| |
At the bazaar, I bought a lovely little vase and a half-dozen cupcakes. Leaving the hall, I saw that an ambulance and firetruck blocked entry to Egret Street from Main East. Two EMTs wheeled a stretcher up a ramp and into a trailer, where a worried-looking man held the door open for them. Such sights aren’t unusual in an over-55 park, but to avoid looking like a rubbernecker, I turned at Gull Street. Halfway down, I could cut between trailers and reach my back door. Crossing people’s lots is one of the park no-nos, but I considered breaking a small rule better than getting in the way of professionals working to save a life.
I don’t know many people on Gull. They seem to be a quiet bunch, seldom outside and usually in bed by nine. Tommy calls it “the senior area of our senior park,” and says that while it wasn’t by design, it’s how things turned out. Today the street was deserted except for two men standing outside #6. I figured the one near the door was the homeowner. Life had reduced him to skin stretched over bone, and his features were exaggerated by age: large ears, wide, deep-set eyes, and a mouth full of teeth that were clearly not original equipment. His visitor, while no spring chicken, was one of those lucky folks who age attractively, with silvery hair and a strong build. From one hand hung a plastic bag exactly like the one I carried, so I guessed he’d visited the bazaar. Neither man noticed me, since they were deep in conversation.
“It won’t work,” the homeowner was saying. “Pictures aren’t enough to fool people.”
“You’d be surprised,” the visitor said in a bass voice. “Most of us trust what our eyes tell us.”
“But everybody knows photographs can be doctored.”
The tall man smiled. “They know it, but they don’t accept it. You can sit them down, show them what was changed, and explain how it was done, but when the next fake comes along, they still fall for it.”