This week marks ten years since I have lived at Stonewall Gardens Assisted Living in Palm Springs.  It has, on the whole, been a good experience.  There have been ups and downs, but that’s life, isn’t it?  If I were writing a Yelp review, I’d give it 4.5 out of 5 stars, holding back that last half-star because I am known to be a little bit fussy and you have to have something to complain about.  But I can honestly say my “complaints” have had more to do with people than the place.

And they often aren’t complaints, per se.  Rather, they are generational mismatches between me and my fellow residents, who are, on average, twenty years older than me.  That age difference was much more pronounced when I first moved in (still in my forties), but because we are focused on our shared LGBTQ+ culture and history here and not things like how many birthdays one has had, it is easier to live (and thrive) in our unique community.

“Is that a website Matt, can I go there on my laptop?” … “Well, there is a website for it, but it is actually a chatbot that responds to your prompts.” … “I see, what’s a chatbot?  And I don’t have any prompts; where can I get those?” … “Shutup and eat your chicken before it gets cold!”

The olds will argue about anything.  And they are never wrong, at least not in their minds.  “Hey John, what’s for dinner?” … “You mean supper.” … “Oh do I?” … “Yes, dinner refers to the main meal of the day, while supper is a lighter, more informal affair; historically, dinner was the larger meal eaten around midday, with supper being served later in the day, often in the late afternoon or early evening.” … “Yes I know that, but I’m not writing a paper on the dining habits of pre-enlightenment Europe.  And please, don’t start on your whole flaccid is pronounced ‘flak-sid’ because of the double c – I do not want to discuss how best to describe a non-erect penis with you, because on my planet we call that ‘flaaas-id.’  I’ve lived here for ten long years, I am well aware they serve us our main meal of the day at noon; for the love of god I just want to know what we’re having tonight so I can decide if I should order from Grubhub!” … “What is a grub hub?” … “Shutup and eat your chicken before it gets cold!”

And you think my life is easy?

Now before I moved to Stonewall, I lived at another assisted living facility about two miles from here called Hallmark.  It was fine as these places go, but old, straight, widowed women outnumbered men (who were also overwhelmingly straight) by 2:1.  Nothing against the old ladies, one of whom, Lois, tried to seduce me by showing up in my room in her nightgown late one night, supposedly to talk about the tax implications of IRA accounts – which is just the kind of conversation you have late at night with octogenarian nymphomaniacs in their nighties – but I rather quickly determined that scene wasn’t for me.

One of the recurring themes of the blue-haired brigade was that the staff were stealing from them.  In actuality, the ladies (and a few of the gents) were just misplacing things, and, being old and forgetful, having a hard time locating them.  Officially, this is referred to as “mild cognitive impairment” or MCI. But no, to hear the olds tell it the caregivers and med techs would distract us with food in the dining room while they’d go rummaging through our personal things looking for anything they might sell on the thriving “shit from the old people’s home” black market.

The worst was Joyce.

Adolpho was our driver and handyman, so when he wasn’t offsite driving someone to the doctor or the store, you’d find him in someone’s bathroom fixing a leaky faucet.  He was also an obnoxious bigot and homophobe, which did not endear him to me.  I don’t know how he got on Joyce’s bad side, but she was convinced he came into work every day with the sole intention of stealing from her, and she let everyone know this from the executive director down to the cook.  I wasn’t a fan of his, but I knew he wasn’t some criminal mastermind or thief.

Joyce was hard of hearing, and to compensate for this she did not speak, she yelled.  Even if she was just asking you to pass the salt.  And because of this I gave her the name “Loud Joyce,” and I’m quite pleased with myself because that moniker caught on and I heard other people using it to refer to her.

It was not uncommon, in fact it was an almost daily occurrence, for Joyce to arrive in the dining room in the morning and announce, to the whole room, what Adolpho had stolen from her the day before.  I remember once she came in and bellowed out that Adolpho had taken her, and I quote, “panties.”  And I thought – of course!  That makes perfect sense, because homophobes, who over-emphasize their masculinity to blunt even the slightest same-sex attraction or affection towards other males making everyone painfully aware of how “straight” they are, love nothing more than mincing around all day wearing women’s delicate things under their pants.  It’s the feel of the silk on their buttocks.

So, one morning Joyce stood at the threshold of the dining room.  To be fair, we’ve already established that the olds have their own vocabulary.  I’m sure she was referring to some kind of massager, like you might use on your neck or shoulders to relieve pain and stiffness.  Be that as it may, she didn’t say ‘massager.’  She announced, over the bobbing heads of people eating eggs and drinking coffee and reading the paper…

“Well, he’s finally done it.  Adolpho stole my vibrator.”

The thought of Joyce having, let alone using, a personal pleasuring device like a vibrator made me throw up in my mouth a little.  All kinds of thoughts – AND IMAGES – ran through my mind… was it shaped like a? … was it battery operated or did she have to recharge it with a special adaptor base you plug into the wall socket? … where did she buy it? … does she use lube? … how am I supposed to finish these eggs when I am now thinking about, and actively picturing, Loud Joyce’s vajayjay?

Interestingly, “the staff are stealing from me” has never really come up here or been an issue at Stonewall Gardens, apart from Bad Larry over five years ago, and he’s long since moved out. Maybe LGBTQ+ seniors are inherently less forgetful, or just less paranoid. No, I’m not telling you why I named him Bad Larry. He’s still alive and might sue for libel. And in case you find yourself wondering, yes, there was a “Good Larry” too.

I am looking forward to another ten years at Stonewall Gardens. And if I’m lucky, ten after that. And maybe a few more after that. But if I start accusing our driver, Ricky, of stealing my underwear and other items of a personal nature, probably best to just put me out of my misery.