Jed Wolf

When I arrived in Florida, my first singing gig was at at a well-run assisted living facility, but within months the once cheerful activity director divulged why she and half the staff of were abruptly leaving. The place had been bought by a corporation who’d taken over twelve other privately run “communities” statewide.

Despite the declining morale of remaining staff and residents, every month I continue to show up to do my thing and though my name is on the new electronic board, I know when I arrive nothing and no one will be ready. Tables are always in the way and overworked aids, some who’d once been friendly, would rather shake their heads than help set up the room. After a half hour or so, maybe they’ll wheel-in five to fifteen residents for no apparent reason.

Having sung there the longest, I’ve seen the comings and goings of everyone including guards who used to man the booth before the gate was mechanized. Instead of someone tipping their hat as I roll in, these days I sit pressing stupid buttons calling impatient receptionists who “have no way” of opening the gate until it inexplicably flings up.

Parked unreasonably far from the sterile entrance, I roll my sweaty equipment in from the hot sun, through triple doors where another reluctant receptionist buzzes me in like a vexation. I head for the elevator hoping to catch a ride with someone who knows the new code, which they’d never give to someone like me. “I’ll not squander my smiles but save them for the deserving,” I think as I head up the slow, depressive elevator.

Today, rounding the corner, facing the usual heavy tables and three wide screen TV’s blaring, I greeted the new formerly perky activity director I’d met only last month who today, rolled her eyes as if she hoped I might not show up. I know it’s work to roust residents up but SINGER JED – 2PM is on LED boards in every hall. Without a “how’s it going?” or “Jed’s here,” from anyone, in order to avoid blatant passive aggression I focused on moving tables and figured out five fucking remotes while humming “Climb Every Mountain.”

About ten minutes into my set, they wheeled in my nemesis – a ghostly Christian woman who treats me like I’m Satan. Though I’ve learned hymns to try and reach her, she refuses to tell me her name and threatens to kick me if I get too close. This week though I rehearsed “The Prayer” especially for her and sang it devoutly, I could see her sneering and baring her teeth from the corner of my eye as if it hurt.

At some point the new activity director rolled another sourpuss right next to her and the two spent the next forty five minutes chaffing loudly, holding their noses at me and even booing at times. Then a maintenance guy dropped a pull out couch off a nearby dolly which sprung open nearly clobbering both of them, and during “Fly Me to the Moon” a waiter tied open double doors to the outside for a smoke where landscapers were loudly whipping weeds. As I patiently returned from closing the doors, careful not to lock several staff out, I noticed the activity director behind a nurses desk deep in whispery gossip with a familiar aid who before all this downward progress, used to enjoy dancing with me like I was a wild wolf.

Meanwhile new neighbors have moved in across the street. The previous guy, a Hemingway type who moved south to be nearer the Keys, was a likable blowhard who said his limp was from being gored while running with the bulls in Pamplona. So I was surprised when these new neighbors’ set a twelve foot high sculpture of a bullfighter on a horse plunging a sword into the shoulder of a giant white bull on their porch facing my house. “What’s the significance of this, theme,” I wondered.

This new couple I first met one night walking while wearing boxer shorts. He has long hair, and a nondescript foreign, perhaps Spanish accent. She seems approachable, and despite or because of that enormous bullfighting sculpture reminiscent of our previous neighbor, they might be eccentric or enigmatic which interests me.

So this evening while stewing about whether or not to confront the activity director, tell her I was moving or quit, I notice our ambiguous new neighbors taking measurements in their yard for plantings. I waltzed over wearing pants, and asked if I could take a closer look at the statue on their porch, which on closer inspection appeared to be a wooden sculpture.

Rather than a matador, as I approached I could see it was a ghostly Native American rider in battle with a white bison. “Sacred” he said pointing to the beast. She said she hated it cause the hunter had no eyes. “Cyprus” he said. Thinking he might be Middle Eastern I asked where he was from and I barely made out, “North Dakota.” He asked me in very broken English if I wanted a “beer” and motioned for me to come inside. When I said “no thanks” he took my arm and led me in. Passing a huge wooden golden eagle, I couldn’t help but gasp but was speechless at the stunning, life-size black “beer” in the corner. He’d carved them all.

He’s a Lakota Sioux recovering from a recent stroke who purchased huge “cypress” logs in Florida years ago and had them shipped to North Dakota. He loves landscaping and though he can’t carve yet, or “maybe never again,” he mumbled, he and his wife moved, here.