NOVEMBER NOVEL STORY
IDEAS
THE ROMANTIC ARMS
NOVEMBER NOVEL STORY
IDEAS
THE ROMANTIC ARMS
A Senior Living
Facility With Benefits
The Roman Arms, built in the go-go 1980s
was designed for those wealthier senior Italian Americans, primarily men, living
on Detroit’s eastside. In its heyday, the Knights of Columbus held monthly meetings
in the Arms cafeteria. Reliving stories of the old days over a lunch of antipasti,
lasagna, pizza, and wine. After, the old men played cards in the game room and
talked about women and sex in a mixture of second generation Italian and a
crude version of blue class Detroiter.
Over the decades, as the neighborhood
lost its shine, the facility opened its arms and welcomed Poles, Iranians, and
even African Americans; people who polite Detroiters (read, bigots with a
conscience) called Negros or Blacks.
In 2020, when Henry and Linda
deposited Calvin at the Roman Arms, the facility had lost all its luster and
most of its male residents. Calvin was one of only a handful of men living among
three floors of aging widows and single women with cats.
Calvin stayed in his room for the
first few days, watching TV and eating cold cuts and frozen dinners. The
apartment had a stove that Cal was permitted to use. His “Life Plan” paid for two
meals a day along with an evening snack.
At breakfast, from 6:30 to 9:00 the
seating was open. At lunch, the residents ate in shifts and at assigned seats.
Lunch was the main meal for most residents. For dinner, they could eat on their
own or go out to dinner. The evening snack included a sandwich and a dessert.
Residents were allowed to take a tray from lunch or a snack back to their rooms.
Cal attended his first lunch on his
third day at the Arms. At seventy, he was the youngest man at his assigned
table. The men ate in silence. Two required some assistance cutting their meat.
Halfway through lunch, Cal asked for a to-go tray. In the elevator, Calvin cried,
imagining his life was over.
At 8:30 that evening, Calvin was a little
surprised when he found himself standing in the doorway of the second-floor
game room where six of the twelve men living at the Roman Arms were playing
poker.
“Excuse me, it’s late,” said Cal.
“No worries.
We have the room until 10:00. You’re the new guy, ain’t ya? What’s your name?”
asked the only African American in the room. “I’m Bill Jefferson.”
“Calvin …
Cal. Can I join you?” Calvin asked.
“Grab a chair, brother,” said a bald
man with rosy cheeks, a massive betty, and a laughing voice. “I’m Constantine,
but folks call me Connie. Welcome to the Jury. Twelve men and true. You've
already met Jeff. Our fellow jurors are Sam, Jefferson, Charles, Karol with a
K, and Lev. Tonight the game is poker. How’s your memory?”
“Pretty good, I guess, why?”
“On Tuesdays we play for money.
Penny ante with raises limited to a nickel or dime. On Thursdays, the boys with
memory issues play cards for chips. No money, it would be fair. Monday and Wednesday,
the room is reserved for the ladies. Cookies, gossip, and cards. No drinking
and no men allowed.”
“What about Friday and Saturday?”
Cal asked.
“How’s your plumbing?” Lev asked.
“Plumbing?”
“You know your stuff.”
“I …”
“It’s okay, brother,” said an
extra-large black man with short white hair, a winning smile, and two-day old
stubble. “Lev tends to talk in code. He’s asking if your dick works. Can you still
get it up?”
“If not, Sam there,” said Lev
pointing, “has a supply of those little blue pills.”
“It’s been awhile,” said Cal. “My
wife died three years ago. I haven’t…”
“All that’s going to change,” said
Charles, with a grin.
“Can I ask why you call your group
the Jurors?”
“Cal, when a new man moves in here,
he’s sort of on trial. We are on trial.”
“There ain’t no lawyers,” said
Jefferson, looking hard at Lev.
“You have to defend yourself. We
are the jury,” said Connie.
“Is there a judge?” Cal asked.
“The women,” said Charles, again
with an even larger grin. “Welcome to the Romantic Arms. Or as I like to say,
‘Senior Living with Benefits.’”
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