Bridge Building at 92 in the Retirement Home

I happened to be sitting near the entrance of this retirement home yesterday when a car came speeding down the driveway and swung into the entrance in front of the doors. What attracted my attention was the squealing of tires on the brick paving as the car executed a perfect 4-wheel slide and came to a screeching stop. That’s a great driver, I thought as I peered to see who it was. I saw white hair peeping above the dashboard, the front doors opened and a man and a woman hopped out, the woman from the driver’s side.

“Bridge instructors,” said Jack who was sitting next to me. “They’re here every Wednesday to help out at the bridge club.” The couple, who I later found out are not actually a couple, swept through the lobby, jabbed the button to call the elevator. I watched the indicator light stop at the lower level.

“Wow, dynamite! Who are they?”

“They come from the next town. You want to see this couple playing bridge. They play a killer game. No mercy. As far as their lessons go, it’s no nonsense, no talking, no jokes and no mistakes. One bad call and you’ll hear her yelling up on the fifth floor. If you want to learn to play the game, this is the only way to go.”

“Must have been playing a long time,” I mused. “They’re not youngsters.”

“Both 92,” said Jack who has known them for a long time.

I was still sitting in shock in the same spot two hours later when they came out of the elevator and climbed into their car. Again the woman was behind the wheel. She started the engine, revved once to make sure the car was alight and tore off, laying down two parallel strips of black rubber on the red brick paving. I wonder if she gives driving lessons too.

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