Getting Old Is Criminal by Rita Lakin Page A

a fast-food place with a lot of screaming kids.”
    “Or an ice-cold bagel with a schmear, sitting on a free bench,” shouts another. I can’t believe it. It’s Evvie reliving her breakfast with Sol.
    “Hey, whatever happened to Dutch treat?” calls a male voice across the room. “Why do we guys always have to be the ones to pay?” A chorus of male yeah s goes with that.
    There’s a lot of back-and-forth jeering.
    The pencil is tap-tap-tapping. Cindi is shouting now, hoping to prevent an uprising. “And that’s why you’ve come here! Equal opportunities for everyone! A chance for thirty men and women to G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 1 7
    date in one night. The shortcut to love at first sight. You’ll look at him, and he’ll look at you, you’ll ask each other questions. You’ll know if there’s a spark.” She holds up her left hand; something glistens on her ring finger. “That’s how I met my husband and that’s why I’m a believer. It’s never too late to fall in love!”
    The room erupts in applause. And catcalls.
    Mostly catcalls.
    Sure. Never too late to get hurt again. I think it, but I’m not about to shout it out. Frankly, I wish I were home reading a good mystery.
    “Easy for her to say. She’s twenty and skinny and gorgeous.” I look back. This time it’s Bella making her little comment, feeling self-righteous.
    Cindi is closing fast. “Okay, let’s party! Women, each of you take a seat at one of the tables. Men, line up in a straight line. When the music starts, you start dancing your way around the room, but stay in line. When the music stops, sit down next to your nearest lady. Try to be relaxed, ask questions, look one another in the eyes, and say something that describes who you are. When the music starts again, the gentleman will say thank you as he gets up,” she says pointedly, “as will the woman, and he moves on, dancing to the right.
    The next round, the women dance, the men sit, and the women get to choose their men.”
    Huge applause at that.
    “At the end of the dance portion, we’ll match up the requested numbers and the social hour will 1 1 8 • R i t a L a k i n
    begin. If you don’t get a partner, well, there’s always next week.”
    “If I live that long,” shouts a ninety-year-old in the far corner, leaning on the wall for support.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, the ball is in your court.
    Have fun!” Cindy nods to her assistant at the sound system.
    There is much tentative moving about. The girls grab seats next to one another. I don’t want to par-ticipate, so I just stand around. I can’t think of anyone except Jack. The girls grin nervously, except for Ida, who has already lost all interest.
    “Break a leg,” says Bella, unclear on the concept.
    With much pushing and shoving, the men manage to get in a line. The music starts. It’s “Hava Nagila”—of course everyone knows that one. The women energetically sing along and tap their feet as the men, obviously self-conscious, stomp their clumsy way around the room in a parody of dancing. The blind man has his dog with him. The dog has better rhythm than most of the men. There are two men with walkers, one with crutches, and one old geezer attached to an oxygen cart, walking with the aid of his nurse. God bless them all, for never giving up trying. But, I better keep out of their way.
    The music stops, mid-note. The men freeze.
    They look around frantically, sizing up the goods.
    A redhead with big hair and a lot of makeup G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 1 9
    catches several eyes. Three men run for the seat next to her. One gets it, sneers. One sulks away to a different seat. The other one trips and falls. Two medical assistants in white coats hurry to his aid.
    The talking starts, the room is filled with rapid conversation.
    I wander from table to table and pick up snip-pets of conversation.
    I pass table number one: A short, tubby guy with a bad toupee, panting from that