in terms of my golf game,” Dave tells me. “There was just one golf course and it didn’t really have enough variation to make me a better player. My golf game has improved a lot here, and I’ve met some nice people. In six months, I’ve talked more with my neighbors here than in fourteen years back home.” As a former neighbor who enjoyed chatting with Dave regularly, I’m not sure how to respond. But I do know that I am grateful for their hospitality.
After dinner, I pop over to Katie Belle’s, and then to the Bistro for a last beer. Inside, a graying keyboardist dressed in a black shirt, sunglasses, and a cowboy hat is playing a medley of Johnny Cash songs. I run into Harry, Mr. Midnight’s friend who’s visiting for the week. I ask him if he’s thinking about moving to The Villages.
“I could never leave my kids,” Harry says. “No. No. No. Exclamation point! No. My kids are too important to me. Moving down here would be like abandoning them. I don’t care what anybody else here says. That’s just how I see it.”
Harry orders another vodka cranberry. “Besides, I couldn’t take this 365 days a year,” he says. “My liver would explode.” I couldn’t agree more. Back home I rarely drink more than a few glasses of wine or beer a week. I’m surprised—and exhausted—by how much partying I’ve done here at The Villages.
Mr. Midnight strolls in and goes to the bar, then shakes his head in disgust. He’s as close to pissed off as I’ve ever seen him. Apparently, one of his old flames from back home had the audacity to buy a house down the street from him in the very same village.
“I told her, ‘That’s it, the party’s over.’ She knew the rules.”
Harry can’t resist. “Are you ever going to fall in love?” he asks his friend.
“I don’t fall in love,” Mr. Midnight responds. “I don’t have that emotion.”
“I wouldn’t want to die alone,” Harry says.
“I’m not alone,” Mr. Midnight responds, growing agitated.
“I’d rather be in an argument than be alone,” Harry continues.
“Jesus Christ. Get a dog.”
Mr. Midnight loses all interest in the conversation. He swills his beer, takes a look around the bar, and gets up to leave. “I’m beat,” he says. “I only came here for a quick walk-through, to see if anybody really needed me tonight. I’m headed home to fall asleep in front of the TV like a normal old person. I need to rest up. I got another lady coming in this weekend. You should see this one. Legs up to here.”
He walks to the door but turns around before exiting. “Right down the street, in the same village,” he says, nodding his head in disbelief. “Can you imagine that?”
The next morning on my way out of town, I decide to attend my last club activity. I choose a breakfast hosted by the so-called “Village Idiots.” On my drive over, I take a last swing through Spanish Springs. I watch as songbirds hop around the “fountain of youth” and a retired couple mosey along the sidewalk hand in hand. Katie Belle’s and the Bistro are silent, but Starbucks is filled with early birds, their golf carts neatly parked outside. A radio announcer’s soporific voice flows gently forth from a lamppost. “Good morning, folks,” he says. “It’s another beautiful day in The Villages.”
There’s also a crowd at the bakery where I conducted many of my interviews. The sun creeps across the outdoor tables filled with customers reading the Daily Sun. I notice that the breakfast crowd has grown considerably since the nearby sales office wised up and quit serving free doughnuts and coffee.
Outside town, I look over and see a dozen men sitting in lawn chairs on the banks of an artificial pond, maneuvering remote-controlled sailboats. One man wears a skipper’s hat. Some ducks paddle past the boats, hop ashore, and promptly fall asleep in the sun.
The Village Idiots’ breakfast is held on the back patio of one of The Villages’ many country clubs. I arrive to find two dozen Villagers dressed in pajamas and silly hats. I ask a woman wearing a flowerpot on her head if she could direct me to the club’s president. “Who’s the head idiot?” she asks. “Idiots don’t have heads! But you might want to speak to Bob; he’s a real idiot!”
Bob wears a name tag that says “Boob,” and a button that says, “It takes a Village to raise an idiot.” He’s wrapped in a bathrobe, has green furry slippers on his feet, and wears a giant dunce cap. When I try to introduce myself, Boob stares at me with a look of exaggerated bewilderment that is practically frozen to his face for the next two or three minutes, making me increasingly uncomfortable. Frustrated, I look around. I’m greeted by blank stares. I am indeed surrounded by a bunch of idiots.
A kindly woman finally invites me to sit at her table. “I’m probably the oldest idiot,” she tells me proudly. “My name is Ruth, and I’m ninety.” She wears purple satin pajamas and childish barrettes in her hair. “We have so much fun together. We’re always doing stupid things!”
Boob joins our conversation. “I just thought it up one day,” he says. “Every village needs an idiot, don’t you think? There are no dues, no roll calls, and no minutes. We have absolutely no redeeming social value whatsoever. We’re a ‘dis-organization.’ Only idiots can join. If your intelligence increases, you’re put on probation.”
The club meets once a month for breakfast, giving its members a chance to shake the lead out and act silly. “If you retire early and just sit around, you die early,” Boob tells me.
Partway through breakfast, Boob clinks his glass and stands up. “A toast,” he declares, then raises a triangle of crispy buttered rye bread and promptly eats it.
“What an idiot!” Ruth shouts in delight.