Once upon a time we were the youngest couple in the building.

Now we are unquestionably the oldest.

When young families move in, we bring over a fruit basket and help them get their bearings. We remember the kids’ birthdays and usually show up with gifts guaranteed to annoy the parents within twelve minutes.

The new arrivals almost always say the same thing.

“You two are such a sweet elderly couple. You remind us of our grandparents.”

Sometimes they hug us.

And that’s usually when I say:

“Well, I’m probably older than your grandparents. And when I was younger, I dated all kinds of women. Some seduced me to my delight and lifelong confusion. So there’s always the possibility we may actually be related.”

That generally stops the conversation cold for about a full minute.

Then the adults burst out laughing.

Meanwhile, the children stare at me as if they’ve just discovered Grandpa may once have worked for organized crime.

The newest arrivals to our building are a charming couple with a six-year-old boy who speaks several languages and appears to understand everything. He has the face of a child who will either negotiate peace treaties or hack NATO by age twelve.

A few days after they moved in, he approached me very seriously near the mailboxes.

“Mr. Jaron,” he whispered, “is there a witch living in this condo?”

I froze.

This is an important moment in the life of any elderly man.

Because once a child asks you a question like that, you have two choices.

You can behave responsibly.

Or you can have a wonderful time.

I leaned closer.

“Well,” I said quietly, “there have been rumors.”

His eyes widened immediately.

“Real rumors?”

“Oh yes. Mostly involving puddings.”

Now, before you judge me, you should understand that our condo has a long and complicated history involving strange people, invisible power struggles, and what may be emotionally unstable landscaping committees.

And there actually was a woman in the building years ago who wore giant sunglasses indoors and moved through the hallways like a retired Bond villain searching for interns to destroy.

The children already feared her.

Frankly, many adults did too.

The little boy lowered his voice even further.

“What kind of witch?”

“Mostly an HOA witch,” I explained.

He nodded gravely, as though this clarified everything.

I told him HOA witches are not interested in eating children.

They survive primarily on reserve funds, anonymous complaints, and unauthorized balcony furniture.

He considered this very carefully.

Then came the question.

“What should I do if the witch tries to kidnap me?”

At that point I realized I may have taken things slightly too far.

But the kid looked genuinely worried, so I put my hand on his shoulder and told him the truth.

“Run to our unit.”

“Why?”

“Because old people are difficult to scare. We’ve already survived the 1970s, polyester leisure suits, disco music, avocado-colored refrigerators, and six different kinds of government dietary advice. No witch wants to fight people like that.”

He thought about this for a moment.

Then he smiled.

After that, he began treating the condo like a medieval kingdom under magical siege.

He monitored hallways.

He inspected puddings suspiciously.

He developed alternate escape routes near the laundry room.

Once he asked me if witches could disguise themselves as property managers.

I told him absolutely.

A week later his mother cornered me near the elevator.

She said, “Our son now believes there is an HOA witch in the building.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“Well,” I said, “technically that’s still only a theory.”

She tried not to laugh.

That’s the strange thing about getting old.

Young people begin seeing you as harmless.

You become the nice elderly couple who remembers birthdays and gives out fruit baskets.

But inside your head, you are still twenty-five years old.

You still remember old girlfriends, dumb decisions, impossible dreams, near disasters, terrible haircuts, and nights so ridiculous nobody would believe them now.

And perhaps that is why older people and children often get along so well.

Neither group fully trusts reality.

Children suspect monsters are hiding behind doors.

Old people suspect monsters are running the condo board.

Honestly, after forty years in West LA, I’m no longer certain either group is wrong.

Author’s note: This is a work of humor and imagination. All characters, witches, property managers, pudding incidents, landscaping committees, and condo-related supernatural suspicions are fictional. Any resemblance to any real person, living, dead, elected, unelected, self-appointed, or currently guarding a reserve fund is purely coincidental and should be treated as evidence that reality has once again failed to clear its name.