To Smell The Roses…

Retirement Lifestyle on a Budget

By Clark LeFleur

Freedom

A relaxed, unhurried lifestyle, filled with all the leisure and amusement one could ever dream

of, with plenty of time and resources to travel, dine, shop for antiques, see and experience new

and untried pleasures, with freedom from worry and debt.

Through the working years, I planned carefully, always keeping that end in sight. There were

many sacrifices, I must admit, but between my first wife and I our cumulative possessions were

considerable. We’d built an enviable middle class lifestyle: stunning two story home in the right

neighborhood, two late model cars in the driveway, a sleek bass boat in the back yard, a

vacation home in the mountains. All on credit, the American Dream.

I had enjoyed the fruits of my labor to their fullest extent. Now our comfortable life had

become routine, a little lackluster. And the interest was compounding beyond my ability to pay

while maintaining the level of lavish spending to which I’d become accustomed. Now that my

first wife, Frannie, had grown older and fatter, now that I had accumulated a crushing amount

of debt, it was time to cut loose from the burdensome obligations of my little family and

lifelong consumer binge.

I’d known Bobbi since my salad days. She was still youngish, vibrant, and sexually attractive in

late middle age. I’d been seeing her on the down low for the last two years or so. She, like me,

was at the end of a long career, on the cusp of retirement with a very attractive pension plan. It

was an obvious choice. I would declare bankruptcy, default on my debts while protecting my

pension, and divorce my first wife, who would go on to share a small apartment with our two

almost-grown children, thus clearing the pathway to my personal fulfillment and happiness. I

would join forces and pool resources with Bobbi, my true soul mate, someone who shared my

values and dreams.

Suddenly, there we were, retired with two ample pensions and two larger-than-average Social

Security checks every month. My bankruptcy days had passed, and Bobbi and I had

accumulated almost as much in ten years as I had in twenty with Frannie. One flawless

afternoon in our ostentatious rose garden we sat, she with her twelve-year-old bourbon and I

with my single malt scotch, and pondered our golden years. As the sun set, we began to discuss

the methods and strategies we’d learned in our college days and by which we could sustain an

entertaining, stimulating, never ending vacation, one in which we could travel to all the best

places and enjoy all the finer things in life together. And hopefully, to do it, for the most part, at

someone else’s expense.

First and foremost, we took stock of the great number of friends, relatives and acquaintances

we’ve accumulated over the years. Because Bobbi and I had long careers in our chosen fields,

we came to know an impressive number of other professional couples, many of whom had also

retired to enjoy affluent lifestyles in beautiful cottages, bungalows and condominiums in the

most picturesque locales from coast to coast. Why should these dear friends be deprived of a

semi-annual visit from us as we make our way back and forth across the nation, stopping to

smell the roses at every point along the way? And when we visit, why not leave a little of the

happiness we bring with us, in the form of lively, thought provoking repartee, educating our

hosts in the selection of fine wines and old whiskies, gourmet recipes and vivid descriptions of

the remarkable places we’ve gone to and are going to.

My new wife and I, thanks to Facebook and other social networking websites, have been able

to rekindle friendships with people we haven’t seen or thought of in years, and in some cases,

create new, close personal relationships with people we’ve never met in person. Like generals

before a great battle, we have strategically and systematically categorized and sorted through

these names and addresses, that is, potential vacation destinations and stopovers, to create a

comprehensive plan of attack. The centerpiece of our war room is the map of North America,

and our war objective is to travel to the most interesting and temperate locations in this great

land of ours, sleeping in first-rate accommodations, eating the finest food and enjoying the

finest liquor and other pleasures at the lowest possible cost to ourselves.

The Art of Dining and Being a Gracious Guest

Some of our favorite tactics for “smelling the roses” while passing the cost of our retirement

lifestyle on to our friends, relatives, and acquaintances are probably the simplest. Over the

years, you’ve probably overlooked thousands of opportunities to practice these techniques.

When Bobbi and I visit, our hosts, in addition to putting us up in their guest rooms, typically will

prepare a sumptuous meal on the night of our arrival, and the next night as well, but after a

couple of nights, they will tire of preparing and serving us their best dishes and just decide to

take us out to dinner. At least, they figure, they won’t have to clear the table and clean up the

kitchen while listening to us sit and go on about other great meals we’ve enjoyed recently at

the homes of other, more affluent friends.

At a restaurant, Bobbi and I will always order different entrees. During the course of the meal,

I’ll comment on how delicious and perfectly prepared my dish is, and offer my wife a bite. She’ll

enthusiastically take a little morsel from my fork, and proceed to ooh and ah. What a brilliant

selection. Reminds her of something similar we had in San Francisco, New York, oh, where was

it?

If, after a few rounds of “Let Me Taste Yours”, the other couple fails to join in the game by

offering a bite from their plates, Bobbi or I will simply ask, point blank, to sample what they’re

having. Most courteous dinner companions will not only eagerly participate, they’ll hardly

notice a little later when I push back from the table, placing my hands on my tummy, and

announce that “this is just too much food” and ask the waiter for a doggie bag, which of course

will be kept in the host’s refrigerator at their home until we depart.

The really essential tactic in our bag of tricks is, of course, getting the other couple to pay for

the meal. Sometimes this is easy. We can usually tell in advance by tell-tale signs of our hosts’

generosity. For example, when we first arrive at their residence, the upscale master of the

house opening the liquor cabinet with a “what would you like?” or even a “help yourself”

speaks volumes. By contrast, when guests make the four-hours-from-the interstate, two-lane

trek to our lovely spot in the mountains, we serve what we want them to have, customarily

with a long description and endorsement before the liquor is actually poured or ideally, before

the beer bottle is opened. We’ve saved thousands with this simple method alone.

In the restaurant, a silent pause when the waiter asks, “one check?” often works. For people

we’ve had dinner with more than once, it’s sometimes best to chime in and suggest separate

checks, but we consider this outcome a draw at best. A complete victory requires complete

commitment to the goal. This is where teamwork pays off.

My sweetie has a remarkable gift for controlling a conversation. She does this by skillfully

employing what I’ve come to call verbal ellipses, that is, endless sentences that others are much

too polite to interrupt. “That was the best shrimp scampi we’ve ever had, it was just…” her

voice trails off, as if there are just no adequate comparisons. The scampi, as Bobbi recounts,

was and is simply the best ever cooked and served, unquestionably.

Bobbi is a master of the first order in manipulative chit-chat, steering the topic away from

subjects that others may have knowledge of or experience in to subjects in which we can

present ourselves as absolute experts, conducting endless discussions about 401K’s, health care

and benefits, and of course name dropping, fascinating, detailed anecdotes featuring other

lucky friends who have hosted and entertained us in style.

So, after dessert is over and the check is on the table, my darling wife is always ready to create

a verbal smoke screen for me to excuse myself and make a quick trip to the restroom. This

absence shouldn’t be too lengthy, lest someone catch on, just long enough for our hosts to

decide to go ahead and pick up the tab. The real artistry is in the timing, waiting for our

generous friends to offer to pay, putting up a little resistance- “oh, no, we insist, you’ve been so

nice to us” - but ultimately giving in and allowing them the honor. If done properly, they’ll even

thank us for suggesting such a wonderful eatery and providing them with such an enjoyable

evening.

We exit the restaurant, doggie bag in hand, triumphant, looking forward to spending the

balance of the evening drinking our benefactor’s liquor and enjoying their ample

accommodations. Many hosts will offer to set their alarm clocks for us, so they can be ready to

serve breakfast early in the morning and even help carry our luggage to the car.

Of course, it’s important to remember to also accept from your hosts, a parting gift, a little bag

of fruit from their backyard orchard, leftover dessert from your first night’s stay, some fine

marmalade or salad dressing from a local tourist attraction, whatever they have. They’re more

than happy to share. It’s a long drive to the next stop, and there’s no reason your hosts can’t

continue to provide after you’re on your way to the next couple’s idyllic retreat, with its free

lodging, meals, and entertainment.

The California Trip

By carefully dividing our pool of friends into “haves” and “have nots”, knowing which couples

on our pushpin map of overnight stays are a good bet for a great dinner, which are real serious

drinkers with good taste in booze, and which friends have the biggest, finest homes, we’ve

perfected the art of fine dining and being gracious guests. Using our personal network of dear,

dear friends as guiding beacons along the way in the voyage through our golden years, we keep

a close watch and a steady hand at the wheel to steer a smooth course.

However, in spite of all our best efforts, our retirement lifestyle will occasionally throw us a

curve. In those rare instances, an innocent visit can result in an awkward or embarrassing

situation, or a situation where we are forced to spend our own money, or worse yet, spend it to

someone else’s benefit.

But, according to ancient Confucian wisdom, or at least according to Linda and Steve, dear, dear

friends who imparted this third hand ancient wisdom to us over dinner one lovely and

worthwhile evening in the Catskills, unfortunate events sometimes turn out to be unexpectedly

advantageous for some of the parties involved. Or something to that effect.

Back in the late summer of ’95, just a few months after Bobbi and I were married, the death of

Grateful Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia came as a dramatic blow to the Deadheads, that lunatic

fringe subculture of the baby boomer generation. Nowhere was the impact of that sad event

more evident than in the city of San Francisco, where the Dead had their beginnings in the mid-

sixties. My sweetie and I are proud to have been a part of that seminal hippie movement, and

in fact, we honed many of the techniques described in this volume right there in the heart of

the cultural revolution, near the corner of Haight and Ashbury.

Although we were gainfully employed at the time, with real jobs, and in actuality, only

participated as “hippies” on weekends and days off, we had scores of contacts and connections

in the new alternative lifestyle community. For us, having long hair and wearing the colorful

clothes and beads was the best way to score invitations to parties, free spare tickets to the

Fillmore, and basically whatever countercultural fun and diversion was available at no charge.

We learned, for example, the fine art of obtaining cheap marijuana and offering joints and pipe

loads of “bunk” weed to our companions as a way of gaining access to their stashes of “good

shit”. At many a party or concert or afternoon at the park, Bobbi, with great fanfare, would roll

a dry, seedy, Mexican number while I extolled the virtues of what both of us knew to be inferior

quality stuff. After the dope had been passed around a few times, someone would invariably

break out the Acapulco Gold or Columbian, just to show us novices what the real thing was like.

“That reefer’s okay, but wait ‘til you taste this…”

We also learned that our stoned companions had very short memories. I frequently was able to

swap one of our roaches for one of the potent ones right under everyone’s nose. With the

same deft slight-of-hand I put to good use in friendly poker games with my straighter friends,

I’d put out the good joint and pocket it for later while passing on the low grade stuff to

unsuspecting beatniks who were too high to know the difference.

Often, we’d smoke entire bags of other hippies’ dope and take a gracious bow for getting

everyone high and all the good vibes we’d generously shared with our brothers and sisters. I

can’t begin to count the number of times someone would profusely thank us for turning them

on with their own pot. “Awesome jib, dude…” You’re welcome, man.

But back to the nineties. When the memorial concert for Jerry in Golden Gate Park was

announced, Bobbi and I made one of our first cross country trips as a retired couple. We

received an invitation from a couple we knew from the old days to come out, stay a few days,

and celebrate the life of the great hippie forefather.

Bill and Susan had moved up in the world from their humble days sharing a fleabag crash pad

with six other deadbeats on Pooneil. Bill had since gotten his MBA and made a killing in the

stock market, retiring at an early age to a beautiful hillside home in Marin County. When we got

the call, we immediately recognized the opportunity to vacation on the west coast with style.

Not to mention all the great weed they surely kept in stock.

We arrived the day before the big event and took a quick side trip through the city to see how

the old neighborhood had changed. We circled for what seemed like an hour before we parked

and got out of the car to take a short walk down to the meadow in Golden Gate Park where

we’d seen the Dead and the Airplane play, free of course, so many times.

To say it was hot that sweltering August afternoon would be a drastic understatement. We

soon found ourselves in a tent city of mostly second generation hipsters. There were thousands

there already, staking out their camping and partying spots for what would surely be the

greatest hippie reunion of the decade, or possibly, all time, man. A steady stream of

psychedelic music issued from the public address system.

There was a hint of the old carnival atmosphere from the sixties, but the tinge of shock and

sadness was palpable. The running, skipping, carefree whirling dervishes of old were now just a

large, sweaty mass of strangers. There were many people there closer to our age, but no one

we recognized. A whiff of pot smoke, a topless young nubile here and there, but by and large,

the vibe had changed.

We sat near a small group of young stoners who were passing around a pipe of what appeared

to be dark, oily hashish. Bobbing our heads and pretending to listen to whatever noise was

coming from the stage, we attempted to make it clear that we were, indeed, groovy folks, but

no one offered us so much as a toke. My hand-tooled custom cowboy boots and Bobbi’s prized

turquoise and silver necklace seemed to scream “not cool” to these imitators, these phony

hippy types with their torn jeans and tattoos.

We got up and moved several times, trying to find just the right spot, always seeking out groups

where weed was being smoked openly, but we didn’t feel quite…welcome. We elicited a similar

uncomfortable response from each little clique of unwashed, faded, and raggedly dressed

potheads we approached, as if they knew we didn’t quite belong. Some would finally, after

many passes, offer us a hit from a damp, brown roach of skunky smelling weed, but most would

avert their eyes from us as they bobbed and weaved in their peculiar and ungainly tribal hippie

dance.

Aside from the unbearable temperature and humidity in the meadow, aside from the stench of

hitchhiking, van dwelling, mostly unemployed and unemployable vagabonds, there was also the

pervasive cloud of grief and mourning. These people were serious. It was unreal. I mean, after

all, Garcia was a pretty good guitar player, and it was sad he was gone, but why should we

allow that negativity to affect our good times? This memorial thing is kind of a bummer, and

besides, it’s hot.

So we headed up to Bill and Susan’s place in Marin County, where we knew we’d find air

conditioning, hot showers, clean thousand- thread -count linen sheets and plenty of good wine

and weed.

Of Dogs and Fine Footwear

Bill and Susan met us in the driveway of their fantastic Mill Valley home, built into a hillside

overlooking Richardson Bay. An architectural marvel: three levels, four bedrooms, each with its

own veranda. We came to the right place, I mused. Susan knelt by an adorable little Lhasa

Apso, who was barking and wagging its tail with delight as we pulled up. Even the puppy was

glad to see us.

Susan looked a little older, but none the worse for wear, as they say. Her now giant, low slung

breasts pushed into my midsection as we embraced. Dear, dear friends. Bill, in turn, hugged my

sweetie for a long and tender moment. It had been over twenty years. It seemed almost like we

were a real family, reuniting after a long separation.

We of course were feted with the most wonderful vegan supper we’ve ever had, sweet potato

fritters and black beans, followed by a scrumptious avocado salad. Then, absinthe over sugar

cubes, and a quiet, dreamless night of luxuriant rest in climate controlled comfort.

The next day, Bobbi woke up, feeling a little more ill than usual. She even thought for a moment

she might have had a heat stroke in the park. I asked her what she wanted to do about the

memorial. “I don’t think I can handle it. You wouldn’t want to have to take me to a hospital,

would you?”

Bobbi and I decided that it was just too hot for a funeral. We explained to Bill and Susan, it was

just so…hot. We would be going into Sausalito for lunch. Wouldn’t they rather come with us?

Or maybe we could go in your car? ”You know where the best places are,” I said, grasping the

back of his upper arm affectionately. “Show us around.” Bill, who never much cared for the

Dead, liked the idea.

I had a marvelous braised bison chop, fresh kale and sourdough bread for lunch at the Café

Toothsum. My sweetie had the cucumber salad with salmon. Bill and Susan had the same,

ordered espresso, then picked up the tab. What a great couple.

We got back into Mill Valley mid-afternoon. The weather, as one would expect from one of the

most beautiful, eclectic and exclusive areas on the West Coast, was perfect. Bill and Susan

strolled off down the street, hand in hand. “Take your time. We’ll be back in a few,” Bill called

over his shoulder. We knew something was up. They had something special in mind. Bobbi and I

half expected an expensive gift, purchased on impulse, something they knew we would cherish.

That’s the kind of friends they were.

Marin County can be a real shopping paradise for anyone who appreciates and loves really fine

jewelry, clothing, and footwear. There are hundreds of shops and stores with unique, one-of-a-

kind dresses, long silk scarves, big silver earrings, and real pearls. Places where women and men

of taste and means are treated like the special people they are.

Bobbi and I walked into an incredible shoe shop named TaDa’s. There was a little atrium with a

fountain and a wrought iron bench in the center of the store. Birds splashed and sang as very

well-maintained Northern California women perused the stacks and consulted with one

another over shoes, shoes, and more shoes. A saleswoman approached Bobbi and it was all

over. I sat down, stoned and resigned to a long wait. Bill had the “good shit”, no mistaking that.

I waited for two hours and fifteen minutes. I stepped out and wandered down the little shady

walkways between the shops, gazing into the attractive, professionally decorated windows.

Everything a man of refinement could want: pipes of every imaginable kind, fine kangaroo-skin

tobacco pouches, gold-plated hip flasks ready for monogramming. And the clothes. It was

mind-boggling. I came very close to buying a black suede vest that made me look like a silver-

haired Maverick in the fitting room mirror. Remember James Garner? I pointed out a small

stitching error in the lining to the cashier, but there was no negotiating on the price. I ended up

getting a pair of fine Italian loafers at the shop across the street.

It was another hour before Bobbi had finally talked herself into just the right pair of Bolivian

leather sandals, and she emerged from the shop, three hundred dollars lighter. We met up with

Bill and Susan, who we learned had gone to a local antique place to look at a vintage Victrola

they’d discovered on Craiglist. They ended up buying a silver and jade tea service instead. For a

second, we held our breath. Could it be a gift for us? No, false alarm.

We compared our treasures, complimenting each other on our good taste and congratulating

ourselves for the excellent deals we got, then climbed in Bill’s Mercedes M-Class SUV to ride

back up to their place, with Jefferson Airplane’s Crown of Creation playing at a comfortable,

age-appropriate volume level from the twelve-speaker sound system. The day had been a truly

fulfilling, almost spiritual , shopping experience, Bay Area style.

As a host, Bill didn’t disappoint. His wine cellar was well-stocked with fine California wines. He

and his soul mate had all the time in the world to sit and drink a few bottles with us. I took a

long, deep drag from Bill’s colorful blown glass bong. Ah…California Sinsemilla. ”Fuck Garcia,” I

said silently to myself, “this is where it’s at.”

I wasn’t even listening to Bill or Susan or even my sweetie. Their conversation was just pleasant

noise, background music for a very exquisite and expensive cannabis and cabernet high. I could

barely make out what was being said. Something about Bill’s collection of old ‘78’s. Blah blah.

Then, the subject changed, and my ears picked up when I realized the girls were talking about

me, or at least me before I married Frannie and moved to the Gulf Coast in the seventies.

“Oh, those were the days.” Susan shook her head and laughed, looking at Bobbi and then

smiling into my eyes. “Man, you used to cut an impressive figure with your Ray-Bans and

sideburns, flying up 101 in that Triumph Spitfire. Good times.”

My mind submerged itself in the liquid warmth of that memory. That was me, young and virile,

and my first sports car, the Mk3 . And I was rather impressive looking, snappily dressed in my

designer bell bottoms, compared to most of my low rent hippie friends who didn’t or wouldn’t

work. It was good to be a productive member of society. I had a promising career as an

assistant fashion magazine editor, I could take chicks to lunch, I could have steak. I didn’t have

to share an apartment with a bunch of almost- grown children who never chipped in for the

phone bill and ate all my food out of the refrigerator.

“Well Bobbi,” Bill said, voice brimming with true admiration for the score of the day, “your taste

in shoes is as impeccable as always. I am impressed,” he continued, “and what a great price.”

Puki, unbeknownst to us, also had great taste in fine footwear. While we laughed and

reminisced under the California stars, Susan’s prized Lhasa Apso was quietly at work, sneaking

into the guestroom to have a go at the genuine leather chew toys that lay irresistibly on the

floor, between our luggage and the canopy bed.

At first, we didn’t recognize what Puki had in her mouth when she came running out on the

veranda, growling playfully as she chewed the delicate heel of a very expensive sandal. The

feisty little Lhasa wagged her tail with delight, slinging the wet leather lump around, teasing

and hoping to entice someone into a game of keepaway. Cute dog.

Susan chased Puki into the house and grabbed the mangled sandal. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe

she did this. Bad girl!” She held out the irreparable, tooth marked Bolivian leather flip flop. The

woods on the hillside became suddenly quiet. Not even a cricket chirped as we stared,

dumfounded, at Puki’s handiwork.

“Oh, no!” my sweetie cried out in horror.

Bobbi’s deep blue eyes began to well up. “Oh, I was so stupid to leave that door open. Look at

them now. They’re ruined. They were just the best…sandals I’ve ever bought.”

Now Susan’s eyes began to well up. Bobbi continued.” I just can’t afford another pair…and they

would have gone so well with the maroon scarf I bought today at Patchoulie’s…”

I spoke up now, sensing my cue. “Bobbi,” I scolded, “let me remind you that we are on a fixed

income as of September first. You’ve got to be more careful.” My sweet girl was sobbing now. I

had never been prouder of her intuitive skills. She held her hands up to her face, as if ashamed

of her pathetic display. I could see her peeking through her fingers as she sniffed, “It’s not

…Puki’s fault.”

Susan, sympathetic soul that she was, seemed truly moved by Bobbi’s tears, and at the same

moment, mortified at appearing to be such a negligent hostess. Finally, a wave of inspiration

rolled over her. There was only one way to make this right. She offered to pay for the sandals.

In fact, if we’d consider staying another day or two, she’d go with Bobbi down into Mill Valley

to TaDa’s and buy her a new pair. What were friends for, after all?

The Ass Burger Twins

Bill and Susan remained our faithful friends for years after that visit. We recently heard, via an

email from another old friend from the old days, that Bill had lost everything in the mortgage-

backed derivatives game a couple of years ago. We haven’t been to see them in awhile.

Other new and interesting people have come into our lives since. We met one memorable pair

through a famous social networking site. Isn’t it funny how fate works, how certain personality

types are drawn to one another through mutual friends, preferences, likes and dislikes? God

bless you, Mr. Zuckerberg. You have truly changed the world.

D’Angelo and Dick became our favorite hosts in Vicksburg, a great place to pick up some silver

queen corn when you’re coming down from Ray and Renaldo’s houseboat in Memphis in early

July. They were a delightful gay couple, and we always looked forward to seeing them, maybe

even staying at their place for a night or two before heading out to points west. This trip, as I

recall, we were on our way to Austin for real Texas Chili and some horseback riding at the ranch

home of Jim and Frances, two of our oldest and dearest.

D’Angelo was an artist, proficient and prodigious in charcoal sketching and water color; he

played classical pieces on his enormous French horn and would conduct séances and read tarot

cards. He had also authored two horror novels about gay zombies or something. Dick was an

executive with a chicken processing company.

The important thing was that D’Angelo seemed to really, sincerely enjoy impressing us. We had

the verbal faculties to make him feel like the genius he obviously was. In addition to his other

fascinating creative works and projects, D’Angelo was, naturally, a marvelous chef and bread

baker and we always enjoyed his cooking and baking when we were in town. So creative.

Dick, on the other hand, merely tolerated us. We’d always thank him for being such a gracious

host after spending a weekend enjoying D’Angelo’s incredible meals. We always asked about

his mother when we arrived and made every sort of overture to express our deep affection for

him and D’Angelo.

One occasion in particular springs to mind. We were just sitting in their living room, chatting

with D’Angelo, when Dick came in from work. We asked about his day at the office and he just

grumbled. What really gay man would do such a thing? Where one would normally expect an

exaggerated, dramatic and entertaining revisiting of the day’s frustrations, Dick was sparing of

words and withdrawn. How rude.

We used to think he simply didn’t like people. It wasn’t us, specifically. He just acted like he

didn’t want guests. Not even guests with spell-binding stories of houseboat life on the

Mississippi, and our other, more flamboyant gay friends who simply adored gambling and

antiquing. Oh, the money Ray and Renaldo could burn through in a night on the town. Great

people, we just loved them.

But Dick was determinedly impervious to our charm and finesse. It became imperative that we

get to the bottom of his dislike, that is, it became necessary to play one off against the other in

a little game we sometimes entertain ourselves with, engaging our hosts in what we’ve come to

call “Why Aren’t You Nice to My Friends?” A well-placed question or comment, usually posed to

the wife or passive partner, could serve to divert the attention and change the subject when an

irritated husband or breadwinner appeared to have had enough of us. This usually paid off in a

number of ways; in this case, guaranteeing our future reservations at D’Angelo and Dick’s Free

Bed and Breakfast.

Bobbi approached D’Angelo in a discrete girl-to-girl moment before brunch one morning and

quietly asked, with great concern, “What’s wrong with Dick? He seems to be depressed about

something. Is there something we can do? Can we help?”

That’s when we learned about Dick’s ongoing struggle with something called Asperger’s

Syndrome. D’Angelo explained that Dick suffered from an unusual malady that prevented him

from “reading social cues” from others. D’Angelo continued, “People with Asperger’s appear to

be insensitive towards other people’s feelings and unable to read between the lines. They don’t

seem to be willing in sharing experiences or interests with people close to them. They don’t

pick up on non verbal communication and they lack a sense of what is socially appropriate to

do.” In effect, he didn’t give a fuck about anyone but Dick and never bothered to concern

himself with other people’s feelings, but it wasn’t his fault. It was a disease.

Bobbi’s heart ached for D’Angelo and Dick and Dick’s tragic condition. She listened to a detailed

list of all the symptoms, understanding at last that Dick didn’t dislike us or having us as house

guests on both legs of our annual summer trip to San Miguel. He was simply a sick man, and

needed our sympathy more than anything.

We left the next morning for Austin, pausing just long enough in their enormous, country blue

kitchen with striking marble counter tops and shining copper pans, to fill our two-quart travel

thermos with some fine, Kona coffee Dick had brought home from a recent business trip to

Oahu.

Last year, we dropped in on D’Angelo and Dick, not knowing it would be for the last time. Our

formerly congenial and generous host met us at the door, clad only in a silk dressing gown. I

made a mental note. That would make an excellent Father’s Day present for me. I must

remember to leave a few Niemann Marcus catalogues scattered around the house, opened to

the robes with colors and prices conspicuously circled.

D’Angelo, visibly agitated, informed us that Dick was home sick from work, upstairs in bed, and

he’d barely had time to bathe, shave and prepare for guests in the two hours between our

phone call just outside of Smedes, Mississippi and the time we arrived, strategically, as was our

habit, in the late afternoon.

We sat rather awkwardly in their well-appointed den as D’Angelo poured a plain Earle Grey for

Bobbi. I, of course, inquired if there might be some of that fine Kona coffee available.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t any in the cupboard. Dick wouldn’t be making another trip to

Hawaii until January. I settled for some brandy I spied on the counter at the wet bar.

“I suppose we do have something to snack on,” D’Angelo pondered, “things have been so hectic

lately. My new novel is taking forever to finish. Dick and I have decided we must simplify.”

We of course agreed. Too many obligations simply wear a person down. I began to steer the

conversation into the story of my successful bankruptcy maneuver and subsequent tidy profit

from the sale of Bobbi’s home at the top of the market, but our host appeared to be really worn

down and burned out, and Bobbi cast a warning glare at me when D’Angelo went into the

kitchen to rustle up a snack for us. Better not push it, dear.

We were at least as exhausted as our host. It had been a long, dogleg trip from Memphis,

zigzagging down the back roads, looking for yard sales and bargains in nearly-abandoned areas

where the textile mills and factories were now shuttered. We had stopped at several roadside

vegetable stands and flea markets and all we’d eaten was the overpriced bowl of red beans that

we shared at a soul food diner next to a gigantic cotton field on the edge of some depressing

little southern ghost town. So we were tired and hungry to boot.

Bobbi was almost embarrassed to ask if we might wash and dry a few clothes while we were

there. Our normally charitable host gave us a blank look, answering that the washer and dryer

were out of order, and that they had been waiting on the repairman from Sears for “weeks

now”.

After a sleeve of saltines and a few slices of provolone, we made our fond goodbyes and

expressed our hope that Dick would be feeling better soon. We parted amicably at the front

door. D’Angelo promised he would write soon, closing the door behind him. As we drove the

winding gravel path through the elaborate topiary that graced their well-manicured property,

just before we reached the road, we were surprised to see Dick, apparently recovering nicely

and weeding a bed of day lilies around the mailbox.

I rolled down the window and called to him. He walked up to our station wagon, dusty from the

long country drive, and smiled, wished us a safe trip and offered an apology, “I’m afraid my

Asperger’s may be contagious. D’Angelo has had a bout of it lately, too. Neither of us seemed

to pick up on your social cues. We might have known you were tired and expected supper and a

place to stay. I’m so sorry. Perhaps we’ll visit you on our trip to New Brunswick this autumn. I

can’t wait to sample those sourdough pancakes you’ve gone on about so many times.”

We drove away, faced now with the prospect of finding an affordable motel and a decent meal.

I must say that we were frankly stunned at first by Dick’s remark, delivered with

uncharacteristic cheerfulness, yet so heavy in its implicit meaning.

Ultimately, we came away from that experience armed with a new sense of shared self

awareness, an enhanced appreciation of the unintended effects our agenda-driven retirement

lifestyle could have, in isolated cases, on some of our friends. However, after long reflection

and discussion, we came to the conclusion we weren’t at fault here. Asperger’s Syndrome and

other recently identified social maladies may indeed be real, not just convenient excuses for

inconsiderate behavior.

And in reaching that conclusion, we discovered a new social axiom, one which I’ll share with

you. It’s a little saying Bobbi and I have; a guiding principle in our ongoing quest to brighten the

lives of everyone we know, by visiting and imparting our wisdom to them, no matter how far

off the beaten path they may live, no matter how well-healed they may be.

We have grown to understand our mission as a vocation, of sorts. Something we want to give

back to all the dear, dear friends we’ve known over the decades, as well as those dear, dear,

friends we’ve yet to meet and visit. To those who are receptive to the light, we offer our vast

repository of expertise in antiquing, baking, cooking, decorating, dressing, drinking, dining,

entertaining, gardening, investing, scoring the best controlled substances, saving money and

traveling in style. We have a little motto, Bobbi and I, that we feel puts it quite simply and

succinctly:

“If you’re not happy to see us, there must be something wrong with you.”