Chapter 2 ~ Florida, July 28, 2011 ~ Eight Months Earlier

I lean on the horn in a futile attempt to plow my way through the concrete jungle. I have allocated exactly thirty minutes to get to the store and procure my weekly nourishment: all organic, hormone-free, and low fat. Gluttony is the ONLY capital sin in my book, and I earnestly sacrifice flavor to the altar of my perpetual size-two figure. In every project I undertake - and yes, eating is a project - the only acceptable outcome is victory. My body is a temple, and I care much more about the curb appeal than the interior: my young corpse will look spectacular.

Once more, I lean on the horn for much longer than necessary and gesture at a startled driver. She flips me the bird before taking off in a cloud of exhaust. I really don't like people. I tolerate a few other human beings, but as a whole, I find the whole human race to be rather disgusting. The utter lack of self-control that plagues society is turning citizens into fat wheezing monsters with the brain capacity of a gerbil. At least I make money, obscene amounts of it, on the obese backs of those slobs. Go ahead, stuff your face with massive loads of empty calories; I'll be waiting for you on the flip side, arms loaded with a wicked cocktail of insulin, heart medication, and diet pills. In public, I euphemistically call you a script; but don't be mistaken, I consider you a pig.

It is an inclement ninety-five degrees in South Florida - and it’s not even lunchtime yet - but I don't sweat; a few Botox injections in the armpits ensure that I never succumb to the elements.

"Ladies don't sweat, they perspire," my grandmother used to say. Well, real ladies don't do either; they take care of business.

I don't mingle with the riff raff that much anymore; thank God! My condo concierge handles all my errands; well maybe not him personally, but it gets done and I don't care how. I had to reclaim the food gathering portion of my upkeep though; since I once inadvertently consumed a full-fat yogurt that some incompetent dunce had placed in my refrigerator. Anyway, with no other recourse, I strive to make the most of my time with the common mob. I get to witness the habits of my constituents, a.k.a. clients, a.k.a. patients, a.k.a. the sick proletariat who consume my drugs like candy. Besides, I like hearing the clickety-clack of my stilettos on the supermarket's terrazzo floors; the melody parts the sea of flip-flop-clad housewives and other random losers like magic. Move over peasants - make way for the one percent!

Having successfully completed my weekly safari to the supermarket in under twenty-five minutes, I head home with the hurry induced at ferrying the most precious of cargo: gelato. That's my only indulgence: one scoop of gelato a day that I religiously burn with a vengeance by furiously pumping the elliptical for ninety minutes. I could crack walnuts with my butt cheeks, but I don't eat nuts; they are too calorific.

I round the parking lot corner, slightly clipping the curb in order to avoid a Hummer barely controlled by a diminutive driver. There, standing on the swell, in this unbearably scorching noontime heat, stands a very old man with his right arm outstretched and his thumb pointed up. His left arm is weighted down by a plastic shopping bag from which a baguette is protruding. In a brief moment of insanity - there is no other possible explanation - this incongruous vision compels me to swerve onto the swell and stop abruptly right next to the man, as if shielding him from traffic. Without missing a beat, he opens my passenger door and unceremoniously sits down with a heavy sigh.

"Thanks for stopping," he wheezes, "women are usually pretty good at stopping. The name's Frank Moretti."

"What are you doing?" I stammer.

"Hitching a ride, of course."

"Well, I can see that," I confirm with disbelief, "I guess what I mean is: why are you doing it?"

"Get going," he orders, "you're blocking traffic. I'll tell you where to turn."

I comply, not that I care about an old man's wishes, but I'd hate for my car to get scratched or worse, dented.

"Are you having car trouble?" I inquire.

"It’s more like eyes trouble," he jokes. "I haven't driven in over six years on account of my bad sight. I see well enough to get by, but not well enough to drive."

I pull into traffic and start driving in silence. I surreptitiously take a closer look at my unexpected passenger to evaluate his potential as a serial killer. His heavily wrinkled face and wool-like white hair place him well into his eighties. He wears massive dark sunglasses, like the ones patients must don after pupil dilation. His clothes are neat, yet seem unseasonably warm: black Rockport slip-resistant Oxford shoes, light grey trousers, and a short-sleeve iron-free white shirt with a neatly folded handkerchief stuffing the sole chest pocket. The man is rather lean, a mere few pounds away from being frail, but his complexion has a healthy glow. His only adornment is a large-faced Timex with a thick black leather band. I note the absence of a wedding ring. Compared to Florida's customary lax fashion standards - where tube tops and rubber clogs are perfectly acceptable office attires - he looks polished and well groomed. Somehow, this man doesn't strike me as the type to wear cropped pants, regardless of the weather, opting for short sleeves as compromise necessary for survival. I get that. I never bought into the absurd concept of dressing down: one is either impeccably clothed or totally naked; the grey zone in between is for boors.

I don’t know how to address this man, his age would typically command a respectful 'Sir', but given the unusual circumstance, I think that familiarity would be most apropos.

"Frank… you said your name is Frank, right?"

"Yes, ma'am, Frank Moretti."

Great, now I'm the jackass.

"Brooke, my name is Brooke. Do you know where to go?" I query. While the old man seems lucid, I fear that I unwittingly picked up some demented Alzheimer patient out on the lam from some reviled Old Folks Home. Were that to be the case, what would I do? I can't picture myself wrestling an old man out of my car and abandoning him on the side of the road like a discarded mattress. I know that Florida has enacted a Safe Haven law to prevent unwanted newborns from being abandoned into dumpsters; the babies can be left at any hospital or Fire Rescue Station, with no questions asked, totally anonymously, free from fear of prosecution… but I doubt they would accept an old man. If Frank Moretti were a dog, I could easily unload him at the Humane Society… or if he at least had the decency to pull a gun on me - in true Florida fashion - I could hand him over to the authorities. Perhaps he is an 'undocumented alien', in which case I could slap a bow on his head and bestow him onto the open arms of Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

My undesired passenger ends my nightmarish reverie with a laconic: "Make a left at the light."

"Is everything all right?" I inquire, more for my benefit than his.

"Yes, I'm a bit tired, that's all. The heat really gets to me these days."

"The heat gets to everybody," I shrug, "how did you get to the supermarket?"

"I walked," he answers, with nary a trace of pride in his voice. "I thought I'd be able to walk back, but I got too tired." With this simple, yet heart-wrenching explanation, Frank's head drops slightly; yet, he continues depicting the travails he must endure to acquire basic necessities.

"The cops, they don't want me to hitchhike. They told me often enough - at least twice a month in the past three years. Once, I asked a rookie to take me to jail, where I would be served three square meals a day without having to lift a finger. I could have enjoyed a little vacation at Club Fed!"

I crack a smile, "Did he do it? Were you arrested?"

"No, hitchhiking is not illegal as long as you stay off the roadway; but people feel very uncomfortable seeing an old man standing on the side of the road, so they call the police. I usually tell the cops: 'If you don't want me hitchhiking, just take me home.' Most of them do, not out of kindness, but because they don't want to deal with me, and it's their job to keep the peace. Women are very good at stopping, especially the ones with babies in the back. I guess they figure: I have to take care of one, might as well take care of another…" Frank's voice trails off. He lifts his right arm, displaying a slight tremor, and points to a series of identical buildings in a quaint and manicured complex.

 "Right over there, building C," he indicates.

I park in front of the main door; apparently, not too many residents own cars.

"Don't forget your bag," I dismiss him, "and please don't slam my car door."

"Thanks for the ride," he sheepishly lauds, "I'm really sorry to have inconvenienced you," he apologizes.

I watch Frank extirpate his aging body from my car and close my door with care. He navigates the few steps to the front porch and nearly misses the stoop. I watch, useless, as he starts swaying before grabbing the door jamb to steady his gait. He barely escaped a fall that could have proven fatal. In a spur of uncharacteristic altruism - again! - I quickly leave the comfort of my air-conditioned vehicle and rush to the old man's side, ready to provide assistance. He straightens up, visibly embarrassed at his display of weakness.

"This heat has got me totally parched," I grudgingly hint, "do you think I could bother you for a glass of water?"

He takes the bait. "That's the least I could do. Please hold my bag while I find the right key."

As I stand with Frank Moretti in the pounding Florida sun for what seems like an inordinate amount of time, I think about my gelato slowly melting away. I estimate that three minutes should be amply sufficient to get Frank safely inside the building, out of harm's way… or at the very least, out of my sight. Frank's keychain holds only two keys; yet, instead of trying each one of them, he contemplates them in an attempt to remember which one to use. I resist the impulse to snatch the keys from him; he's not merely clutching keys, he is holding on to his dignity. A stroke of genius - or divine providence - hits him, and he finally manages to open the door to the foyer.

The stench of old: a mixture of cheap aftershave, joint ointment, and acrid sweat, hangs in the air. Decay may smell sweet, but old age really stinks. The lobby light is dimmed to the point of almost-darkness, especially in contrast to the luminescent Florida daylight. One would think that elderly people would use all the light they could to avoid tripping, but a combination of poise and frugality propels the residents into a life of obscurity.

Frank takes off his enormous shades. Even in this subdued light, I am transfixed by his piercing blue eyes. Still holding his bag, I am blackmailed into following him down a narrow hall to a rickety elevator.

We ride in silence, staring at the numbers flickering from one, skipping the two. Inside the cab, the door to the emergency phone cubby hole stands ajar, exposing a couple of wires sticking out hazardously, as if reaching out for a conspicuously missing handset. I dreadfully realize that I left my phone - potential lifeline in this precarious mobile coffin - safely tucked away in my car. I scan the cage for a reassuring certificate of inspection, only to find such document bearing a seal over a decade old. A dim '3' flickers and the elevator cab finally reaches number four and screeches to a halt, which is surprising given the unbelievably low speed of the ride, before the doors slide open onto an inhospitable corridor. I look up and down, searching for a salutary 'stairs' sign, vowing to never re-enter the cocoon of death. Again, the quasi-darkness prevents me from distinguishing an alternate exit.

While Frank may appear to be independent, he is no less tucked away from society. Desolate or not, he should at least be safe.

"You need to call maintenance about the missing phone in the elevator, and those unbelievably dark corridors," I lecture.

He snorts, "What for? They keep the outside pretty, that's all they care about. Most of the residents are rotting away anyway; the interior fits just fine."

"Hey, I'm all for curb appeal…" Frank is not listening. He hangs a right and shuffles down the hall, his head bowed. At first, I assume he is either watching his steps or extending pious gratitude for a safe journey up the cursed elevator. I am wrong on both fronts; Frank is counting the steps to his front door to compensate for his failing vision. Halfway down, he stops in front of an apartment identified only with a faded bronze-colored adhesive '5'. He opens up without the help of a key.

"You don't lock up?" I inquire.

"Why bother? I have nothing of value. The ladies require that we lock the main door, something about preserving their virtue. They should be so lucky…" he alludes with a twinkle in his deep blue eyes.

I try to hand Frank his shopping bag, "I need to get going…"

"Bring it in, would you?" he interrupts.

I follow him inside the apartment. Except for an abundance of doilies, the room is neutral, unadorned by photographs or any inkling of a family life.

"You crochet much?" I quip, pointing at a rather ostentatious serviette.

"The ladies do," he explains curtly.

"Well, I see that you have a large fan club, probably a whole harem of blue-haired devotees; so I better leave you…"

"Kitchen is over there," he points.

I sigh and comply. In this small apartment, the kitchen is only a few steps away from the door; I'll dump the bag on a counter and take off. I pause for a moment, as the scarcity of Frank's provisions strikes me.

I once attended a seminar extolling the benefits of marketing antidepressant drugs to the elderly; it's like giving candy to a child! Many factors contribute to senior citizens' gloom: declining health, waning stamina, fading looks… but clinical depression mainly results from being stripped of any sense of purpose. Because of the establishment of Social Security during the Great Depression, many workers are forced into retirement to make room for younger employees. This gives everybody the skewed impression that people over the age of sixty-five are worthless in any kind of productive sense. Bluntly put, there's nothing more depressing than having no purpose in life… and I have a pill for that!

A telltale sign of depression - we were instructed - is weight loss; in fact, more than half of elderly hospitalized patients are undernourished or malnourished on admission. Granted, malnutrition could also be attributed to more mundane factors, such as extreme frugality, perplexing dietary requirements, and lack of access to food supplies. Since I am not privy to Frank's prescription drug coverage; I am compelled to inquire about his feeding regiment.

"Did you get enough food?" I inquire while emptying the bag. "How often do you go shopping? Should I contact Social Services?"

"Are you with the Gestapo?" he replies, visibly hurt. "I have never taken a hand-out from anybody. Open the cupboards; you'll see plenty of food."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…"

"I know, I know, you meant well. You ladies always do; look at all the doilies! I was jonesing for a Philly Cheesesteak and didn't have all the fixings, that's all."

"So you risked a heat stroke for a sandwich?" I once again start doubting Frank's sanity.

His piercing blue eyes lock on me. I can almost see the young and vibrant Frank under all those wrinkles and age spots.

"Not any sandwich," he clarifies glibly, "a Philly Cheesesteak like the ones they made in Philadelphia back in the '40s. Ever had one of those?"

"I can say with utmost certainty that I have not," I confess, resigning myself to the fact that gelato is nowhere in my near future.

"Then, sit down," he orders, "you're in for a treat!"