John Brandon - Further Joy

The TV shows us the world of the young, too, and they’re the sorriest young people yet — empty of righteous hatred, casual in their loves, seeking a thousand shallow alliances. The young are easy to make fun of, but this fact does not comfort us in the least. They still have youth, regardless of what they do with it, and so we envy them.

Lara, our visitor, owns a near-empty condo in another part of the state. She doesn’t want to return to it. Two dozen acres around Lara’s condo are clear-cut, a vast tract of dingy sand. Her building was the only one completed before the whole development project was halted. It looks lost, her building, like it arrived at a ball field on the wrong day. When you drive up Lara’s street, you see just how flat Florida is, and how exhausted. At night, at Lara’s condo, it’s like living on the moon.

In the mornings, before we’re awake, she runs in the rain until her feet hurt. A desperate practice, but one that earns a person a certain seriousness. She makes lunch soups full of beans and organic herbs. She spends hours mending torn clothes or writing letters to her aunts — the types of womanly tasks my wife no longer finds the energy for.

We play a game, out under the roof of the front porch, called 20-Point Turn. All you do is sit with your drink, hidden among fronds, and watch the old folks try to park. The rules of 20-Point Turn can be changed on the spot. Every time a wife gets out and directs her husband — that’s two points. If she does it decently, without squawking, she gets points too.

When I go to the mailboxes, the old men think I’m mocking them. I’ve done something to my back, something involving a disc. There’s never anything out there except coupon booklets, but I carry those inside so we can check if there’s anything funny about them, anything ridiculous about this week’s discounts.

We talk about nicknames. That’s the type of thing we try to talk about, so Lara won’t cry. You can always talk about nicknames. Other types of inside jokes spoil, but not nicknames. If any of us ever have children, the first thing we’ll do is nickname them.

My wife wants Lara’s nickname to be Dwayne for a while. My wife says she wants to leave notes for Lara and address them to Dwayne.

What kind of pill is best for a backache is a topic. Whether to keep doing our own taxes is a topic. The yoga Lara does every day after lunch is a topic. Computer brands. Libertarians. The various ways movies can be made. I tell the gals about how Florida used to be, since I’m the one who’s from here — how there used to be orange groves everywhere you looked and now there’s Home Depots and chain bakeries. I tell them it used to be pleasant to drive on 41—people did it for fun — and now it’s a traffic jam of senile Long Islanders. You used to be able to camp on the beach, with a fire and everything; it was safe to be out there overnight and the authorities wouldn’t hassle you. There was a family-owned pecan grove right down the street from my childhood home, and my brother and I would walk over there every Saturday and get free pecan logs from the old lady. Now, I tell them, that plot of land is a used-car dealership. The trees are long gone, not a matchbook of shade on the whole lot.

My wife bangs her tea mug down on a glass end table and walks out of the room, leaving an airless quiet in her wake. I know what the problem is. She’s tired of my complaining. She’s heard it all before.

Lara picks up the abandoned cup and takes a sip from it, a breezy look on her face, as if to dismiss my wife’s behavior. We’ve both noticed her sour moods, but it’s not something we could talk about. My wife has made no effort to commiserate with Lara about her breakup. In the old days, she would’ve, but now it’s as if she’s unwilling to acknowledge that she’s in a position to pity anyone, to hand down aid or wisdom.

Lara and I look over toward the TV. It feels like we’re allies, yet we avoid each other’s gaze. There’s a press conference on the screen. A black man in a three-piece suit is slouching against a podium. He could be talking about anything. Next to him, a stone-faced woman scans the crowd.

There’s a spot on the edge of town where you can pull off the roadside and view alligators from the safety of your car. My wife and I haven’t made our way over there, and now Lara has started campaigning that we go, that we pack some sandwiches and find a radio station and stare at the huge languorous reptiles for an hour or two. She thinks it’ll cheer us up. I tell her maybe we’ll go tomorrow, if the rain stops. Then, because I can tell my wife has no interest in this field trip, I try to talk Lara out of it altogether.

What the alligators do nowadays, I say, is wait for old ladies to walk their pooches too close to a drainage ditch. They collect indigestible collars in their guts. That shouldn’t cheer anyone up. I tell her there’s wildlife right outside the window, and it’s true — a tall white bird is out there in the drizzle, stabbing the soft ground with more urgency than seems necessary. The bird is in the rough and beyond the bird is the fairway. Beyond that, peering out from screened lanais, are pairs of dismayed old folks. They promised themselves they’d die in lovely weather, and now that they’re here it’s just raining and raining and raining.

The note on my car says: HOW ABOUT GIVING US A BREAK, WE CANNOT GET IN AND OUT WITH OUR BIKES AND BUNDLES. It’s been taped to the driver-side window inside a plastic baggie. It’s not signed. Whoever left the note wants me to believe I’m blocking the front walk by parking where I’ve parked, in the closest space, but he and I both know why he doesn’t want me there. That space is bigger than the others. It’s wider. I park my little Honda there on purpose for the good of our game. My wife suggests we put a new note on my car window, one that will read: IF YOU WANT A BREAK, GO BREAK YOUR FUCKING HIP.

We won’t do it, though. We’re not sure why, but we won’t do something like that. It’s the teenagers and old folks who do whatever they please. And there’s no one else in this town, just teenagers by the hundreds and old folks by the thousands.

Each evening, we go to a restaurant in the ritzy downtown, our only outing of the day, jogging in the rain from the car to the closest awnings. I limp when I jog, but still, I can jog. The restaurants are too expensive for us, but we can’t let the old folks win. If they’re going to have red snapper in a tangerine and rum sauce, so are we.

We enjoy food more than they do. And we know the wines from when we were out west. We hope, each of us silently, that when the old folks see us sighing and cooing and letting our jaws roll luxuriantly, they’ll think about the sex they once had.

***

The condo we rent still has all the landlady’s figurines in it. The day we moved in, we piled them all in the spare room, enough ceramic and porcelain to fill a grave. Except one, a foot-and-a-half statue of a dark-haired angel in a tuxedo. That one we move from room to room with us. We take it out to the porch, and on car rides. The angel’s chest is puffed, his waist petite. He looks sort of like an exasperated maître d’ and sort of like he’s about to break into song. His hands are empty, his wings folded against his back. He stands sunk to his shins in a cloud, like someone in quicksand.

The condo complex is immense. You could claim it’s ten square miles and no one could argue. The pool, which we have yet to walk over to, is the largest in this region of the state. The deepest it gets is four feet.

The last night of her visit, Lara wins 20-Point Turn. She’s got a Nissan she’s taken great care of, that she takes religiously for waxes and transmission flushes and new tires even when it doesn’t need them, and an old man trying to park runs right into it. Now her Nissan has a dent in the quarter panel. Lara decides not to care. She decides that her incessant car upkeep is getting sad. The dent is a blessing. It’s worth a dent to win the game, because she could really use a win.