Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

My name is Edith Grabowski. Im ninety-three years old, and Ive decided to stop having sex.

I guess you just reach a certain age.

There are only so many positions. Even fewer with the medical equipment. And the scares are more and more frequent. The guy shows up and smiles, I brought my little blue pills, like its the funniest romantic line ever. An hour later, his eyes bug out. My heart! My heart! And just before we hit the Life Alert button, No, wait, another false alarm. Where were we? Then he thinks we just simply pick up where we left off. You get old enough, you realize thats the difference between men and women. Stopping to grab the nitroglycerin tablets is a definite mood-kill.

Oh, and venereal disease. All these TV stations now reporting that some of the highest rates of STD in Florida are at senior citizen communities.

Thats true, look it up on the Internet.

Its usually those places that have clubhouses and aqua-therapy swimming pools and newsletters with calendars of things to do. And Im here to tell you they aint listing everything.

So anyway, here we are backstage. Me and my girlfriends. Again. Another round of the TV shows. I mean what are the odds? Its the third time in our lives weve landed in the middle of a major news event.

Make that four. But the first time doesnt really count. It was more of a feel-good story. Fifteen years ago, me and the girls started a little investment club during our morning coffee klatch. Something to do while knitting. And we blew away like ninety percent of the mutual fund managers. Whats the big deal? We just read those glossy financial magazines with profiles of CEOs and picked companies run by the hottest hunks. But then the media got ahold of it and went bonkers, like us old people can do nothing but sit around playing pinochle and pooping our pants. There are three of us besides me: Eunice, Edna, and Ethel. So they dubbed us the E-Team, without even asking. We said bullshit on that alliteration. We all have grandchildren, and renamed ourselves the G-Unit. Its what they have to call us. Its in the contracts.

But back to todays story. Thats why were at the TV studio. Its a Christmas tale. Except not one youve remotely heard before. Like the other times we were in the news, it all swirled around our neighbors, the Davenports. Mainly Jim Davenport. And hes such a mild-mannered person you cant help but feel sorry for him. I dont see how he holds up. In just over a decade, three weird blowups of violence and mayhem. Again, what are the odds?

Here are the odds:

Serge.

He started hanging around Jim again during the holidays. They say Serge is a serial killer. I didnt get that vibe. Hes just another Florida lunatic, hyperactive as they come. He has this sort of offbeat charm, and not too hard on the eyes if you ask me. I said Id given up sex, but Id let him eat crackers in my bed.

So now were back on the TV circuit. And even though its a great story with enough action for three movies, the TV people still just want to ask about our sex lives, especially the VD angle at the senior centers. They have such a knee-slapping good time bringing it up and joking about those commercials for Active Retirement Communities. Last time they asked, I turned to Eunice: Tell em how you gave us all the crabs from the sofa where we play pinochle. Talk about your screeching halt. The shows anchor acted like his head had just burst into flames, and they cut to a commercial. They dont ask those questions anymore.

Hold it, the TV people just gave us the signal. Were on in five minutes.

All the stations have these spunky hostesses. Supposed to tend to our needs backstage, patronizing us because of our age. Smiling and using a singsong voice like youd talk to a toddler: Would we like juice and cookies? No, vodka. Theyre mostly blondes with fake boobs. Sluts.

So heres what we do: When the hostess says were at the two-minute mark, one of us gets a funny look, stands up, and turns around. I just pooped myself. Hurry up and wipe me before we go on. We only have two minutes!

The woman usually turns white and runs off.

And then me and the girls giggle our fucking dentures loose.

Here we go. One minute to airtime. The hostess just ran off. We can hear the audience applauding.

Story time again. It all started just over a month ago, right before Thanksgiving

A bulbous head popped up from the backseat of a 1972 Chevelle. Bloodshot eyes. Hair staging a riot.

What time is it?

Right before Thanksgiving, said the driver.

I mean time of day.

When you usually get up. Sunset.

Oooo, dont feel good. A hair-of-the-dog flask went to the passengers lips. The Chevelle raced east across the Gandy Bridge.

A hand went up in the backseat. Serge?

Serge looked in his rearview. Yes, you in the rear. Coleman has a question?

Where are we?

The Chevelle came off the bridge with a bounce, and Serge pointed a digital camera out the drivers window. Click, click click See that welcome sign?

Yeah?

Any clues?

Coleman shook his head.

Welcome to Tampa generally means were not somewhere else.

Were back in Tampa?

Id like to see a flashier sign, though. Something with lightning bolts, titty bars, and sandwiches.

Are you off your meds again?

Yes. Serge chugged a thermos of coffee. This place has some of the best Cuban sandwiches in the country. We need a slogan, too. And not the old slogan. Know what the old slogan was? Ill tell you! Serge tossed the thermos over his shoulder.

Ow. Coleman rubbed his forehead.

The old slogan was this: Tampa: Americas Next Great City. Ive heard of playing the politics of low expectations, but what the hell?

Its not a good slogan?

Serge made a skidding right on Westshore Boulevard. Coleman, the slogan is so bad that the human brain wasnt designed to process it. Or at least its journey: A college president actually presented someone with a marketing diploma, and then later someone else handed that same person a bunch of money for those words. Was everyone drunk at that slogan meeting? I mean, what the fuck were they rejecting? Tampa: Still waiting for the Milwaukee-Racine hub to blow the bond rating, or Visit again soon: Almost got our shit together.

I like the last one. Coleman began climbing over into the front seat.

At least its truth in advertising- Serge quickly raised his right arm. Watch the foot!

Whoa! Need a little help here.

Im driving.

A brief flurry of flailing.

Its okay now. Im good.

Serge looked over to the passenger side. Coleman, your heads down at the floorboards again and your legs are on the seat.

I know. Its weird. He twisted the end of a joint in his mouth and flicked a Bic. At least the cops cant see me burning a number this way.

Its baffling that more people dont ride like that.

Coleman exhaled a pot cloud up toward his feet. Tell me about it.

Another skidding turn. Serge raised his hand again to block Colemans legs.

Serge?

We have another question from the marijuana section. Proceed.

Why do you have that gun?

What gun? Serge looked toward his left hand, where he was steering with a 9mm Glock pistol for all traffic to see. Oh, this thing? He waved the weapon around the Chevelles interior. Completely forgot I was holding this. Serge aimed the gun out the window and squinted with one eye closed. Then made a shooting sound with his mouth.

But why are you holding it? asked Coleman.

Getting ready for the holidays. Serge racked the slide, chambering a fresh round. You know how I love this time of year.