I was an illegal alien in Del Webb's community of oldsters.
For seven months in 1984 and 1985, I lived in a Sun City condominium owned by my parents. Because I was only 28 at the time, this was a problem. In fact, it was more than a problem, it was downright illegal. The Homeowners Association rules said someone age fifty or older was supposed to be living with me. I was living by myself.
I'm lucky I lasted seven months.
It was my parents' idea for me to move to Arizona. In 1984, I was living back East, working at a well-paying job I didn't like. I was unhappy with everything in my life: relationship, career, location. Writing was the only thing in life that mattered to me. I wanted to go somewhere, get a job as a waitress and write.
My father cornered me at his birthday celebration. (My parents spend each summer on a lake in Connecticut.) He asked me to consider coming out to Arizona with them.
My reply was instant. "Oh, Daddy, that's nice of you," I said. "But I really don't think I could live with you and Mom. I'm 28. I've lived on my own for a long time now."
Then he told me about the Sun City condo.
"It was on the market," he explained. "But your mother and I have agreed to take it off, if you want to give Arizona a try."
It was cold that September and getting colder by the day. Six months of sunshine, low overhead, a chance to write in a safe, quiet environment sounded pretty good.
I said yes.
The first snafu we ran into was getting me my own Rec Center card. Rec cards are not distributed capriciously in Sun City. For $52 a year, they might be the best deal going.
There are requirements, of course. First of all, you must prove you rent or own a Sun City dwelling. Second, you must be polite. Third, it helps if you look older than fifty.
We were in trouble.
My mother, who knows the ropes and perhaps anticipated a battle, accompanied me on my Rec Center card quest. This was a good thing. The word "no" has a funny effect on Mom: It seems to spur her into overdrive.
When the Rec Center ladies informed us I needed I.D. to prove I was a resident and not just a visitor, my mother had a one-word response: "Fine." She grabbed me by the arm, put me in the car and drove me to the Arizona Motor Vehicle Division on 99th Avenue. There, barely in the state two days, I took and passed the written test. While oldsters all around me failed their eye tests, I passed that, too. I surrendered my New Jersey driver's license, registered to vote, and, voila, I was a resident.
Back at the Rec Center, the card ladies were not too pleased. They decided to take another tack. "Do you live with your daughter?" they asked Mom.
Without a moment's hesitation, my mother responded. "Yes, I do," she lied.
The Rec Center bureaucrats were pros at interrogation. "You live at this address," they repeated, eyebrows raised.
Luckily, my mom is skilled at dealing with the bureaucracy. She tapped her fingers on the counter. "Yes," she insisted impatiently.
It was a stand-off. I got the card.
Using it was another matter, however.
Every time I borrowed books from the Bell Library I was proofed. After I handed the librarian my card, she'd look up at me and smile sweetly. "May I see a driver's license, please?"
At first, I resisted. "Why?" I'd say. "You have my Rec Center card."
Underneath, I could tell she was hard as flint, but on the surface she smiled sweetly. "We just have to be sure it's really you," she'd say. Or, "We ask everyone for additional identification, dear. It's to protect you." Funny, I never saw them proof anyone else.
And forget using the attractive Rec Center facilities. Though I would have loved to swim laps or use the weight room or sauna, I never even tried. The few times I went with my parents, the glares nearly killed me. The thought of going there alone never entered my mind. Fear of hassles nixed it.
Through a temp agency, I found part-time employment as a receptionist at a nearby electronics plant. My hours were 7:30 to 11:30 a.m. After work, I'd drive home, maybe pick up some groceries at Gemco, return to my apartment and write.
Every afternoon, while I sat at my typewriter, I could hear my two neighbors on either side of me playing their organs. This was how I knew they were alive. They'd play show tunes or Big Band tunes or Sixties pop songs. The music was sort of soothing, their feet rhythmically gliding over the pedals. I didn't know my neighbors. When I first moved in, the woman next door stopped by to introduce herself. She and I shared a carport. When I opened the door, I saw her face fall when she saw how old I was. "Oh," she said, somewhat befuddled. "I saw the New Jersey license plate on the car and thought I'd say hello." "Hi," I said.
She looked around the carport nervously. "I used to teach in Parsippany. Are you from New Jersey?"
"I used to live there," I said. "In Essex County."
"Oh, yes," she said. "I know that area." She was backing away from the door. "Well, have a nice day."
"You, too," I said, but she was already gone.
I knew she would tell everyone else in the condo that someone under age was living there. Against my nature, I became a very quiet person. I watched a lot of TV with the sound turned low. I read biographies of tortured artists. In my letters, I started referring to myself as "the Emily Dickinson of Sun City."
My New Jersey neighbor never spoke to me again.
Outside Sun City, people were equally confused. Whenever I paid for something by check, I'd watch as the salesperson turned comedian. "You look a little young for Sun City," he or she would joke. "Is this your correct address?"
Yes, I'd say, it is.
The salesperson would look at me more closely and maybe give a nervous laugh. "Oh," he or she would say. "It's just that we don't see many people your age with that address."
Yeah, I'd say, I bet. Encounters like this only made me feel more paranoid.
After moving to Sun City in October, I laid low for a few months. By December, I was going hoopy. I needed to see young people. I needed to drive more than 35 miles an hour. I needed to go somewhere where I didn't worry about The Posse pulling me over for being too young.
I was invited by a 23-year-old woman from work to a party in the East Valley.
I decided to go.
The party was at an apartment complex in a Mesa residential neighborhood. The weird thing was: to me, at night, Mesa didn't look too different from Sun City. No one at the party was very pleased with this observation.
It didn't turn out all bad, however. I met some nice people, including a guy. I hadn't gone to the party with the intention of meeting anyone. I was still trying to break off with my boyfriend in New York. But fate sometimes intervenes in these matters. After the New Year, we started dating.
Pretty soon, it seemed natural to invite him out to the condo. We'd watch movies on the VCR, listen to music, talk. We had a lot in common. It was a long drive from Mesa and eventually he spent the night. The condo had no extra parking area, and I was worried about the neighbors, so I made him hide his truck in the alley. In the morning, he'd sneak out before my fellow condo citizens rose for their morning constitutionals. They got up pretty early.
In March, I dumped my boyfriend back East. By April, I was spending a lot of time away from Sun City. That's when the condo notes started.
The palm tree in my little courtyard grew rapidly during the spring. Some of its fronds stuck out over the patio wall. One day, I found a note in my mailbox advising me that the palm had to be cut: The fronds were disturbing the condo community.
Since my parents were out of town and I lacked the appropriate tools, I decided to ignore the note. Two weeks later, I came home to find the driveway in front of my condo littered with palm fronds. The condo residents had taken matters into their own hands. Someone had hacked off the offending fronds. I picked them up and put them in the trash.
Things, I noted, were getting hostile.
By May, I decided I'd had enough. I was sick of always worrying about whether someone would find out. I was sick of the jokes from salespeople, sick of living in the middle of nowhere, sick of driving fifteen miles to see a movie.
I decided to move to Mesa, where my boyfriend lived.
I'm sure no one in my condo community wept when I pulled away in my boyfriend's loaded-down truck. My typing was probably getting to them as much as their organ music was to me.
No one came by with offers to help.
No one even waved.
The following year, my parents rented the condo to a nice old lady. I'm sure she fit in a lot better than I--at least she was old. She was a good tenant and my parents were really sad when she died a few months later.
As for me, in 1986 I married the guy I met at the party. We live in an apartment in Phoenix and are very happy. I still write at home in the afternoons, but nobody seems to mind. Sometimes my work even gets published.
I still visit my parents in Sun City. They live in a house on the golf course now. My old condo is rented to someone who seems in fairly good health. Or so my parents believe.
Though I hold no grudges as a result of my seven-month Sun City residency, I also harbor no illusions about the nice old people who live there. I know how they really are. I lived among them for one season in the sun. This is a true story.
First of all, you must prove you rent or own a Sun City dwelling. Second, you must be polite. Third, it helps if you look older than fifty.
I could hear my two neighbors on either side of me playing their organs. This was how I knew they were alive.
I came home to find the driveway littered with palm fronds. The residents had taken matters into their own hands.
GERIATRIC & THE PACEMAKERS FOR SUN CITY ... v5-23-90
