The key clicked in the lock and the door swung open. Carol stood there, holding the door open, as Boris, Polly and Burt walked inside. Polly put her hands on her hips and surveyed the place, nodding as she did, as if going down a mental checklist. Finally she turned and looked at Boris, now standing beside her, and she sighed.
"Yep, you can tell someone died in here," she said. "How can you tell something like that?" Burt asked, making his way more inside. "There's a sort of change in the tone of a room, it's hard to explain, but it happens when someone dies in a place," Polly said, "That room becomes, in a way, haunted just by the mere act of the death itself, even if no ghost is present." "Spooky," Boris said, turning back to Carol, "Who's room was this?" "Clarence Morrow's," Carol said, struggling to get the key free from the lock and shutting the door behind them, "You guys didn't know him, hell I didn't even really know him. But, seeing as I'm essentially the one in charge, it's up to me to clean out his room and prepare it for whoever is supposed to be in it next." "If it's your job, then why are we here?" Polly asked. "Because I'm making you guys do it. That's the benefit to being the boss," Carol said, making Polly laugh. Boris, during all this, had begun to wander around the room, looking at all the little trinkets on the tables; framed photographs, books, little glass figurines. He could hear the others in the back laughing and talking, but none of it registered as he walked over to an enormous cabinet and, sliding the doors open, stood completely stunned at what he saw. "You guys," he said, "Look at this." The others joined him, standing in hushed silence around the cabinet, a cabinet which was absolutely packed to the brim with records upon records upon records. The gang stood there momentarily in awe, until finally Polly stepped forward, slipped an album off the shelf and looked at the cover. It was a compilation of Golden Oldies hits from 'better days'. "So where's the record player?" she asked, and followed Burt's index finger as it pointed at a small, newer model record player sitting on a tiny table by the wall. Polly approached it, sliding the record out of its sleeve, dropping it on the player, turning the player on and plopping the needle down in a specific spot. She shut her eyes as the music began to pour from the built in speaker, letting the music wash over her like a cleansing wave of joy. She could always remember where she'd been the first time she heard this song. *** "Downtown" by Petunia Clark was playing over the speaker of the grocery store as Polly rolled her cart along the bread aisle. Her list sticking out the top of her purse, she would glance down occasionally to make sure she was picking up the right items before reaching out to the shelf and grabbing the package and plopping it down into her cart. Just as she had set a thing of bread in her cart and started pushing forward she realized she'd tapped another cart, and immediately looked horrified. "I am so sorry!" she said, "I wasn't looking where I was going." "That's alright," the woman in front of her said, a woman she instantly recognized as her mothers friend Anita, "Oh, Polly. How are you doing?" "I'm doing okay," Polly said, fidgeting nervously with her fingernails on the cart handle, "Just picking up a few things. How have you been?" "Busy as always. How's your mother?" Anita asked, and Polly shrugged. "Haven't spoken to her much lately," she replied. "That's what I figured," Anita said, as the women started rolling their carts down the aisle together. "What's that mean?" Polly asked, raising an eyebrow. "Well goodness, it can't be easy for the poor woman," Anita said, "Having a...a queer for a daughter. I can only imagine the shame she feels knowing she won't ever get grandchildren or a real anniversary dinner to cook." "For your information," Polly said, "not that it's any of your business you old shrew, but that is hardly the biggest issue my mother and I have with one another, lord knows. There's plenty of things I resent her for, and that's surprisingly low on the list." Polly's venom had taken Anita by surprise, who stood there looking aghast at the way Polly was speaking to her. "In fact, one of the things I have the biggest issue with is her absolutely terrible choice in companionship," Polly said, "Maybe one day she'll come to her senses and decide to be friends with better people, not that I'm holding my breath." It was the first time Polly had stood up for hers and Jeans relationship, and to someone her own mother knew, no less. It was a pretty proud day, and for the years to come, anytime "Downtown" came on the radio, it was a song that filled her with pride. *** "Look at these photos," Boris said, sliding the album in his lap towards Carol, who leaned over to look at them as he continued, adding, "The man had a real knack for photography. Wonder if he ever did it professionally or if it was just a hobby." "We should hang some of these up around the home, as a sort of makeshift memorial," Carol said, "Maybe do that in general from now on, just, whenever someone dies, we take something of theirs and put it somewhere in the home so they're not really gone. Make the home a living museum of the dearly departed." "Creepy," Polly said, "Be like a haunted house." The record finished and moved on over to the next song, which was "Let's Get Away From It All" by Frank Sinatra, and immediately caught Burt's attention. He glanced over at the record player and smirked, thinking about where he could remember the song from, a memory he still held dear, his wedding night. He shut his eyes and listened to the song, letting it take him back to that most wonderful night. *** The band was small, but professional, and the cake was hand made by his wifes sister, but it was overall a happy occasion. Burt and his wife, Martha, had planned this for months, only for the whole thing to go off without a hitch. Dancing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by everyone else dancing with them, in the dining hall they had rented out, Burt and Martha couldn't help but feel as if their life was about to be perfect. "You know," Martha said, putting her lips to Burt's ear, "There's a wedding night tradition that we simply can't ignore. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" Burt smirked and nodded, "I was looking forward to it." During the reception, Burt and Martha snuck away and went down the street a bit, into a small old style Italian pizzeria and, sitting there in the booth - he in his tux and she in her wedding gown - ordered an enormous anchovi and pepperoni pizza. She didn't wait a second once it was set on the table, and instantly began chowing down, as Burt watched her, smiling. "Don't you want any?" she asked, cheese dangling from her lips as she pushed an anchovi into her mouth, "It's delicious." "How'd this tradition get started anyway?" he asked. "My mom," she said, "My mother was always fighting against the grain growing up, never letting herself be pigeonholed just for being a woman. She came up with this tradition, because she thought the idea of a bride offering herself up to the groom was somewhat sexist, and that pizza was just a lot more fun. I promised her when I got married that I'd do the same." "That's really cute," Burt said, chuckling and picking up a piece of pizza, as the radio changed overheard and the song came on. Together they sat there, eating pizza and listening to Sinatra, and since that night, every anniversary they had was getting the same pizza and dancing to that very same song. It was a memory painted by the crooning of Sinatra, and he never once let that be tainted, even when Martha was killed in her 60s by food poisoning. Burt still, every year on their anniversary, ate the same kind of pizza and listened to the song, just by himself now. But he never really felt alone. And he owed a lot of that to the song. As long as he had the song, she would always be there with him. It's just another way a simple piece of music can save a life. *** Carol opened the closet and looked inside, noticing - of all things - a series of dresses. Taken aback, she raised her eyebrows in surprise, as Polly came and stood beside her, looking inside with her. "His wife's?" Carol asked, and Polly scoffed. "You see any wedding photos in this room?" Polly asked, "Please, this man was clearly not straight. A shame he couldn't have come of age these days. He could've had the life he really wanted, the life he deserved to have. But we all have to take what we get, I suppose." "These are beautiful," Carol said, running her hands down one of the dresses, "They certainly had taste, that's for sure. You think they were a cross dresser, or-" "I have no idea, and with them gone there's no real way to know. I never saw them in a dress, so I can't really say," Polly said, "Either way, you should take their wardrobe. It shouldn't go to waste." "I'll split it with you," Carol said, surprising Polly, and making her smile sweetly. "Deal." Carol began thumbing through the clothes as the record ticked over to yet another new track, this time "Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison, and she smiled to herself as she thought back to the memory she held most dear when it came to this song, and that was the day she finally sold some of her designs. A memory she could never forget, that's for sure. *** Carol was sitting in her apartments kitchen, waiting desperately for the mail to arrive. Her roommate, a longtime friend by the name of Celia, was downstairs waiting to pick up the mail the second it was arrived, simply to alleviate anymore stress on Carol. Carol couldn't stop fidgeting, and chewing her bottom lip. She'd been so worried that it would be bad news that she had barely slept for the past week. Finally the door swung open and Celia rushed in, holding the mail and tossing it onto the table, as she searched through the pile and picked out one letter in particular. "Well?" Carol asked. "You sound like you're about to explode," Celia said, laughing, opening the letter, "Let's see, cross your fingers!" Carol did as she was told as Celia got the envelope opened, pulled the letter out and unfolded it. She stood there reading for a moment, then cleared her throat and read aloud. "We're pleased to tell you that we love your designs and would love for you to show us more. We have decided to go ahead and purchase a few of them already, and have enclosed with this letter a check for the sum of what we bought. Let's keep the lines of communication open, and try to have a meeting sometime within the next week so we can discuss more certain long term employment. We think you have what it takes to make great clothes. Thank you again, The Boyyd Clothing Line!" Celia said, as Carol looked surprised when she was handed the check. "That's more than I ever made working any summer job!" Carol said loudly, then hopping from her chair and started jumping up and down screaming as Celia ran to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne. Carol raced to the small portable radio they kept by the sink for when they did dishes and tuned it to a random station, as "Pretty Woman" played over the tinny speakers. Celia poured her friend some champagne and together they drank and danced, overjoyed about her success. And though the job never really panned out, and though Celia moved out a few months later, Carol could never bring herself to hate that memory, nor that song. It always brought a smile to her lips when it played, and she always appreciated that one moment of pure, unadulterated happiness. A feeling she wouldn't feel very often otherwise throughout her life. *** The day had begun to wane and give into early evening. The others were starting to get hungry, and eventually Carol, Burt and Polly were ready to go eat dinner. Boris was still looking through some papers, sorting stuff for the garbage and what to keep. As the others left, Carol stood in front of Boris - who had seated himself on the bed - and touched his shoulder. "You want to join us?" she asked. "I'm not very hungry right now," Boris said, "You guys go ahead, I'll catch up in a bit." Carol smiled, nodded and patted his shoulder as she followed the others out the door and into the hall. "Let's order a pizza," he could hear Burt say as they began to drift down the hallway, "My treat." Boris put some more papers into a trash bag and then found some related to an old automobile Clarence had apparently owned. He thumbed through a few of them, reading the details of the car, and figured this sort of thing was best to be shredded so no information, not that it'd be useful to anyone these days, would be gleamed from it. As he set these papers aside, the record player ticked onto a new track, and "My Girl" by The Temptations started playing. Boris looked up and stopped what he was doing. He set the papers down, stood up and walked over to the record player. He could remember the last time he'd heard this song...god the memories it brought back. *** Boris stood at the window, palms against it, peering inside, when a nurse came out and looked at him. "Got a little one in there?" she asked, approaching him. "Yes, she was born a few hours ago," Boris said, "I'm so nervous. I don't think I'm going to be a very good father." "Don't worry, every father thinks that at first," the nurse said, "Just be there for her, give her the love she needs and protect her the best you can and you'll do just fine. I guarantee it." Boris smiled. The nurse walked away, and Boris, listening to the clicking of her heels on the linoleum, almost made him miss the radio that had changed songs overhead. "My Girl" began playing, and for the rest of their time together, it was the song he dedicated to his daughter. It was the lullaby he sang to her to get her to sleep, it was the song he played at her fifth birthday party when he taught himself to poorly play the guitar for her, and it was the song on the radio the day of the car accident. And easy as it would be to remember it as the song that played the day his world ended, instead he chose to remember it as the song that played when his world began, because when life was full of pain, you had to pick and choose certain moments to resonate love instead. Boris waited for the song to finish, and after it did, he pulled the needle up, slid the record back into its sleeve and put it back on the shelf where they had pulled it from. He then finished cleaning up, and started to exit the room. An entire life, boiled down to leftovers from a life now extinguished, and yet...yet the record had brought to them each a memory they cherished. Music was always surprisingly there when we needed it most, for the good times and the bad, like a real friend who only wanted to help us mark certain moments in life. Boris never realized just how much of life was dictated by a soundtrack. He shut the door, and locked it. Maybe he'd listen to more music when he got home.
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"It's never going to get you anywhere, you know that right?" her mother asked, sitting on the bed behind Carol, as she feverishly worked at her sewing machine, desperately trying to finish a new dress in time for a school dance. Her mother lit a cigarette and then crossed her arms as she smoked, filling Carol's bedroom up with the smell of nicotine, which made her eyes burn, but wouldn't stop her nonetheless.
"You're chasing after something that's long since been commercialized, dear. They have sweatshops for this now, and nobody is buying from independent designers unless they have big big money backing them," her mother continued, "I suggest you look to a new line of potential work for the future." "Mother!" Carol said, finally snapping and turning to face her, "This is what I enjoy doing, okay?" "Well I hate to be the one to tell you this, Caroline, but work is rarely what you enjoy doing." With that she stood up and exited the room, as Carol turned back and tried once again to refocus her attention on her stitchwork. Fighting back tears, she swore then and there that she'd prove her mom wrong, and that one day she would be a successful seamstress and clothing designer. Unfortunately, what had once been her dream had now become a recurring nightmare. *** Carol was sitting in her office at the home, going over some numbers as she chewed on the end of a pen, when the door opened. She looked up and saw Boris enter. She smiled, set her pen and papers down, and instead picked up her mug of coffee and sipped it. "I guess I haven't exactly congratulated you on your current job," he said, "Good work, these are some nice digs." "Well they certainly aren't a corner office with a window, but, I'm making do," Carol replied, making Boris smirk. "It's cool to have one of us in charge for a change, especially after the place had become so sad," Boris said, "Only we know what's best for us, so it only makes sense to have someone of our age group making the decisions around here. Proud of you, I guess is what I'm trying to say." "Awww, I don't think you've ever told me you were proud of me," Carol replied. "Well, to be fair, you've never done anything to be proud of, so," Boris remarked, making Carol chuckle loudly. "...can I ask you something, and I hope you don't think it's too weird, but-" "Please, at this point in my life weird is what I live for," Boris said, interrupting her. "Anyway," Carol continued, "You had recurring dreams didn't you? You told me you did, about the accident and stuff. What did you do about them? Because lately I have been having this one about my mother and it is just bringing me down every time I wake up for a fresh new day. I can hardly focus on the things I need to get done around here because of it." "Well," Boris said, sitting on the desk and twiddling his thumbs, "I suppose I could say just try not to let it bother you, but we both know how stupid that is as far as advice goes, because if it actually were that easy, everyone would do it. Honestly, I'm not really sure there's much of anything that can be done. You just need to let it run its course. What's the dream about exactly?" Carol sighed and leaned back in her chair, looking at the visuals on her mug as she chewed her lip, considering how to word it before the explanation left her mouth. Finally she shut her eyes, took one long deep breath and spoke. "My mother is in my bedroom, I'm in high school, and I'm trying to make a new dress for a dance," Carol said, "My mother is berating me verbally, telling me that I should give up, that people aren't interested in individual clothing designers anymore, that everything is becoming mass produced and unless you're someone with a lot of money that you'll never make it." "Jeez." "There's nothing scary about the dream, and maybe that's what's scariest about it, but...I just can't help but feel so empty and unnerved when it's over. It drains me," Carol said, "...my mother, she never really understood why I liked making clothes." "Why did you enjoy making clothes?" Boris asked. "Because you can't change the way you look, but you can change the way you're dressed. That's the one thing that you're really given proper ownership over, body wise, in being perceived. At least that's how it was back when we were younger. Now what with all the plastic surgery and whatnot, hell even just coloring your hair, anyone can make themselves into who they feel they are, and it's great, I'm happy for them. But back then? Back then all you had was your wardrobe. That's why everyone used to dress so dapper." "Mmm," Boris said, nodding, "You're not wrong. So, did you let her ignorance towards your profession stop you from achieving your goals, or?" "In some ways, but I can't exactly blame her entirely for my failings. It had a lot to do with other aspects too, because the business world - even if that business is clothing - is a harsh mistress. All I want at this point is for someone to appreciate the things I made. I would love to get back to doing it but I have so much work to do now running this place that I simply don't have the time." "Well, can't help you there," Boris said, as he hoisted himself off the desk and headed for the door. He stopped at the door, hand on the knob, and turned back to face her, adding, "You know, I write poetry. I used to do it professionally. Nothing big, nothing flashy; a few small compilation publications here and there and greeting cards a lot, but nothing that ever would've made me a household name by any means. But you have talent. Actual, real talent. Talent that deserves to be hanging in someone's closet somewhere. I hope you find a way to use it." And with that he opened the door, exited the office and shut the door behind him, leaving Carol to her thoughts. *** "We spent all day looking but we couldn't find anything she liked," Whittle said as she sauteed something on the stove while Boris sat at the table and opened a beer. He took a few sips, then pulled his hat off and set it on the table in front of him, running his hand through his greying hair. "When's the dance?" he asked. "This Saturday," Whittle replied, "You'll have to take her, because I'm meeting someone for dinner about a job interview." "Alright," Boris said. "Chaperoning a school dance," Polly said from across the table as she spread cream cheese on her bagel, "Boy, you sure do have an exciting life. I'm so glad I decided to force my way into it." "You don't have to be here," Boris said, "Anyway, I'll be happy to take her. Better than sitting around here doing nothing all night. It's good to occasionally mingle with the youth." "I believe that's exactly what Jeffrey Dahmer said," Polly remarked quietly, making Boris smirk as she finished spreading her cream cheese and bit into her bagel. Whittle left the kitchen, heading to her bedroom in the back, leaving Boris and Polly alone. "I went to a few school dances back in my day, or as we called them, sockhops," Polly said. "You are not that old," Boris interjected, but she ignored him. "Was never much of a dancer, looked more like I was having a stroke than doing anything remotely similar to dancing, but it was fun either way. Though I never with the dress code. They tried to make all the girls wear dresses, but I just wasn't a dress kind of lady." "What kind of lady are you?" "More of a slacks and button down shirt kind," Polly said, "Chic but casual." "Wow, I'm learning so much," Boris said, "Either way, I suppose it'll be up to us to find her a dress, and-" He suddenly stopped, and had a brilliant idea. *** Carol woke up suddenly, and reached to her night stand to turn on the light. She glanced at the clock, which read 11:49 pm, and groaned. These dreams were stealing her sleep from her, and she was feeling it the following day. Something had to be done about this. Carol slowly climbed out of bed and lumbered over to her desk, where she turned on her sewing machine. She then opened up one of the drawers on her desk and pulled out a few pieces of fabric and began working on something. Perhaps, she figured, if she completed something, it'd shut her dream mom up for a bit. She had to try, anyway, she wasn't getting the rest she needed as it was. About 45 minutes later, she'd finished the start of a skirt, and then decided to take a break and get a snack from the vending machine. As she sauntered out into the darkened hallway of the home, she knew she was the only one awake, so she walked briskly over to the snack machine just a little ways down the hall from her room and fished some change from her nightgown that she'd stuffed in her pockets before leaving the room. Plopping the coins into the machine and making her selection, she stood there momentarily waiting for her snack to drop, and as she waited, she started to think back to a moment she and her mother had spent together when she was in her twenties. They'd gone out to lunch. It was the first time she'd seen her mother in months, after being extremely busy with work and trying to sell her own designs. Sitting there at the table of a little bistro near her mothers apartment, she couldn't help but feel as though she were being silently judged. Watching her mother over the top of the menu in her hands as she sipped her iced tea and smoked her cigarette, Carol couldn't help but feel as though she were still a little girl, despite being a grown woman now. "Tell me," her mother said, "Anything you'd recommend here?" "I don't know, I've only been here maybe twice," Carol said, "I like the BLT a bit, but I understand if you think it's too much food for you." "Mmm, yes, but I could always just take the leftovers home for later," her mother said, "How's work?" "It's going okay," Carol said, "I've been working my fingers to the bone trying to put together what essentially amounts to a clothing portfolio. Just create as many patterns, samples and a few full complete dresses and blouses to show to potential buyers." "Well that sounds promising," her mother said, "You know, if you need extra work, a friend of mine in an office downtown needs-" "I don't need extra work, mother," Carol said, "I'm perfectly happy and capable of getting by on what I'm currently doing. I wish you'd respect that." "How do you expect me to respect something that I know won't yield any results? I just want you to have the life you deserve, not the one that's out of reach," her mother said. Carol's blood began to boil, and she chewed on her lip to try and ignore it. She wanted to go off on her, but neither she nor her mother appreciated public displays of any kind, whether they were love or anger. Carol instead held her tongue and waited for their waiter to come and take their orders. Throughout the whole meal, though, Carol couldn't help but feel sick to her stomach because all she really wanted was for her mother to believe in her talent, and see it was worth it. And now, even as an old woman, she still wanted that approval, despite her mother being dead for ages now. She heard her snack mix bag drop into the receptacle below and knelt down to pick it up. She sighed, opened it up and dug in as she headed back to her room to work more on her skirt. Maybe tomorrow night she'd sleep better again. *** "What about this one?" Polly asked, holding up a very sleek black dress covered in small rose prints, showing it to Chrissy. "I don't particularly like floral print," Chrissy said, shaking her head and continuing to look through the sales rack, "I know that's weird for a girl to say, I guess, but I just don't." "Sweetheart, it isn't weird in the slightest, trust me, you're talking to the least feminine woman there is," Polly said, "When I was your age I mostly wore jeans and button down shirts. I was never big into the dress myself, so you're not alone in that." "I mean, I like dresses," Chrissy said, stopping and looking at Polly, "I just...don't really like floral print. My mom likes floral print. I don't like my mom very much right now." "Again, I understand," Polly said, smiling to comfort her. Polly had never expected to fulfill the role of 'grandmother' for anyone, and yet here she was, helping a young girl dress shop for a school dance. God, if only Jean could see her now, fulfilling the matronly role with such ease. Polly sighed and pulled out a shirt, looking at its cut and ran her fingertips over the fabric to feel its texture. "I like this," she said, "I think I may get this for myself." "I guess I never think about old people buying new clothes. I guess I just always assumed that as soon as you reached a certain age, you just stick with the wardrobe you've had for the last few decades," Chrissy said, making Polly laugh. "Jesus kid, we're still alive," Polly said, just as Boris approached them. "I think I have the answer to your problem," Boris said, looking at Chrissy, "Come with me." *** Standing at the snack table at the dance that Saturday night, watching Chrissy enjoy herself as she danced with Polly and seeing people compliment her outfit, Boris couldn't help but smile to himself. He turned to Carol, who was sipping some juice, standing beside him. She looked at him and smiled back. "Thank you," he said, "She looks very happy. You did a very nice thing." "My pleasure. Happy to have someone enjoy what I'm capable of." "You're capable of a lot, you know," Boris said, making Carol blush. "Would you like to dance, Boris?" Carol asked, and he nodded. He took her by the hand and led her to the dance floor, slow dancing with her to a soft pop ballad. As she rested her head on his shoulder, feeling safer than she had in ages, and shut her eyes, she could almost let herself slip away into another time. Another time where, had things been different, had they been younger...but no reason to fantasize. Better to live in reality, she knew. She'd simply appreciate what it was they did have, and be happy with that. "You're extremely talented, I hope you know that," Boris said, "Your stitchwork is tremendous, and you know all about patterns and color coordinating. I'm so impressed to know someone as smart as you. I'm proud of you." Carol smiled. Her mother had never said those words to herself, but she knew now that as long as someone was proud of her - be it a parent, a little girl or an old man her age that she was unusually close to - then she was happy. All it took was at least one person. And that was a lesson she'd never forget. "Well let's just hope you don't have a stroke or something," Carol said, sitting in her makeshift office with Burt as he paced back and forth, groaning; Carol shifted in her seat and, flipping through some papers, added, "Look, it's not that big a deal, we'll find another provider, okay? People get dropped from their health insurance all the time. They don't want to take accidents into accounts for payouts, and I guess technically your pacemaker up and dying on you would be considered an accident. They only want to pay out for sudden unexpected deaths, or tragically unavoidable accidents like car wrecks."
"That's what they're there for though!" Burt shouted, "They're supposed to be giving me coverage in case I die, who cares how I die?!" "Well, they do because they're the ones with the money," Carol said, "Burt sit down, you're making me anxious." Burt slumped into the lucite chair across from her desk and put his heads in his hands, groaning some more as Carol continued to flip through papers. After a few moments, she tapped on the desk, getting his attention, making him glance up. "See, there's plenty of full proof providers in your price range," Carol said. "You know, shit didn't used to be this expensive," Burt said. "Tell me about it," Polly said from the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and watching them as she chewed a candy bar, "I used to be able to get this candy bar for a nickel, now it's almost a dollar, and that's in a vending machine, not even an actual shop front." "Polly, do you mind?" Carol asked. "Depends, what are we actually talking about?" "I've been kicked off my health insurance because of my pacemaker malfunction," Burt muttered, just as the door opened more and Boris pushed his way in past Polly. "Hey, haven't you ever heard of personal space?" Polly asked. "Haven't you ever heard of shutting the hell up?" Boris replied. "Will everyone except Burt get out of my office, please?!" Carol shouted, now standing up and pointing at the door, "This doesn't concern any of you!" "Counter point, it concerns all of us," Polly said, biting off another hunk of her candy bar and chewing it as she continued, "because if this could happen to him, it could happen to anyone here, and that's something we all should discuss and be concerned about. I tell you, I miss two things most; my health, and the cheap cost of living." "God, I know," Boris said, breaking a piece of the candy bar off as Polly swatted at him for doing so; Boris popped it into his mouth, wiped his hands on his slacks and said, "I never thought about the fact that money might be an issue to me at this late stage in my life, you know? You just assume you'll have money by this point. You think you'll make good investments or just save up enough, but they kept raising the cost of everything and suddenly inflation eats away bit by bit at your funds. Before you know it, you're 72 and still needing to work." "It's fucked up," Polly said, "Money is simultaneously the best and the worst thing that has ever happened to humanity." "Guys, you're kind of bumming me out even more than I already was," Burt said, leaning his head on his fist, propped up by his elbow posted on Carol's desk. Carol walked around the side of the desk and ushered them both out of the office and into the hallway, shutting the door and locking it behind them. Polly took another bite of her candy bar and glanced at Boris. "Bureaucrats," she said flatly. *** Boris opened the front door to the apartment, only to find Chrissy sitting at the coffee table on the floor with Whittle nowhere in sight. After letting Polly into the apartment with him, he shut the door behind them and pulled his coat off, hanging it over the top of the couch. Chrissy looked up from her homework and waved at Boris, who smiled and waved back. "Hey kid," Polly said, leaning on the backside of the couch and looking at Chrissy, she asked, "What are you working on?" "Math homework," Chrissy said, "But it's my absolute worst subject. I'm terrible with numbers." "But I bet you're good at english, right?" Polly asked, and Chrissy nodded, making Polly chuckle, adding, "Yeah, that's how it usually goes. Great at one, terrible at the other." Polly came around the couch and sat down behind Chrissy, looking at her homework over her shoulder. "This is all about economics, money," Polly said, "I knew they took balancing a checkbook out of the curriculum, but they at least kept money management in the form of arithmetic. You know, when I was your age, things were affordable, even to kids to most extents. Now they've raised the prices of everything while simultaneously not raising the amount they pay you, meaning you can never be financially independent. The bigwigs in charge of everything really pulled a fast one on you kids." "It's okay," Chrissy said, "We're going to rise up and burn them." "Atta girl," Polly said, laughing, patting the top of Chrissy's head. Meanwhile, Boris went in search of Whittle in the apartment, only to find her in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror over the sink in her jeans and bra, applying makeup. Boris stopped in the doorway and looked at her, waiting for her to acknowledge him. After a moment she smiled at him and nodded, before returning to applying her eyeliner. "Where you been?" she asked. "Down at the home," Boris said, "Burt lost his health insurance because of his pacemaker trouble. Being a former nurse, I figured you might know something about maybe getting them to pick him back up, or perhaps finding an affordable alternative company to pick him up?" "First of all, I'm technically still kind of a nurse, just in the private sector," Whittle said, putting her eyeliner stick down on the sink and turning to Boris, putting a hand on her hip and continuing, "Secondly, I'm fairly certain they can't drop you for something related to necessary medical equipment being faulty." "Is that something we should maybe take up with someone?" Boris asked, "You think we have a case? Maybe get a senior citizens advocate or something?" "Boris, please don't take this the wrong way, but unless you know you have a guaranteed win, it isn't going to change a thing," Whittle said, "Honestly, these companies are so powerful and so rarely challenged because they're so powerful that you're simply better off accepting this as a loss." Boris hated to hear this sort of thing, but he knew Whittle was right. He sighed and scratched his forehead. "You going somewhere?" he asked. "I have a date," Whittle said, "Could you stay home and watch Chrissy?" "Yeah, of course," Boris said. Honestly, after such a letdown, maybe being home with Chrissy would be just the thing to take his mind off the fact that he, and other seniors, were so often slipping through the cracks. Maybe he'd order a pizza, and they could watch something funny, whatever it took to be able to enjoy himself. As Boris exited the hallway and found himself back in the living room, he watched Polly talk to Chrissy about her homework, and smiled to himself. She seemed to do well around children...maybe he'd ask her to stay and babysit with him. "What are you talking about?" Boris asked. "The high cost of living," Polly said, "She can't believe that things used to be so cheap. I'm trying to explain that it isn't just old people grousing about the changes society has made, and it's more about the lack of changes society has made in the best interest of its citizens, how they've screwed over the new generations while giving the previous generations everything they wanted, thusly creating the very rift we have now between said generations." "Listen to this woman, Chrissy," Boris said, "She knows what she's talking about." Boris came around to the couch and sat down beside Polly, watching as Chrissy turned around on the floor between the couch and the coffee table and looked up at them as she sat crossed legged. "So everything used to be cheaper?" Chrissy asked, "Like, even cars?" "Everything," Boris said, "Even things you wouldn't imagine, things like homes were affordable, things like cars were easily attainable, and the middle class was an actual ideal and potential possibility for anyone who was willing to put in the time and effort, because the time and effort required wasn't much and actually gave you what you needed to acquire it. Not anymore. Now, even with 3 jobs concurrently you're guaranteed to not only never pay off your car or your student loans, but rarely even pay your rent regularly." "That's ridiculous," Chrissy said, "Why doesn't someone do something?" "People have tried, and still are trying," Polly said, "But the people in charge, the corporations who own all the judges and have the government in their back pocket, aren't interested in making things easier for the people if it doesn't continue to line their pockets with cold hard cash." "You know," Chrissy said, "Whenever my parents talk about money and my generation, all they say is that we want things too easy, and that nobody's student debt should just be forgiven because theirs never was and that you just need to work harder. But here you guys are, older than my folks, talking about the same things but in the opposite manner. You think my generation should have it easier." "Nobody should have to go through the bullshit the generation before them went through, just because they went through it. That's like telling someone who's cancer went into remission while you're still in chemo that they need to tough it out," Boris said, "Times are different, things are different, it's a totally different world with totally different sets of circumstances and, yes, I think that means the generation coming up in that new world should be treated differently, and given opportunities to flourish, not pushed down until they suffocate." Chrissy smiled and looked back at her homework, as Polly looked at Boris and, surprising even herself, finding herself to be extremely impressed at his compassion, something she rarely got to see before they begun hanging out regularly. She'd always found him stand offish and somewhat cold, but now here, seeing him with this young girl and telling her how much he believed that she deserved better, she could see why Carol liked him so much. She understood it now. Polly knew Boris had a daughter in a coma, it was fairly common knowledge around the home, so perhaps his attitude towards a girl like Chrissy whom could so easily be considered a substitute for his own child wasn't all that surprising in reality, but never the less she decided to appreciate him for his warm heart. "Okay," Whittle said, coming out into the living room, sticking her earrings on and closing them before pulling her coat on over the long beautiful dress she was wearing; "I'll be back sometime around 11 or so. Make sure Chrissy finishes her homework, not that I don't trust her to, and get yourselves something to eat. Order a pizza, I don't care, but make sure you do eat." "You got it," Boris said, saluting her as she came around the couch and kissed the top of Chrissy's head before heading out the door. Polly looked at Boris and shrugged. "Pizza sound good to you?" she asked. "What, you staying?" "Well what do you want me to do, go back to the home and eat gruel?" Polly replied, making him laugh. *** Burt was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, when the door to his room opened and Carol came in. She pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down in it, sighing as she did, and for a few moments not even speaking. Eventually he looked at her and she was rubbing her face, apparently either extremely tired, extremely irritated or both. "I think I found a replacement insurance company for you," she said, "But we need to have some meetings first. You're not wrong to be so frustrated at this, it's...bullshit, quite honestly. This country hates its citizens as soon as they become people they can't as easily exploit without being called out on it." "You know," Burt said, "I never thought I'd honestly live long enough to encounter things that would try to end my life. The sad irrefutable fact that that thing is my very own body is even more or a swift kick to the junk, if you'll excuse my language." "Heh, it's fine," Carol said. "You do right by your body, you know? You try to eat well, you try to exercise, you don't smoke, you don't drink, you live to be 65, 70 years old and how's your own body repay you? By doing everything in its power to kill you anyway, simply because it's now tired of working so damn hard to keep you alive, despite you working so hard to keep it healthy lo these many years. My body does not have my own best interests at heart, and that's the biggest betrayal I think I've ever felt." "I understand what you mean," Carol said, "And you're not wrong, sadly. But thankfully you have people who care about you who are more than willing to go to bat for you against your body's callous behavior. Friends, like me...and to a lesser extent I suppose Boris." This made them both laugh as Carol stood up and, after pulling the chair back to its original position, headed for the door. Hand on the knob, she stopped and turned back to look at Burt. "Get some rest," she said, "We have our first meeting with this new insurance company tomorrow. They're sending someone over early." "Alright. Goodnight Carol, and thank you." "No problem," she said, exiting the room, letting Burt relax for the first time in what felt like weeks. *** After Chrissy had fallen asleep on the body pillow on the floor, leaving Boris and Polly alone to clean up before Whittle got home, things felt a little bit more normal. As Boris washed and dried the dishes they'd eaten off of while Polly broke down the pizza box and crushed their soda cans and tossed them into the recycling can Whittle kept in the kitchen, she couldn't help but feel like an actual part of a household...of someones life again, and it was nice. "You know," Polly said, turning a crushed can over in her hand, "You can get money for these. Teach Chrissy more about economics and environmentalism all in one fell swoop." "I think today was a good starting point. Perhaps in a while I'll advance to that course," Boris said, drying his hands on his pants as he turned to see Polly drop the crushed can into the receptacle. She put her hands on her hips and admired their cleaning efforts in the kitchen, as Boris walked past her and watched Chrissy shift on the floor, snoring a little as she pulled her stuff tiger closer to her chest. Polly walked to his side and stopped, watching with him, and occasionally watching him as well. "You really care about her," Polly said quietly. "Someone has to give a shit about the kids," Boris said, "Guess that someone will be me. Gives me a purpose to stay alive I guess." "Oh please, if you were to die, who would I rib good naturedly?" she asked, nudging him in the side with her elbow and winking. He chuckled, but he didn't let his line of sight break of Chrissy. "I'm thinking I'll leave everything to her," Boris said, "You know, when I go." "Everything which is what exactly? You're not really made of money," Polly said. Boris went quiet, which got Polly's attention. "Boris? You're not made of money...are you?" "I have quite a bit stocked away in an account my wife doesn't know about, nor does my daughter, all from the insurance company from the car accident and my short time spent writing poetry for a living," Boris said, "I never told this to Carol or Burt or anyone else. In fact, you're the only one who knows about it now, which obviously means I have to kill you now." Polly laughed heartily and patted his back as she went and pulled her coat on but struggled. Boris helped her finish and watched as she buttoned it up. "Guess I'll go down and wait for my cab," she said, "...thanks for including me today. And for telling me about your secret stash of cash. Now I have all the more reason to somehow find a way to con you out of it and make it look like an accident." They stood there for a moment, and just as she was about to leave, Boris walked forward and hugged her tightly. "I'm so sorry I was so rude to you all these years," he said softly, surprising her. "Uh...it...it's okay, Boris, really it's fine. We both know it was all in good fun," Polly said, patting his back, but eventually shutting her eyes and hugging him back, "...after all, who needs enemies when you've got money in the bank and a like me?" "I'd rather have the friendship than the money." "And that's why you're a goddamned fool," she replied, making them laugh. Nobody had seen Burt all morning.
Sitting in the cafeteria eating breakfast, Boris and Carol couldn't help but wonder what had happened to their friend. Neither one spoke as they ate, instead choosing to sit in silence and ponder the whereabouts of their buddy as they silently chewed their omlettes and drank their coffee. After a while, Boris exhaled and, sitting back in his chair and sipping from his mug, shook his head and finally spoke. "What if he's...you know?" Boris asked. "Don't say things like that," Carol snapped. Technically I didn't say it," Boris replied. "Well then don't insinuate things like that," Carol said, setting her fork down, "Burt is our friend, I don't want to imagine the possibility of him being gone. He's probably got a checkup he didn't tell us about or an early visitor or something." They heard a chair squeak beside them and glanced over to see Polly seating herself, setting her tray on the table and scooting herself inwards to the table. She picked up her fork and started cutting up her waffles as she looked at them. "What're we talking about?" she asked. "Burt," Carol and Boris said in unison. "Oh, you didn't hear?" Polly asked, setting her fork down, dabbing her face with a napkin and sipping her coffee, "His pacemaker acted up early this morning, he was rushed into emergency care." Carol and Boris exchanged a somehow simultaneously nervous and confused look before directing their attention back to Polly. "How...how did you know that?" Carol asked. "Burt has a pacemaker?" Boris asked. "Yeah," Polly said, blowing on her coffee a little, "And I know because he came to me for help with it because I used to know someone who had one, so I was familiar with the situation. He should be fine though, it's rarely something serious. Unless his heart literally exploded, but that doesn't happen...often." "Who did you know that used to have a pacemaker?" Boris asked, and Polly smirked, but in the saddest way someone could smirk. *** "Where do you want me to put this?" Jean asked, "And didn't we just buy a box of frosted flakes?" "I'm a grown woman, I can buy as many boxes as I want," Polly said as Jean shook the box at her and finally put it in the upper cabinet in the kitchen. As she shut the door, she turned and leaned against the counter, watching Polly calculate things at the old dark oak table they had. Jean smiled and walked up to her, rubbing her shoulder with a hand. "How's it going?" she asked. "Exhausting," Polly said, removing her reading glasses and rubbing her eyes, "Absolutely exhausting. Numbers are a curse from the devil, I swear." Jean laughed and walked into the living room as Polly pulled her glasses back down and continued doing their taxes. Polly had rarely been trustworthy of anyone else handling her finances, ever since the lawyer she'd hired to settle her parents affairs when she was a young woman had stolen almost everything and gotten away with it. Now she refused to let anyone else touch her money again, even if doing it herself was a pain in the neck. "You know, I think, if you get to a certain age, you shouldn't have to do taxes anymore," Polly said, "Like, they've taken enough money from you your whole life, and now you're 60 or so, they should let you keep what you have left to survive on. Have to give my own government, which theoretically is there to protect and care for me, money because it can't handle its own bullshit finances. We're constantly bailing out our own country." She heard something fall in the living room and waited a moment, setting her pen down and looking towards the doorway as Jean came back in, rubbing her chest. "What happened?" Polly asked. "I just...I had a sharp pain in my chest, I'm out of breath, I feel like...like I just touched a live wire," Jean said, as Polly stood up, walked to her and helped her sit down at the table. She stroked Jean's hair and kissed the top of her head. "You'll be fine," Polly said, "I'm right here." *** Walking down the hall with Carol and Polly, Boris couldn't help but feel bad for not knowing more about Burt. They were his friends, after all, and yet Polly was the only one who apparently knew of his pacemaker. Didn't seem right. Could they really be just that bad of friends? Polly pulled out a pack of gum from her dress pocket and popped a piece in her mouth, offering some to the others, but only Carol accepted. "Minty," Carol said as she chewed. "Yeah, it helps cleanse the breakfast taste," Polly remarked. "So how long's Burt gonna be out of commission?" Boris asked, and Polly shrugged. "Beats me. I just knew someone with one, I didn't work on them myself personally," Polly said, "But he's in good hands, so I'm sure he'll be back in action any time now." "Well," Carol said, "I guess I should get to work, I'll see you guys later." Carol turned and headed to the small office she'd assigned herself for the renovation work, leaving Boris and Polly alone. They continued walking down the hall and stopping at the recreational room, where people played card games and other type activities. Boris walked to the pool table and looked down at the felt, while Polly picked up a cue and started setting up the balls. "You know," Polly said, "I used to be a pretty good pool player." "Really now?" "Yep," Polly said, "Thought about going professional, but never really went for it. Still, for a good while it was the hobby I did more than anything else." And with that, she hit the ball and sent the rest flying across the table, smiling. "So why'd you stop?" Boris asked, picking up the other cue, taking her on. "Because sometimes other things take the place of your vices," Polly said, "More important things." *** The crack of the balls echoing in the bar, the balls rolling across the table as she headed around for a better, cleaner shot, was like music to Polly's ears. She looked across to the end of the table at a large man in leather with greasy hair and a beard, holding his own cue, clutching it so tightly his knuckles were white, and she smirked. "What do you say we up it?" she asked, putting her hand on her hip and looking at him, "How about we make it worth just a little bit more?" "You ain't got nothin' else I'm interested in," the man said, "Aside from that gold watch and the earrings, which are only worth shit cause I could easily hawk 'em, you don't have anything else I want." "You don't want a Gremlin?" "You drive a Gremlin?" "I drive a Gremlin," Polly said, running a hand through her bouncy dirty blonde hair, "I miss this, you get the title to the car and everything." "You're a loon," the man said as Polly set up for her shot again; she slowly licked her lips, shut one eye and took the shot, sinking the ball in the pocket and standing back up as the man took his pool cue and snapped it over his leg, approaching her. "You're a loon and a goddamned cheater!" he shouted, as Polly backed up, but before she could even attempt to defend herself, a woman in a bomber jacket and jeans pushed her way in front of her and placed herself in between Polly and the enraged man. "Hey pal, you wanna fuck right off?" she shouted loudly, "Get the fuck out of her face! I watched the whole goddamned thing, and she kicked your ass, so how about you go find a woman who won't emasculate you since you can't fuckin' handle it!?" The man gritted his teeth, turned and stormed off as the woman turned around and looked at Polly, who - in a mixture of shock and awe - was leaning against the bar, her hand clutching to her chest as if she were about to drop dead right there on the spot. The woman had short black hair and big hoop earrings. "You okay?" she asked, and Polly nodded. "Y-yeah, thanks," Polly said, brushing herself off, setting the pool cue against the bar stool beside her and holding her hand out, "I didn't think he'd react like that, but I guess I should've expected it. I'm Polly Hawkins." "Jean," the woman said, shaking her hand, her bright teeth gleaming at her as she smiled, "Jean Thurgood. It's nice to meet you Polly." Things were different back then. Polly was younger, capable of handling herself more than most women it seemed to her, but even so she rarely expected anyone to stand up for it, especially another woman. Meeting other women, especially other women like her, who wanted the same things she did, was even more rare, but somehow she managed to. So Polly and Jean spent the next 25 years together, and it was only on that rainy autumn day, when they were going to go and walk to the bakery downtown and buy some pastries, that Polly truly realized how lucky she'd been to have Jean by her side all this time. Because when it gave out, when her pacemaker suddenly stopped working - something Jean had had for most of the last decade because of a lifelong heart defect - and she tried to grab the dresser on the way to the floor to steady herself, Polly saw for the first time this strong capable woman who have given her life meaning finally need help herself, and she was there to do it. She called 911, she rode with her in the ambulance, and she almost had to be restrained when they wouldn't let her go in with her to emergency surgery. Sitting on the bench of the hospital hallway, staring at the candy bar machine across from her as she chewed a Snickers, Polly couldn't imagine what life would be like now. Would this thing make Jean even more careful than she'd already been? Would it push her to instead try and be more vital and active? She didn't know, all she did know was that when they were home, she'd do her best to take care of Jean the way Jean had always taken care of her. But when the doctor told her Jean wasn't coming home, and in fact wasn't even there anymore, Polly's entire world shattered. She gave up on everything, she stopped going out and, eventually, once she tired of taking care of the home, she sold it and put herself in the home, much like Boris had. And it was only when she met Boris that she felt the same sort of affinity that she had with Jean, just not on a romantic level obviously. Boris's attitude, his witticisms and genuine heartfelt personality all reminded Polly of Jean, and Polly was grateful to have that back in her life, even if in a non romantic manner. *** Opening the door to her room, she found Megan hard at work making the space for her tub; Megan looked behind her and smiled, wiping her forehead off with her sleeve before nodding at Polly as she entered and nodded back at her before heading to the closet. Megan exhaled and sat on her knees, putting her drill down. "This is coming along nicely," Megan said, "I think I should be totally done in a few weeks at most, and then it's soak city, baby." "I'm excited," Polly said, "Never had a really nice tub I could lay down in like this. It's gonna be like having a spa in my bedroom." "You're gonna be the life of the home, trust me," Megan said, "I'll put in some mega speakers, maybe a minibar, some trippy neon lighting, it's gonna be like a drug den in here." Polly cracked up as she dug in her closet for something. Megan stood up and wiped her pants off, took the bit from her drill and put the whole thing back in its case before picking it up and looking towards the door. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" "Wait, before you go," Polly said, pulling out a large flat box and sitting on the bed, setting it on her knees, "This is for you. It belonged to someone I really loved, and I just want to give it to you because I really appreciate the work you're doing here, and the company you've brought me." "That's so nice," Megan said, seating herself on the bed beside Polly, "What is it?" "It's a bomber jacket," Polly said, "Vintage, belonged to their brother when he served in the army. After he died in combat, they sent the jacket back home, and eventually, when they died, I kept it as something to remember them by." "It's beautifully preserved, the leather is still so supple," Megan said, running her perfectly french tipped pink nails over the jacket, making Polly blush. "Stand up," Polly said, and Megan did as she was told. Megan put her cases down, put her arms out and let Polly pull the jacket on over her. It fit like a glove, and after she turned around to show it off, Polly had to sit back down and put her hand to her mouth, trying not to openly cry. She looked so much like Jean. Megan ran her hands down the jacket and beamed at her, before reaching back and letting her hair down. "Thank you so much, this is so kind of you," Megan said, "People I do work for never do this sort of thing for me." "You're welcome," Polly said, "Someone deserves to enjoy it now." With that, Megan hugged Polly, said goodbye, and left the room. Polly laid down on the bed and sighed, thinking about how nice it felt to once again have the company of a woman she was attracted to, regardless of whether or not they were decades younger than her. Just proved that, even as old as you get, love is something you never lose the capacity for if you choose not to, and she was thankful for that. *** "So you can't go near microwaves, right?" Boris asked, as Burt tried to eat his breakfast the following morning. "Jesus, you know, I really actually liked it better when you weren't here," Burt said, making Boris and Carol laugh. The chair beside Boris squeaked as Polly seated herself, just with a mug of coffee and a poppyseed muffin. Boris smiled at this simplistic breakfast, turning his attention to her now instead. "Just a muffin?" he asked, "Not very filling." "Poppyseed muffin," Polly said, "Someone I loved, this was their favorite muffin. Just been in a real nostalgic mood lately I guess. So Burt, hey-" "Yeah?" Burt asked, leaning forward to see her on the other side of Boris. "-so you're like fully a robot now, right? I mean I knew you were a robot already, you have no feelings, but now you're fully cybernetic, right?" Polly asked, making them all laugh again. "I hate all of you," Burt said, chuckling to himself. |
About
Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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