The heavy grey velvety mist that wrapped itself around the Garden-State Parkway had, in its own way, made New Jersey seem a little bit more tropical and green that it had the previous day. A small fountain and spray of decorative landscaping welcomed us to the outer boundaries of "Leisure Village".

"Or 'Seizure Village' as I like to call it." Justin said nodding to the sign as the candy-cane striped arm at the security gate lifted and let us into the brave new world of the aged and advanced.

Seizure village is a housing complex turned town, grown fat with those seeking affordable, cookie-cutter bungalows to reside in while coasting through their golden years. With a small army of elderly citizens who teetered about with canes on small side walks, and peering around the corners of dusty drapes, eyes fixed on the new greenish-bluish car and it's two young occupants who seem blissfully unaware that driving over the posted 15 mph speed limit is frightfully rude if not downright foolhardy.

A light rain had started to fall as we pulled up to the backdoor of Justin�s Grandparents bungalow and we moved quickly into the safety of the kitchen both to save ourselves from getting wet as well as hopefully not attracting the attention of any of the ancient neighbors who had been known, in the past, to saddle up and press their noses against windows and stare balefully at any and all goings on, until they were acknowledged and talked to. I wrinkled my nose as we walked through the kitchen and into the living room, the faded pink carpet showing scars where recently long-seated furniture had been moved and thrown away.

"Why do places like this always smell like old people?" I asked as I looked into a spare bedroom and tapping my left foot on the corner of a blue plastic tarp that had been spread out on the floor as a drop cloth. "What IS that smell anyway...mildew? It�s always the same, and always a little bit too strong." I said and ducked my head around a low hanging light fixture. Justin wandered ahead of me into the main bedroom and fumbled with plugging in a surge strip and turning on a battered floor lamp with feet of masking tape wrapped continuously around its cord like an uncomfortable yellowing jacket.

"Who knows, but I think we all end up smelling like that, which terrifies me." He said as we started coaxing old storm windows in metal frames into their most open position. A moist, humid breeze thumbed its way through the rooms and the �grandma�s house� smell mingled with the scent of warm asphalt and cool rain as I watched Justin push the end of a screw driver into the silvery lip of a paint can and pry the lid off.

I walked back into the spare bedroom with some sandpaper and set about smoothing out the globs of spackled areas on the walls. I sanded and light layers of plaster dust sugar-coated my hands to the wrist like an ill fitting glove as I heard Justin flipping through a book of CDs in the next room. A lid clicked shut. A button was pushed, and music flooded out of the main bedroom as Justin went about rolling a fresh coat of paint on the ceiling of his grandparent�s old bedroom ceiling.

I'm your only friend...I'm not your only friend...But I'm a little glowing friend...But really I'm not actually your friend...But I am...

I hear Justin humming along with the song as I dip my paint brush into my special can of paint purchased for its ability to cover up bumps and scrapes on walls. I spread it carefully over the surface and smooth out the finish, like an old woman applying makeup to hollow cheeks. I hear Justin across the hall, his humming turned to singing over the light sticky sound of his paint roller gliding over the ceiling.

I'd like to cover the earth...With a fresh-baked yummy dessert...People couldn't live in it, but I think it's worth the money and hurt...'Cause I couldn't tolerate...all the empty places in the world...

I smile and return to painting, wondering if anyone has ever written a book about serial killers in retirement communities. Not still killing, they�ve retired, but just living in an old people bungalow village set up in central New Jersey, with a simply landscaped fountain at the entrance with a 24/hour security guard sitting sleepily in a booth with a candy-cane striped arm attached to it, making certain that the inhabitants are protected from the younger world outside. Even serial killers want to enjoy their dotage, right?

An hour or two later we finished with the paint and slipped back into the car under the watchful eye of several spying residents, and headed north once again, enjoying the rain as we drove.

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch...He watches over you...Make a little birdhouse in your soul...Not to put too fine a point on it...Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet...Make a little birdhouse in your soul...