Recently at the Classic Comedy Club I got introduced as “This next comedian is so old he shits fossils” again the next night “ Please welcome the amazing, still breathing Terry Free.” Am I really getting that old I’d asked myself. The idea hits me maybe the long and winding road might not be so long after all, but it’s all come right now I’m doing the rest home gig.
Comedy at the Rest Home… there’s got to be a joke in there somewhere. Some of my audience have already fallen asleep and I haven’t even started. It’s hot and humid outside and not much different inside. The room is large, open and bright, not something I’m used to after so many evening gigs but I’ll give it a shot. There are four birthdays to celebrate before I kick off and on cue a huge cake is wheeled in displaying enough burning candles to trigger the smoke alarm plus no one has the strength to blow them out; not on their own. Birthday song over I’m introduced to a mixed sea of happy and tired faces. I go through the set, but not as full on as a comedy club. I even get heckled, several times by the same person, Reg, a corner-stone of the rest home he got as many laughs as I did. They all seem to enjoy it though and after an hour I’m led away to the sound of rapturous applause for afternoon tea. At the counter I collect a cuppa and head back to a table in the corner. From here I can see the others coming in taking up regular seats with regular friends. My contact for the home, Viv, joins me and gives me the rundown on several of the residents.
My curiosity gets the better of me.
“There’s a lot of women here Viv, do their husbands have outside interests or part-time work?”
“No, they’re all dead”
Of course they are……
Several people come up to me and say they enjoyed the gig, although they didn’t all put it that way. One man in particular insists he wants to come over and talk to me and moving at glacier speed across the floor shuffles out from behind his Zimmer frame, with brakes attached to it no less. I wonder how fast those things go before you have to apply them.
It’s Reg, The Heckler.
“You’ve got a wonderful voice”
“ Thanks very much”
“Have you ever thought of having lessons?”
I’m not sure how to take this but do so with a grin. “A bit late for that now don’t you think?”
“How old are you then?”
“Sixty”
“You’re just a kid!…. I’m ninety eight. If you took lessons you could go places.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’ve often been told to go places.
The contact is broken by a huge woman loaded up with an equally large plate of sausage rolls and following behind is a bird like lady pecking her way through the room with lamington cake for all.
“They won‘t be here for long Terry ”
Was she talking about the cakes or the people?
I have to admit that I am rapidly approaching becoming a Senior Citizen. Where’s all the time going ? I’ve still got a shopping list of cool things to do and turning into a Senior Citizen doesn’t sound cool at all…and who came up with the name? Middle age is bad enough but S.C. sounds like a bunch of doddery old people sitting in rows, dribbling. As if on cue again
I turn to the sound of choking to find Reg struggling with a large piece of Lamington stuck in his throat and, coughing madly, he shoots his teeth across the table top and onto the empty plate for all to see. A moment of silent awe and then hysterical laughter. I must include this in my next gig. Recovered, he eases down next to me and sips his tea. I look across at him.
“What’s it like being a Senior Citizen Reg?”
“You mean in today’s unenlightened society? How about bleak. Suddenly no one is listening to you. Your years of life’s experience mean nothing and your opinions count for squat. In enlightened societies Senior Citizens are respected and listened to by their children, each word looked on as a pearl of wisdom but here in our ‘modern’ society after spending a life time of working and paying taxes you’re tossed aside and herded to one of these geriatric ghettos. Even then the government still do their best to milk you of every last cent.”
“Not too good then.”
“I told you, you’re just a kid …you’ll find out in time.”
“Thanks for the insight Reg and for the tea and cakes.” and with a cheery wave I head out through the door to freedom.
That’s why I never worried about getting older, I never knew any old people called Terry. What happens as you get old? Does the day suddenly arrive when you have to change your name to Albert….or Reg? He has almost forty years on me and I can’t help thinking where I’ll be then.
I only live half an hour walk from here so never bothered bringing the car and have to laugh as I turn through the gates and I find myself….. skipping…. Just like a kid.
