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My wife Wilma has lots to do at B-Bird, but I get a little bored sometimes. You can’t beat Florida’s weather in the wintertime, so I’m not saying I want to be where there’s six feet of snow and a wind that blows right through you, but I have to look for things to do. Besides golf with Ron and Tommy, I play shuffleboard and putz around the trailer, fixing cracks in the skirting and keeping what little grass we’ve got mowed and fed. Ron tried to start a hobby club this year, and I was kind of excited to help with that, but it never went anywhere. Wilma and me don’t have the money to go out every day, shopping, sightseeing, or eating at restaurants, like some of them do. Not that we care much about stuff like that.
I often walk around the park, looking at nature and chatting with people who come from all over the country. Sometimes, folks need help with a repair or moving furniture or something, so I stop and lend a hand. We’re all old here, but some bodies are weaker than others. I think if you’re blessed with good health, you should do what you can to help out.
On Tuesday morning, I was about three-quarters of the way down Hawk Street when I saw a guy struggling to get a big box out of the hatch of his car. Hurrying over, I said, “Let me help with that.”
He jumped, a little startled, but then he said, “Thanks.”
It took a second to balance the load between us, because the guy was tall and I’m what they call “vertically challenged.” We shifted hands and positions until we were both comfortable and then lifted the box out of the car and maneuvered it up the steps of his porch. It took some doing to get it through the entry door and onto the lanai, and then we had to make a sharp bend to get it into the living area.
“Let’s set it down over there,” he said with a nod at the wall. We did that, exhaling together as the weight left our shoulders.
With the box out of the way, I got a look at the whole man. He was handsome in a fifties-movie way, like Ricardo Montalban or Gregory Peck. He wore khaki jeans and a button-up shirt, and while his hair was a little long for my taste, it had a nice silver tone. If mine had gone that color, I might have been tempted to let Wilma leave it a little longer when she cuts it.
“I appreciate the help,” the guy said. “I was about to go ask at the office if they’d loan me a dolly.”
“Anytime,” I told him. “I’m Earl Schmidt, and I live at number two, across from the meeting hall. I’m usually around if you need lifting and carrying done.”
“Good to know. I’m Jack Barre.”
“Nice to meet you.” Looking around, I saw that his living room looked like a NASA control center. Two whole walls were lined with tables, and on them were computer monitors, printers, and a bunch of technical stuff I couldn’t put a name to if you gave me a jelly doughnut.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re really into electronics.”
“Keeps me busy.” He shifted his feet. “Thanks for the help.”
Taking that as an invitation to leave, I did. Outside, I noticed the license plate on his car identified him as a resident of Quebec. They’re nice people, the Canadians. This one seemed okay, just not much of a talker.
Continuing down Hawk, I stopped to let a little green Volkswagen turn into the last drive on the street. A young woman got out, dragging two shopping bags off the seat beside her. When she glanced at me, I waved and said, “How you doing?”
“Fine.” She didn’t sound fine. She seemed all stressed out, and things suddenly got worse. The handle on one of the bags broke, dumping the stuff inside onto the ground. Items bumped hard against the concrete and then rumbled as they rolled in different directions. The woman said a word I don’t much approve of, but I hurried to catch two plastic bottles of Boost that rolled down the slight incline toward me. When I stepped forward to hand them to her, she was down on all fours, reaching under the car. She came up with two more Boosts and a multi-pack of duct tape. She stood, her face red with exertion and irritation.
“I’ll set these on the table.” Smiling, I said, “You got a lot of duct tape there.”
I thought she wasn’t going to answer, but finally she did. “This trailer is a hunk of junk. I thought while I’m here visiting my mother, I’d deal with some of the worst problems.”
Everybody knows—everybody in the park, anyway—about Leaton Culver’s four ancient trailers he rents out to unsuspecting first timers. Nobody who leases one ever makes that mistake again, but Leaton just slaps on a fresh coat of paint and finds a new patsy to rent to. I’d met the woman living in this one, Gloria Van Buren, who was nice but a little goofy. She’d been fooled by Leaton’s promises, but it was nice that her daughter had come along and was willing to help her out.
“I’ve got lots of tools, if you need to borrow some.”
She waved, dismissing my offer. “I don’t plan to actually fix anything for that slumlord. Duct tape will have to do.”
The woman went inside, and I smiled. Though it isn’t nice to be pleased by someone else’s trouble, it would serve old Leaton right to have her leave the place a mass of duct tape. That stuff is hard to paint over, so he might have to actually fix a few things.