I recently went to see my daughter and granddaughter perform hula and Tahitian dancing for a group of senior citizens.
Okay, so they're not really my daughter and granddaughter but let's not nitpick, okay? You know the deal. Sheryl had told me they were expecting three hundred people but I thought she was way off the mark. Boy, was I wrong. When I arrived at the location, you'd need a shoehorn to fit in more cars.
What? Are the elderly hard up for entertainment? The old Lawrence Welk and "I Love Lucy" reruns just aren't cutting it anymore?
While I sat in my car in the parking, I saw a flash of red to my left. A car swung into view in front of me coming to a rollicking halt, inches from my front bumper. I suppresed the urge to scream. The woman had parked at such a severe angle that I thought for sure she would be straightening the car out. Nope. She climbed out of the vehicle and raced into the Community Center. (Did I say raced? She went as fast as her walker would allow.)
So I'm in line to go into this auditorium when I'm just struck by how many elderly people surround me. I'm in Geezerville. Blue hair. Canes and walkers. Spectacular spectacles. Pacemakers and hearing aids. Men wearing pants up to their nipples.
I notice that everyone has dollar bills in their wrinkled, bony fists. You have to pay to get in? No one told me! I don't carry cash. I glanced through the line and saw an auditorium full of tables and chairs with placesettings for a meal.
When I got up to the Jurassic era couple selling tickets to get in, I asked the woman on the right,
"How much is it to get in? I don't have any cash on me."
She looked up at me with contempt.
"Are you staying for lunch?" she growled.
"No. I'm just hear to take pictures of my kids who are performing."
She rolled her eyes and looked at the next person in line and waved me away with a brittle porcelain hand.
I entered the auditorium carrying a video camera and a digital camera. I was dressed for the part wearing a loud yellow and black Hawaiian shirt covered in flowers over a long sleeve black Oakland Raiders shirt.
It was a gymnasium filled with tables and chairs and oldsters puttering around and chattering.
I had to be careful where I stepped. Any sudden movement and I could've crashed into one of the seniors and sent them flying to the hardwood in need of a hip replacement.
I put my back against a wall and people watched. They were happy people in their 60's, 70's and 80's and were mostly white. Did I say mostly? They were all white. I was a like a peppercorn in a salt shaker.
And it was hot. Dang hot. I knew I wouldn't be able to hang out against the wall for the entire performance, sweating like a hog. I needed a chair, but I didn't want to take one of the ones from the tables because I wasn't a paying customer.
I slipped over near two old men who were doing ticket taking duties near the front entranceway. They sat on two folding chairs with an empty chair nearby.
"Sir, may I use this chair?" I asked.
He ignored me.
"Sir?"
Then I realized that the man just couldn't hear me. I'd have to touch him. I envisioned placing my hand on his back and having him half turn and then yell, "Take my wallet! Just don't hurt me!"
I gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Sir? May I use this chair?"
He turned, kind of startled. I braced myself for his yell, the horrified looks and for dozens of wallets and purses to come raining down upon me.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! Just take the money!!"
The screams never came. The man explained that the chair was for a colleague that had momentarily left. Then he instructed me to take it, that they'd find her another chair when she got back.
I thanked him and took the chair back to where i'd been standing and sat down, wiping my sweaty brow.
The show began soon enough with girls hula dancing in the middle of the auditorium. None of the girls were my daughter or granddaughter, so I didn't use up too much film on them.
An old man, part of the troupe, played guitar and sang into a PA system that was about as clear as a fast food speaker system cranked to 10. A woman applied rhythmic accompanimant with what looked like a huge gourd, banging it on the floor with a boom rivaling what you'd hear at a stoplight with such obnoxious teen next to you blasting rap music.
Soon, my granddaughter appeared on the floor dressed in a white dress with green leaves encircling her head. She looked like a Roman slave girl. She looked beautiful. Her movements were graceful and poetic. Her fellow dancers glided along with her. All of the hours spent practicing had come down to this. She was splendid.
The only negative was the constant parade of geezers who walked right in front of my camera while I was filming. Some ducked but most didn't. Maybe they couldn't.
Two acts later and her mother was out on the floor. Sheryl looked absolutely beautiful in a red dress with black flowers and a white frilly trim. Her movements were graceful, her arms floating up and out, her body gliding over the floor. It was such a sight to see how her training had paid off.
Soon, she was at my side as we watched Lauryn, repackaged in a hot red dress with tassels and an enormous green lei with a headful of flowers, shake her hips to a Tahitian beat. Sheryl practically squealed with delight and one couldn't help but be touched by a mother's pride.
By then it was no longer Geezerville. The good folks there embraced me like anyone else. I don't know why but elderly white folks love me. There were smiles in my direction and kind greetings. These were just older folks out to enjoy a Friday morning with good company, good food and great entertainment. And I'm glad I got to be a part of it.
I still walked slowly on my way out. I'd hate to bump into one of those folks and send them to the ER.
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