First Week in The Home
Sam had just settled into an independent living complex he dubbed ‘The Home,’ a place where the residents shared one defining trait: they were all very old. Yet, despite their creaky joints and silver hair, some were surprisingly spry, although not always in a flattering way. Such was the case when Sam’s first week in the dining room for lunch delivered a trio of encounters so absurdly comical they could have been scripted for a sitcom, each one more laughable than the last.
On day 2, Sam had seated himself at a table, menu in hand, when a woman shuffled up and collapsed into the chair opposite him like a sack of potatoes. Without so much as a ‘hello’, she barked her name to him and demanded a bowl of chili from the server before Sam could even open his mouth.
When the chili arrived, the woman dove in like a competitive eater at a county fair. With her nose practically snorkeling in the bowl, she shoveled the chili into her mouth with the speed of a wood-chipper, punctuating the spectacle with snorts, gasps, and one loud fart that although mercifully odorless, echoed like a trumpet blast.
Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing.
When the woman finished, she looked up, unleashed a belch that could have rattled the chandelier. Then, after a second even louder belch, she stood, turned, and waddled off. Sam’s suppressed laughter erupted as he watched her disappear from view, but when it earned him curious stares from nearby tables, he suppressed it again until he had escaped to his apartment where he howled until his sides ached.
On day 3, Sam picked a table near the dining room entrance, hoping for a quieter lunch. No such luck. An irritated and authoritative voice shouted from behind: ‘This table is reserved!’
He turned to face a woman so short she could have doubled as a garden gnome, her pudgy frame wobbling under a mop of gray hair that looked like a knit cap stretched over her ears and her face a makeup disaster—foundation caked like plaster, eyeliner smudged like a raccoon’s, and rouge so bright it could guide ships in a fog.
‘I said this table is reserved! Now get up!’ she shouted again, jabbing a sausage-like finger at him.
Sam stood. ‘I didn’t know there were reserved tables,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘I’ll check it out.’
‘You do that! Just don’t sit at my table again!’ she hollered as he walked away and seated himself at another table.
The following morning, he checked it out and was told that none of the tables were reserved unless a reserve sign was placed on them by the management. At lunch time, he was tempted to sit at the table the woman had claimed was reserved for her just to piss her off. Instead, he laughed off his encounter with her, as well as his temptation, and sat at another table, leaving her with her delusion that she was important enough to warrant her very own table in the dining room.
On day 4, Sam sat near the entrance when a man approached, asking to join him. ‘Sure,’ Sam said, unaware he was about to meet a character straight out of a comedy sketch.
The man, a dead ringer for Tim Walz with a grin to match, introduced himself. Sam did likewise, and as they talked, he discovered the man was a hellfire-and-brimstone Christian who could have been plucked from his childhood nightmares. Back then, Sam’s neighborhood called people like him ‘Fundies’—short for fundamentalists—who’d preach at you until your ears bled.
The man was a ‘Fundie’ on steroids. Between chomps of his turkey club sandwich, he launched into a sermon so loud it drowned out the clatter of dishes, declaring himself a Bible expert despite no credentials.
Sam felt an attempt to baptize him was imminent.
When he asked which Bible version was literally God’s Word, the man froze, his face blank as a wiped chalkboard, before dodging the question and babbling on about Jesus as if they were best friends.
Sam’s lips twitched with amusement, and when he mentioned the lack of scientific evidence for the man’s faith-based beliefs, the man puffed up and claimed he was a scientist—again despite no credentials.
Sam nearly choked on his salad at the absurdity. He considered the man’s claim laughable on two counts. The man couldn’t identify any supporting scientific evidence, and he didn’t seem to realize that if there was such evidence, there would be no need for faith, which is simply belief without supporting evidence.
The man’s performance only got wilder when he transformed into a social tornado, waving and glad-handing passersby like a politician at a barbecue. He joked with them and frequently played off a third person, namely Sam, by telling Sam to beware of them for various reasons, mainly differences in their religious and political beliefs from his. Once, the man played off a woman, telling her to beware of Sam because he had been corrupted by a Jesuit education.
No one laughed.
The man introduced Sam to everyone as if they were long time best friends, despite their 10-minute acquaintance, leaving Sam embarrassed and the passersby visibly uncomfortable. Some scurried away. Others lingered out of politeness, their eyes screaming for escape.
Sam considered getting up and leaving. But he stayed, scribbling mental notes about the man’s sermonizing, fake expertise, and over-the-top schmoozing, which he considered comedy gold for a short story that was beginning to take shape in his mind.
On days 5, 6, and 7, Sam stayed in his apartment, writing that short story. It was not only about his encounter with the Tim Walz lookalike and ‘Fundie’ showman but the other two encounters with the chili-guzzling belcher and the gnome-like table queen. All three turned his first week at ‘The Home’ into an unforgettable experience. ‘The Home’ had promised independent living. Nobody said anything about comedy club membership.
Copyright © 2025 Frank Zahn. Published in CafeLit Magazine, September 8, 2025, https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/.