I went to drop off some groceries at my mom’s condo and found a note on the door: “I’m at the pool with the gang. Come visit!” I sighed; hanging out with my mom and the gang at the pool was not my idea of a good time.
My mom and “the gang” were all retirees in their 70s and 80s. They met at the pool every day at 4:00 for wine and cheese followed by a potluck dinner. There, they compared aches and pains and traded stories about the relative merits of their doctors. They talked about their children a lot: Each one had at least one child who was a disappointment to them.
When I went down to the pool a 1980’s boombox was blaring 1950’s dance music and the party was in high gear: Mildred was telling the story of her colonoscopy and Doris was showing her latest scar. Slightly apart from the group, Sal and Lou were discussing their prostates in hushed whispers. I was already wishing I was dead when I greeted my mother, who gave me an extended hug. I was immediately suspicious; my mother has never been a “hugger.” I noticed that she was smiling broadly, manifesting an aura of well being that was shared by the whole group.
My worst suspicions were confirmed a moment later when my mother asked if I would like a glass of wine. When I refused she said, “How about a Vicodin?” Judging from her glassy eyes I knew she was not kidding.
“Ma,” I said. “Did you take a Vicodin?” She nodded happily. “Where did you get it?” I asked. She pointed at Dottie and giggled. Dottie has a murky reputation in the condo. Well into her 70’s, she was a party girl during the Korean War and has not changed just because she is 50 years older. Dottie has jet-black hair, bright red lipstick and is deeply tanned. She is fond of wearing shorts that a Las Vegas showgirl would reject for being too revealing. Dottie is trouble.
I confronted Dottie. “Did you give my mom a Vicodin?” I asked. Dottie responded by grabbing my hands and asking me to do the bossanova.
I repeated my question and she stuck out her lower lip in a provocative pout. “I did not “give” her a Vicodin,” she said defensively. “I traded it to her for some codeine.”
I went back to my mom. “Did you trade your codeine for Vicodin?”
Mom nodded. “It constipates me,” she said, referring to the codeine. “Just because I can’t use it why can’t someone else enjoy it?”
Mildred, eavesdropping shamelessly, spoke up. “You have codeine?” she said; “I’ll trade you 2 Xanax for a codeine.” Doris waved her hand dismissively. “Xanax is like baby aspirin,” she said. “Ill give you a Valium for the codeine.” “Throw in a Percocet,” said my mom, “and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Apparently I was not in Kansas anymore. If the grannies in this gang were 19 years old and having this conversation outside of a check-cashing store they’d be behind bars. “Where did you get Percocet?” I asked Doris, my voice a trifle higher than usual. Doris named a doctor adding, “If I say my arthritis is acting up he’ll give me whatever I want.”
“Ma,” I began, “you can’t take medications prescribed for other people,” but Doris interrupted. “I think you’re the one who needs a Valium,” she said and the group cheered.
Defeated, I retreated. As I left, my mom was leading the group in a conga line and I heard Dottie say, “Who wants a Seconal?”