The Forever Con

                         Brad Ferguson
   THE OLD LADY sat quietly in one of the two comfortable chairs in front
of the desk of Howard Poffenberger, M.D., Ph.D. Her son sat in the other.
Dr. Poffenberger’s office was well appointed. The furniture was oak where
it wasn’t covered with leather, and the mahogany-paneled walls were
thickly covered with framed academic degrees and carefully unposed
photographs of celebrities and other important people.
   “As I stated in my initial letter to you, Dr. Poffenberger,” Kevin
Biederbecke said, “my mother is no longer happy at the leisure facility
where she now resides. To put it as plainly as I can, the place simply hasn’t
lived up to her expectations. Promises have been broken and guarantees
violated — ”
  “To say the least,” the old woman muttered.
  “ — and she would like to leave there as soon as possible. We’re
investigating a number of facilities in this area.”
  “Well,” Dr. Poffenberger smiled. “We would certainly be most glad to
have Mrs. Biederbecke — ”
  “Ms. Biederbecke,” the old lady correctly him.
   “Of course, Ms. Biederbecke,” the doctor said, “and, as I was saying, we
at Glory Road Estates would love to have you living with us. I certainly feel
that your mother would be most happy here at Glory Road, Mr.
Biederbecke.”
  “You can talk to me directly, Doc,” Ms. Biederbecke said. “I’m not
senile.”
  “Of course you aren’t,” the doctor said quickly. “Do you have any
questions, ma’am?”
  “Let’s just see the joint,” Ms. Biederbecke said briskly. “I haven’t got all
day.” She put out her arm. “Kevin, help me up, please, that’s a dear.”
   After inspecting several of the dormitory rooms, the three walked down
a series of brightly lighted hallways to the public area. The old lady’s
bright eyes took in everything they passed on the way, especially the many
colorful posters and leaflets taped to the light blue walls of the corridor.
Once in a while, she frowned as she saw something she didn’t care for, and
she frowned more and more often as they approached the common room.
“I don’t see any organization here at all,” she muttered. “Chaotic, just
chaotic.”
  “Mr. Biederbecke,” Dr. Poffenberger said in low tones, “your letter
didn’t make clear exactly why your mother wishes to leave Mount
Willow.”
  Kevin shrugged. “She’s bored up there, pure and simple,” he replied.
“She might have put up with the numerous contract violations on the
home’s part if she felt more involved, but most days she just sits around
without a chance to do anything. She’s always been a very active person,
Doctor. She doesn’t want to lose her edge. I don’t want her to, either.”
  Dr. Poffenberger nodded. “Well, your mother wouldn’t be bored around
here, let me tell you — ”
  “What are you two mumbling about?” Ms. Biederbecke called crossly.
“C’mon, already. Get a move on. I want to see the common room.”
  There were about thirty or forty old people gathered in the common
room. Several couples were slow-dancing to classic rock ‘n roll tunes that
had remained popular since their first release fifty years before and more.
Others were seated around tables playing games. Kevin Biederbecke easily
recognized Monopoly and Challenge, but there were other groups playing
games that involved only oddly-shaped dice and many pieces of paper.
  “Roleplaying,” Dr. Poffenberger said to Kevin’s unasked question.
“Mostly dungeon-and-dwarves stuff. Sometimes a single adventure takes
years to complete.”
  “They have the time now,” Kevin said, nodding.
  Over in the corner, a group of six laughing women were singing a
nonsense song while making appropriate gestures:

  “If you’re happy and you know it,
  point your ears!
  If you’re happy and you know it, point your ears!
  If you’re happy and you know it,
  Then here’s the way to show it —
  If you’re happy and you know it, point your ears!
  Point your ears!”
  “Trekkies?” Kevin asked.
  “That’s right,” Dr. Poffenberger said. “Unfortunately, they have to
amuse themselves more and more often, because it’s getting hard to find
good guests for them. Actually, we’re rather hoping — ”
  “What’s that supposed to be?” Ms. Biederbecke snapped, point at an
antique phone booth standing in the corner of the room.
  “Oh,” Dr. Poffenberger said. “That’s the Tardis. The Doctor Who fans
are rebuilding it again. I suppose they’ve knocked off for lunch.”
  “They’ve got it all wrong,” Ms. Biederbecke sniffed. “For one thing, the
door opens the other way out. Amateurs!”
  “What are your favorite activities back in Mount Willow, Ms.
Biederbecke?” asked Dr. Poffenberger.
   The old lady shrugged, still examining the Tardis. “I don’t much care for
the Who stuff, but I dabble in it from time to time. I do some Star Trek
once in a while, when I can stand it — mostly Third Generation, though. I
used to edit a Quantum Leap slashzine, too, until my eyes started getting
a little funny.”
  “Have you ever thought about perhaps trying a facility in another
genre?” Dr. Poffenberger asked. “Say, one of the romance homes?”
   “Are you kidding?” Ms. Biederbecke said, shocked. “Gafiate? Me? Why,
I’ve been involved in fanac for fifty-seven years, young man — !”
  “I’m sorry — ”
  “A romance resort?” she snapped. “Get my thrills by being chased
around the corridors by old coots wearing armor they make themselves
out of tinfoil? Well, I never! Kevin, take me home. Right now.”
  “Please, Ms. Biederbecke — !” Dr. Poffenberger began.
 “I thought these people were serious, Kevin.” She sniffed. “You misled
me, son. I really didn’t want to come down here at all, you know.”
  “Sorry, Mom,” Kevin said sheepishly. “Let’s go back.”
  “Ms. Biederbecke, I do most sincerely apologize,” the doctor said. “I
meant no offense. I was simply asking as a matter of curiosity —
inappropriately, I now see. Please forgive me.”
   “Well — all right,” the old lady said. “Might as well tell you that I did do
a few days at a mystery facility right near Mount Willow last month, just
to see what it was like. Place was called Sherlock Homes.” She frowned.
“Too cute for my taste. Besides, they were always solving the same old
cases over and over again. If I was ever tempted to change horses, that
cured me.”
   “We do try to keep things lively here at Glory Road Estates,” Dr.
Poffenberger said. “I’d really like to talk more with you and your son about
that, privately and in depth. Is there more you’d like to see, or shall we
return to my office?”
  Ms. Biederbecke took a last look around the common room. “I think I’ve
seen enough,” she said. “Let’s go to your office.”
   Dr. Poffenberger had ordered coffee for himself and Kevin Biederbecke,
but Ms. Biederbecke had insisted on — and gotten — supercaffeinated
cola. They settled down after Ms. Biederbecke refused the doctor’s offer of
a cigarette. “Never used ’em even after they took all the cancer out,” she
said. “Well, Doc, what’s your pitch?”
  Dr. Poffenberger smiled as sincerely as he could manage. “Nothing you
haven’t heard elsewhere, Ms. Biederbecke,” he said. “You know what we
can offer you here — involvement, companionship, security and
unmatched medical care for as long as you like.”
  “I can get that deal in other places.”
  “Not like here,” Dr. Poffenberger said. “Glory Road Estates was one of
the very first of the specialized retirement homes, after all. We have more
experience than most others — and our reputation speaks for itself. I
presume you’ve checked our background with the Social Security
Enforcement Division ... ?”
   “Among other agencies, yes,” Kevin Biederbecke said. “I can’t fault your
track record, Doctor — but that’s not the only factor in my mother’s
decision, of course.”
  “Of course,” Dr. Poffenberger said, “and I’d like to discuss that further.”
  “Go right ahead, Doc,” Ms. Biederbecke said, carefully flavoring her
tone with a trace of boredom.
  “I’ll be as brief as I can,” the doctor assured her. “Ms. Biederbecke, Mr.
Biederbecke, you no doubt know that, a generation or two ago, even the
best retirement homes were little better than places to park elderly people
increasingly unable to care for themselves. The best of those homes were
comfortable, and care was at least adequate. The worst of them — well, the
horror stories persist to this day, and we need not go into them here.”
  “That’s right,” Ms. Biederbecke said, looking at her nails. “Save ’em for
Halloween. Go on, Doc.”
   “Then came your generation, Ms. Biederbecke — the baby boomers. You
were the healthiest and wealthiest generation in American history.
Because many of you took care of yourselves earlier in life, your retirement
years found you still active and healthy. You were not the kind of people to
slink off humbly to a old-fashioned nursing home where the most exciting
thing you could expect to do all month is vote on menus for the following
month’s meals.”
  Ms. Biederbecke stifled a yawn. “This is ancient history, Doc.”
   “So it is — but history is merely a prelude to the present, and here we
are. Glory Road Estates is one of the oldest and most respected specialty
leisure homes in the United States. We cater to the lifelong science fiction
fan. No area of interest is too arcane for us — why, we even have a group
that’s building a replica Time Tunnel in the basement. Every day here is a
convention day. There are no dead-dog parties, ever, because the con
never ends!”
  “That’s what they said at Mount Willow, Doc. The mutt died, believe
me.”
  “But, Ms. Biederbecke, we at Glory Road Estates have been willing to
put everything in writing. Everything.”
  “Mount Willow put it all in writing, too,”
  Ms. Biederbecke fumed. “I worked my rear end off for those people,
Doc. They’d ask me if I could find the guy who was the third assistant
window washer in the twenty-third episode of My Favorite Martian for
an appearance, and I would, because there’s no job too tough for me.
They’d have me ask some writers to make personal appearances at Mount
Willow, too, and I’d get them to show up, but then the administration
people would forget to pick them up at the rapitrans station or
accidentally bill them for expenses or some dumb thing. I mean, do you
know how hard it is to find writers to be guests these days? In the first
place, all the good ones kicked the bucket years ago.”
  “I can imagine, Ms. Biederbecke — ”
  “I’m the best programming chair there ever was,” the old lady
continued. “I still am. Getting old hasn’t slowed me up at all.”
  “But, ma’am — ”
  The old woman scowled, folded her arms, and sat silently.
  “Don’t you want to come live with us, Ms. Biederbecke?”
  She continued staring straight ahead, saying nothing.
  “Mr. Biederbecke — ?” Dr. Poffenberger said tentatively.
   “This is Mom’s business,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “I never
interfere.”
  Dr. Poffenberger sighed. “All right, all right,” he said heavily. “We’ll tear
up the proposed contract, Ms. Biederbecke. Now, just how much more
money do you want?”


                               The End