And fortunately these days, particularly in Sarasota, there were all sorts of ways to slow down the aging process. Indeed, most of the residents did not appear to age past 50; they got there and then magically stopped, decaying only slightly until they were finally called to their reward. All you needed, really, was careful diet and exercise—plus the ministrations of the anti-aging community. And Mr. Chatterbox’s favorite ministrations were those performed at the day spa he went to, a discreet little place tucked away in Burns Court and evocatively titled Mer de.

It was so convenient to be able to get everything done at the same place. They offered all sort of skin treatment and non-invasive facelifts and a complete line of beauty services, plus personalized Pilates and soon—if those rumors were true—high colonics.

On Wednesdays, a man named “Dr. Smith” came in and administered Botox. Mr. Chatterbox had just had his injection and was enjoying his comforting “Botox buzz” when he barely but quite distinctly heard his name being mentioned. It seemed to be coming from just over the partition.

“Mr. Chatterbox?” a woman said. “Who’s he?”

“He writes for Sarasota Magazine.”

“Oh, yeah. Him. But, like, isn’t he real old?”

Mr. Chatterbox’s heart froze.

“Old? He’s totally ancient.”

“Is he here?”

“Oh, he’s always here. He’s their biggest customer. They dye his hair.”

“Hair?”

They both burst into peals of laughter. What was this? Some nightmare he’d stumbled into?

“And you know what I heard?”

“What?”

“They did demographic studies and it turns out that young people hate him. In fact, they hate him so much that the magazine has decided to fire him.”

Mr. Chatterbox didn’t hear the rest. A strange ringing filled his ears. What a horrible piece of gossip. Or was it? It certainly would explain the strange things that had been happening lately. The meetings he wasn’t told about. That accusation about “stealing” office supplies. And that unfortunate “misunderstanding” about his seat on the bus coming back from the company picnic in Immokalee, when he was forced to beg a ride with a couple from Michigan who saw him wandering along the highway.

He had feared it might be incipient Alzheimer’s. Now he knew it was even worse—they were trying to fire him!

As soon as his manicure dried he fled the day spa and hurried over to the Sarasota Magazine office. His mind was filled with many thoughts as he huffed and puffed his way across the street. The irony was that young people adored him. He spoke to them at their level. Why, just several years ago he had befriended a young person who complimented him on his column, and the two of them had become great friends. It was too bad that the young person then stole $250 in cash and a pair of gold cufflinks. But the point is—Mr. Chatterbox knew the young.

He burst into the editor’s office. Pam Daniel was sitting at her desk, leafing through a copy of Vogue and sighing sadly.

“So!” Mr. Chatterbox screamed. “I’m onto your little scheme.”

She looked at him wearily. “What now?”

“You fire me and you’re going to be hit with the biggest age discrimination suit you ever saw! I’m going to drag your name all over the front page of the Herald-Tribune. Well, maybe not the Herald-Tribune. They no longer have a front page. But all the others.”

“Now, Chatty, please . . .”

“And don’t call me Chatty. You should teach yourself some manners. Without me there wouldn’t be any Sarasota Magazine.”

“Whatever.”

“I can go anywhere in town and get a job. I can go to the Herald-Tribune. Well, maybe not the Herald-Tribune. But all the others. SRQ! They’re always putting out feelers. They’d hire me in a minute.”

“Calm down.”

“I will not calm down. You can’t fire me with all you little trickery, because I’m too smart. I quit!”

“Is that a promise?”

That night, around 10 p.m., Mr. Chatterbox finally calmed down. And as he did so he realized he had blundered. There was no offer from SRQ. That was all bluff. They’d already turned him down three times. The last time Wes Roberts was particularly kind, though, and even pressed $20 into his hand.

And his new condo. How could he afford it without an income? 1350 Main, and he bought at the top of the market. Now he was going broke rapidly. He owed money all over town. Morton’s. The Cork Shop. Michael’s Wine Cellar. ABC Liquors. Why, just yesterday Steve Haber from G. Fried called. He wanted his carpet back.