Free Assisted Loving by Bob Morris

Dad.”
    â€œI could just kick myself for behaving that way.”
    â€œWhy don’t you call a friend and go to a concert in that park you like so much?”
    â€œThe forecast is for rain tomorrow.”
    â€œHow about a movie?”
    â€œNothing I want to see right now,” he says.
    â€œHmmm,” I’m yawning. “Aren’t there any ball games on TV?”
    I feel my head racing to come up with a suggestion that’ll keep him happy. After half a dozen years of worrying about my mother, I’ve been enjoying not having to think much about him. But the darker tone of this call is disturbing. All winter in Palm Beach he was so good at amusing himself with Edie. I don’t know why Long Island is more of a challenge. He’s lived there most of his life. He has friends all over Nassau County, and was a longtime member of a tennis and bridge club not that far from Great Neck. But times change. Snowbirds eventually morph into more sedentary species, and stop the migratory pattern of coming back up north every year for their summers. Most of Dad’s pals are living in Florida full-time now. He’s a little at a loss.
    â€œAnd what are your plans, Bobby?” he asks. “Do you have any?”
    â€œOf course,” I lie. “I’m fully booked this weekend. Why?”
    â€œI was just thinking dinner would be nice tomorrow night,” he says.
    â€œI just told you I have plans.”
    â€œI know, and I don’t expect you to change them.”
    â€œI need some advance notice, Dad. How about next weekend?”
    â€œIf that’s what you can do, I’ll take it,” he says.
    I have a pang of something. What is it? Remorse? Guilt? Half and half?
    â€œWell, no, wait. Let me see if I can change things.”
    A few minutes later, after an interval long enough for me to pretend I’ve made some calls to rearrange my schedule, I call back to say I’m coming out tomorrow night.
    â€œOh, that’s wonderful news,” he says, “a dream come true.”
    Penn Station is the usual mob scene. Why are the slowest people blocking your way always the ones in sneakers and tracksuits? “Come on, people,” I mutter as I weave through a crowd. “Move it!”
    I make the train as the doors are closing, and spend the ride sweating and fuming at the inconvenience of this visit. Great Neck station is a half hour away. I step off and walk past flocks of young people heading into the city for Saturday night. Most of them are holding hands with dates, young, in love, or in what they think is love.
    I cross the street and walk along Great Neck Road, under nice old trees, past purring luxury cars you’d never see where we used to live. It’s only a block from the train to the Centra, a brand-new building with rococo pretensions and Marriott bones.
    At the lower entrance, I sign a visitor’s log under a security guard who is asleep, and step into the elevator. It ascends slowly and then stops on the main floor. A cross-looking white-haired woman in baby blue pantsuit thrusts her walker into the door. “That is not what I said,” she’s telling someone in the foyer. “I simply said it could be perceived as anti-Semitic, not that it was anti-Semitic! You should be more discerning.” Done talking, she releases the elevator door to close. But it gets forced open again by an orange-haired woman wearing a sweatshirt with a sequined orange appliqué. She also takes her timestepping in. Then, finally, the doors close, and we are ascending. Nobody says thank you for waiting. “How are you?” lady one asks lady two. “You settling in okay?”
    â€œNot great, not great. I miss my house. I miss the life I had.”
    â€œYou’ll get used to it. I did. But it takes some time.”
    The elevator stops on her floor. She takes her time getting out. Then it’s the same thing on the next floor with the