Struck by arthritis and its attendant mobility issues, the most worrisome being an increased risk of falling while walking in the forest or on her way down to the water, it hit her: her life would be shorter than most because she’d rather kill herself than live in a so-called retirement village. 

It was bad enough to live in a regular neighborhood.  She’d been called a cunt and a bitch.  She’d been dismissed and patronized.  She’d been treated like a teenager because she wasn’t married with kids.  She’d been treated like an outsider, never invited over, because she was solo. 

Then one day, after she’d watched Quartet, about a home for old musicians, she thought yeah, maybe, if she could find a home for old academics and artists … aha!  A home for old feminists!

She spent a day figuring out how to tap into crowd funding. 

Almost immediately, a few women with business experience stepped forward.  Lunged forward, actually.  Leapt into the air and somersaulted before landing.

They discussed ideas, options, plans, then settled on the perfect location.  And found it.  A large flat acreage, on a small lake, with a woodsy area out back.

Then started hiring.  Landscapers, architects, carpenters, electricians, plumbers … All women.  And all had read Perez.  Many times.  So the apartments were built for people who were, on average, 5’2″.  Counter heights, cupboard heights, cupboard depths …

And for people who were, on average, 75 years of age.  Grab bars, step-in tubs …

One- and two-bedroom apartments.  Some with private kitchens.  A communal kitchen for those without. 

A couple cafes for those who were used to living in the city.  Though many of them were now craving quiet and solitude.  And those who had lived with quiet and solitude craved companionship every now and then. 

A library.  A movie room.

They bought a pontoon boat that seated six, as well as a few kayaks for those still able.

Several paths were established through the woods, one paved for those on chairs, one with a handrail from tree to tree, for the visually-challenged and balance-challenged, both with benches for resting along the way…

They advertised for maintenance staff, administrative staff, nursing staff, kitchen staff, drivers, general assistants.  And were flooded with applications.  All women, all ages, all wanting to work in a place where they’d never see a man, never have to deal with a man. 

And more, all fully aware of the benefits of interacting with old feminists.  Women who had been on the fronts, literally, of getting access to contraception, and abortion, and bank accounts, and driver’s licences, and deeds to land … and not needing your husband’s permission, for anything …

Some of the young women were startled.  You couldn’t own property?  Why not?  You couldn’t even apply to go to Harvard—until 1999?  Are you fucking kidding me?   

The old women sighed.  What are they teaching you these days?

What they themselves had been taught, they realized.  Men’s history.  Only men’s history.   Always men’s history.

A few men applied, but they almost always hired a woman.  Because, funny thing, the best applicant was always a woman. 

The first time they had to hire a man, they—well, they could fill a book with what they might’ve said to him.  In fact, a few of them had.  Which was why they were silent now.  Why their eyes just sort of glazed over now.  Why they just ignored him now.  Completely. 

He couldn’t handle it.  The lack of attention.  It was like he didn’t matter.  At all.  And he couldn’t bear it.  He left.

And they looked at each other.  Stunned.  Busily rewriting their pasts.

No, someone finally spoke up.  The one first to reach the end of that alternate universe.  They were killing us.  We couldn’t’ve just ignored them.

Nods.  All round.

And then sighs.

The second time they hired a man, several of the women hid his tools.  Several times.  They failed to give him clear instructions.  It took him a whole week for a two-day job.   They pointed this out to him, then paid him 77 cents on the dollar. 

Enraged, he spread the word. 

They cheered. 

Soon another Home opened.  And another.  Their landscapers, carpenters, plumbers, and electricians had to hire apprentices.  And found them.  Easily. 

Administrative, health, and food services had long dominated by women, so there were no staffing problems there.

Of course many of the residents weren’t quite ready to give up.  To give it up.  They found that after a year of respite?  refreshment? they were ready to resume their political activism. 

Women had always been good at organizing.  Which was why management dominated by men had been such a disaster.  It was women who kept track of the kids’ field trips, and dentist appointments, and doctors’ appointments, and music lessons, and after-school practices.  Women even kept their bosses organized.  Acknowledgement of which would have most certainly challenged the power structure.  Nine to Five was one of the more popular movies in their collection.

And so.  Bag ladies became bomb squads.  Sports stadiums were their first targets.  Because really, 5 billion dollars to build a place for adult males to play with balls in public?  Boys will be boys, well into adulthood if they are not stopped and reprimanded for their immaturity. 

How many hospitals and schools could be built with the money?  How many doctors and teachers could be hired?  And paid commensurate to their value? 

Blackmail became rampant.  It’s amazing how much an old woman fussing in the corner of a room can record.  Private offices, executive suites, boardrooms, hotel lobbies. 

Contraception and abortion became available again.  Money was found to process the thousands of rape kits just sitting in evidence lockers.  Judges were appointed to hear the appeals of the many women incarcerated for, essentially, self-defence.  So many decisions were reversed for no apparent a reason.  So many orders countermanded.