The apartment was a mess. Materials were thrown everywhere, glue was running down the wall and the shoebox they'd been working in was tipped over onto the floor. Father Krickett wiped his forehead with his sleeve and exhaled, leaning against the wall, looking across the room at Boris who was slumped on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
"This was a bad idea," Boris finally said. "Gee, you think?" Father Krickett asked. "What made us think we could help with this?" Boris asked, "I mean, we don't know anything about homes! We're probably the least two qualified men on the planet to be helping with such a project. Ridiculous to think we could." Father Krickett slid down the wall and onto the floor, his eyes landing on the shoebox. He reached up and ran his hand through his short blonde hair, wishing he knew what to say or what to do, but something in the old man brought something combative out in him, and he both hated and loved it. Boris made him feel things he hadn't felt in years.He scanned the room again, his eyes running from Boris back down to the floor and again landing on the shoebox. "We need to finish what we started," Father Krickett finally said. "Are you kidding me?" Boris asked, "We're gonna kill one another if we try that." "Here's to hoping," Father Krickett mumbled, making Boris chuckle. Yes, it was hard trying to make a visual representation of family. but it was something they both needed to try and do. *** "I have to make a shoebox diorama of our home," Chrissy said, sitting at the dinner table the previous evening, "But I don't really know how to do that. I mean, how do you make a visual representation of something that is so hard to understand as it is?" "What's hard to understand?" Boris asked, piling peas onto his plate, "you live here, with us, and we take care of you. I'd say that's pretty simple." "Because it isn't 'normal'," Chrissy said, making air quotes, "Because what we have is really unusual, so how do I represent that? I mean, you're not my grandpa and Whittle's not my mom-" "What about me?" Father Krickett asked as he took his seat at the table after getting himself a drink. "-and he's not my priest," Chrissy said, making him laugh as she finished, "I live with a nurse, a priest and an old man. That's not a family. That's the start to a joke." "For what it's worth," Whittle said, "A lot of people have unconventional families and they do just fine. Hell, single parents are still considered a somewhat unconventional family, even though it's been a normalized thing since forever. Plenty of people have families made up of people they aren't related to. We aren't any different than any of your classmates who have moms and dads at homes." "It's true," Father Krickett said, reaching for a roll to split open and put butter on, as he said, "after all, the way it's shaken out for you, you know you're taken care of. You live with a nurse, who cares for your health, a priest, who cares for your soul, and a Boris." "...I don't care about anything?" Boris asked, glancing at the priest. "I don't know, do you?" Father Krickett asked. "...no, you're right, not particularly," Boris said, making everyone laugh a little as he looked across the table at Chrissy and said, pointing with his fork, "except you. I care about you. We can help you, if you need it. I'd love to work on something. Give me something to do this weekend besides all the nothing I normally do." "I'd like to but I can't, I have a prior engagement," Whittle said, "but best of luck to you if you do." "Fine, but you're the one missing all the fun," Boris said. Whittle smiled as she watched and listened to everyone banter while she ate the dinner Father Krickett and Boris had helped make together. This was the kind of family she liked, in all honesty. For a short time, she'd wondered if she'd made the right decision about leaving her boyfriend, but this, what they had here, was far more suitable for her, and for everyone else it seemed. Oh sure, Father Krickett didn't live with them, but he was there often enough that it felt as if he did. Honestly, she thought, Chrissy was lucky. She'd have killed to have had this setup at her age. *** "So, I'm thinking streamers, everyone likes streamers, right? And a disco ball," Carol said as she and Burt walked down the hall, Burt jotting everything down on a little notepad. "How are we gonna get that stuff on the ceiling?" Burt asked, "I don't trust anyone here to climb a ladder, do you?" "We'll hire people to prepare for us," Carol said. Just then, they passed by a large walk in storage closet and stopped, backing up and peering inside. Inside the closet was Boris, standing on a small stepladder as Father Krickett stood beside it, keeping it steady. Father Krickett smiled and waved at Carol and Burt as they walked inside, joining them, a curious look on their faces. "What are you doing?" Carol asked. "Looking for arts and crafts supplies," Boris said. "Why you robbing us? The preschool closed?" Burt asked. "It's because this is what we had access to. And yes, the preschool was closed, in fact," Boris said, "Hold that ladder steady, dammit! I don't wanna fall on my ass!" "Like you have an ass anymore to fall on," Carol scoffed, crossing her arms and asking, "So, what is this even for?" "We're helping Chrissy with a project, a shoebox diorama of her home life," Father Krickett said, "But we don't have any supplies and he's too cheap to buy them himself, so here we are. Thank goodness you guys have a lot of stuff, because otherwise I think he actually may have tried to rob that preschool." "I'd fight preschoolers, I think I could take them," Boris said, making everyone laugh. "Well," Carol said, "if you're going to borrow stuff, the payment can be easy. I need you to help get the cafeteria ready for the Senior Prom. Think you guys could help with that?" "Sure thing," Father Krickett said, "we'd be happy to." Carol nodded, then turned and exited the room, leaving the boys to their thievery. Burt caught up with her and continued down the hall with her, still writing down her suggestions for the Senior Prom. Back in the storage closet, Father Krickett looked back from the door up the small ladder at Boris and grimaced. "What's a senior prom?" he asked. "It's something Carol's throwing to celebrate everyone in the home," Boris said, "I'll explain more later. Hold it steady, I've almost got all the glue." *** Unfortunately for the boys, come the weekend, Chrissy was sick and in bed. Whittle hesitated going on her date, but Boris insisted she do it, saying he and Father Krickett would watch her while she was gone, in addition to doing her diorama. Whittle argued for a bit, but eventually conceded and left, leaving the old man and the priest in charge. They broke out the supplies, scattered them on the coffee table and got to work. "The thing about a diorama," Father Krickett said, "is that it's not supposed to be perfectly accurate. It's simply supposed to represent the makers idealized vision of what it is they're seeing." "Deep," Boris said, "but if it isn't accurate, then aren't they just lying?" "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," Father Krickett said, cutting into some construction paper, shrugging, "Everyone views their homefront as something different. Every member of a family sees something different in what their experience is." "Like I would know anything about what makes a good home," Boris said. "I know the feeling. Coming from a home full of grief, it makes it hard to find a reason to try and make a new home," Father Krickett said, "Even if what happened wasn't entirely my fault. My brother dying wasn't because of me. Still, it makes it hard to care about creating something that's meant to be permanent, when I'm not sure the permanance is permanent. Life is so fleeting that even a home eventually becomes uninhabitable over time." "Gee, you're a bundle of sunshine," Boris said, smirking, as Father Krickett glued a little design to the construction paper, trying to make a proper wallpaper for the shoebox. "I just mean that home is a weird concept to begin with, and it can mean many different things to many people or nothing to many others," Father Krickett said, "They call the church the house of God, and yet it doesn't feel homely. It feels cold and empty. But to me, that's what home feels like. My own house, as a result, feels weirdly incorrect because it's warm and cozy." "Home isn't the place, home is the people," Boris said, "It's a construct of an idea. We try and make homes be the buildings, but it isn't, it's the people who reside in those buildings. That's why it can hurt when it all falls apart, because you;re not coming from a broken domicile, you're coming from a broken group of folks." "Interesting viewpoint," Father Krickett said. "Take home furnishings for instance," Boris said, "people like to put so much thought into what goes into their homes, but it's all outward visual extensions of the self. You don't get nice furniture or good artwork on the walls to represent yourself, you get it to hopefully trick visitors into seeing a different, often better, version of yourself. A version you aspire to be but could never reach." "Well that's a tad cynical, don't you think?" Father Krickett asked and Boris scoffed, standing up and throwing his arms into the air. "I mean, in my experience, the house is a lie. Photos are lies. The only thing true are lived experiences. Everything else is a ruse. A smokescreen," Boris said, "You're not the church, because, unlike the church, you're not cold and unwelcoming." "I never said it was unwelcoming-" "But it is, isn't it? I mean, let's face it, a good portion of the general public feel unsafe there," Boris said, "I don't know what it is I'm trying to say, John, I'm just...I'm just saying that a building doesn't represent a person, you know? This apartment? It's just a place to be, man. It doesn't say anything about its inhabitants." Father Krickett stood up and, jar of glue in his hands, started pacing, peering down at the table from time to time. "I suppose you have a point, but every child deserves to grow up in a stable environment, don't you think?" he asked, "I mean, by that logic, doesn't that mean the building then inherits the responsibility of those who inhabit it?" "It can't inherit anything, it's not a living being," Boris said, "ahhh, what do either of us know about family anyway." "A hell of a lot more than the little girl who lives here," Father Krickett said sternly, surprising Boris, as he added, "I mean, she didn't even know what kind of diorama to do, and now look, we're making it for her. Granted she's sick, so that's why it's fallen on us, but...but here's a child who doesn't know what a home is supposed to be. Do you wanna be realistic, cold and cruel, and create a visual representation of what a home actually is, or do you wanna give her some hope and something to wish for and create a visual representation of what a home should be?" Boris stared at Father Krickett, then furrowed his brow and waved his hand. "Whatever, forget it," he said. "Yeah, shrug it off, like you do with everything," Father Krickett, which got his attention again. "Excuse me?" "You always run from bad situations. You ran from your life after the accident, you ran from your problems with Polly and then you ran from what happened with her by becoming dependent on pain medication. No wonder you don't see a home as something that could be something good, because you never spent any time in one. If anything, a hotel is a better example of a living situation for you, because you're always on the move." "How dare you!" Boris shouted, grabbing the construction paper and throwing it on the floor, adding, "I don't just run! I've come a long way from that! Yes, I'll grant you that's what I used to do, but that isn't the case anymore! And what's it matter to you? What are you even doing here, John? Why are you so involved in this pathetic little excuse for a life I have if you think so lowly of me?" "I don't think lowly of you and that's the problem!" Father Krickett shouted back, "that's the goddamned issue, is how, like Polly, we both think more highly of you than you do of yourself! The things you're capable of and the things you've done, but you don't see that! All you see is failure and disappointment! When are you gonna open your eyes and start seeing what you're made of instead of what you think you're made of!" Father Krickett then turned and threw the jar of glue against the wall, screaming, surprising Boris. "I'm so sick of this, Boris! I'm so sick of seeing you continually believe that just because things have been bad that they'll always be bad, that your lived experiences will continue to define and dominate your future experiences instead of realizing your can make better ones! So you were a bad father, so what! So were a thousand other men! Guess who else is a bad father? I am! I'm a bad father! I'm a bad priest! Because I'd prefer to spend my time saving the soul of one old man instead of the hundreds of other people who might benefit from my help!" "My soul doesn't need saving!" Boris yelled. "Oh you're goddamned right it doesn't," Father Krickett said, half laughing, tears running down his face, "Because you...you don't even have one! Right? Isn't that what you believe? That you don't even have a soul? Well the body is the home of the soul, so I guess once your body shuts down your soul will be permanently nomadic, so let's hope it can get an apartment. We're all just houses! We're all just renters in these flesh prisons! That's what you're not seeing!" "Oh how existential of you," Boris said, sitting down on the couch again as Father Krickett leaned against the wall across from him; Boris continued, "...so you're saying this diorama isn't about the apartment, it's about HER. It's about how she views herself, and our input on her personhood?" "I don't know what I'm saying," Father Krickett said. "Why do you even care so much?" Boris asked, "If there's others out there who could use you, why stick around here and continue to be berated? Why do you-" "Because I love you, man!" Father Krickett said loudly, "because I...because I love you, man." Neither men said a word for what felt like an hour. The apartment was a mess. Materials were thrown everywhere, glue was running down the wall and the shoebox they'd been working in was tipped over onto the floor. Father Krickett wiped his forehead with his sleeve and exhaled, leaning against the wall, looking across the room at Boris who was slumped on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "This was a bad idea," Boris finally said. "Gee, you think?" Father Krickett asked. "What made us think we could help with this?" Boris asked, "I mean, we don't know anything about homes! We're probably the least two qualified men on the planet to be helping with such a project. Ridiculous to think we could." Father Krickett slid down the wall and onto the floor, his eyes landing on the shoebox. He reached up and ran his hand through his short blonde hair, wishing he knew what to say or what to do, but something in the old man brought something combative out in him, and he both hated and loved it. Boris made him feel things he hadn't felt in years.He scanned the room again, his eyes running from Boris back down to the floor and again landing on the shoebox. "We need to finish what we started," Father Krickett finally said. "Are you kidding me?" Boris asked, "We're gonna kill one another if we try that." "Here's to hoping," Father Krickett mumbled, making Boris chuckle. Yes, it was hard trying to make a visual representation of family. but it was something they both needed to try and do. As they got up and started to clean, they heard the front door open. Whittle was standing there, looking somewhat surprised. "What the hell did you do to my apartment?!" she shouted. "Why aren't you on your date?" Boris asked. "He had to reschedule. There's glue on the fucking walls!" she shouted. Just then they all heard a cough, and all 3 of them looked up to the hallway to see Chrissy standing there. Her eyes were red, like she had been crying. She was squeezing her plushie to her chest and then tossed her hair back behind her a little out of her eyes. "Can I have a glass of water?" she asked quietly. "...yeah, yeah go back to bed, I'll bring it to you," Whittle said as she entered the apartment, set her things down on the kitchen table and then filled a water glass up, heading down the hall, not even looking back at the men in the living room. As she opened the bedroom door, she saw Chrissy sitting on her bed, crossed legged, the lights off. Whittle entered and shut the door behind her, sitting on the bed and handing Chrissy the water as she reached behind her and rubbed her back. "Are you feeling better?" she asked. "not really," Chrissy said, "everywhere I go adults fight." "...when I was your age, my parents argued a lot too. I think that's partially why I was so willing to take you in, because I knew where you were coming from. My situation wasn't as bad as yours, but it was rough at times. But I think the thing to remember here is that your parents were fighting about themselves, and Boris and John are fighting about you." "That makes it better?" Chrissy asked. "Hell yeah it is, kid. How many kids are lucky enough to have adults argue about the best way to raise a kid because they care so much about them? Your parents argued because they were mad with themselves for failing themselves, but Boris and John are arguing because they're mad with themselves for failing you. That's a pretty important difference, I'd say. You're a very loved kid." Chrissy smiled as she looked into her water glass, then took a big sip. "Will you tuck me back in?" she asked. "Of course pumpkin," Whittle said. After Whittle put Chrissy back to bed, she came back out into the living room, but both men were gone, and the room was cleaned. She sighed, sat down at the kitchen table and started eating her take out. What had her life become? Different, difficult at times...but better than it was. She smiled to herself. Frankly that's what everyone in this apartment had now, and it was better than where they'd come from she thought. *** Father Krickett and Boris were seated in the school hallway. Boris was holding the diorama in his lap, but neither men would look at eachother, instead opting to watch the kids all go to their respective classes as the school day started. Father Krickett was wearing corderoy pants and a turtleneck with a sports jacket on it, while Boris was in a sweater with a collared shirt peaking out the top, and old black jeans. Eventually Father Krickett cleared his throat and looked at Boris. "...I'm sorry," he said, "for making things weird or whatever it was I did." "...you know," Boris said, "if things were different...another time period, if I were a different age, I might be more inclined to return your feelings. Nevertheless, I appreciate your concern, and for what it's worth, I love you too, man. I can't imagine my life without you in it. You're my best friend." "Same here," Father Krickett said, "I just hope this abomination passes for coursework." "If it doesn't, then we'll just redo it," Boris said. "Yeah, sure, and maybe this time we'll just bypass all the yelling and instead kill eachother outright," Father Krickett said, making Boris chuckle as he added, "...I don't think you're wrong, for what it's worth. I think homes are often a facade, but they don't have to be, and especially for a child they shouldn't be. I just wanna make sure Chrissy grows up in a better home than any of us did." "...yeah, that's what I want to," Boris replied, "I just want her to grow up at least feeling like someone cared enough to TRY." Just then they looked up from the diorama at Chrissy, now standing in front of them, looking down at the diorama. Eventually all their eyes met. "What are you guys doing here?" she asked. "We brought your diorama. We managed to finish it last night," Boris said, handing it to her, "...sorry it's such a mess." "Like I'd expect anything less," Chrissy said, "but, ya know, that's how I like it. Perfection is boring. I like how messy we all are. I like how messy our home life is. It's weird and it's unusual, but that just makes life more interesting, right? I mean...we're all weirdos, but at least we're weirdos together." Boris and Father Krickett smiled at her, then one another. "Thanks for helping, guys," she said, hugging them both, "I don't care what grade I get, cause at least I know the people who helped make mine really cared." The bell rang, and Chrissy turned, rushing off to class, waving bye to them over her shoulder. Father Krickett put his hand on Boris's shoulder as Boris slid his hands into his pants pockets, the two men standing in the hall, watching her run down the hall to her classroom. "Come on," Father Krickett, "I'll buy you breakfast." "You always buy me breakfast." "Yeah but this time it'll be for a good cause." "What, me not starving isn't a good enough cause for you? Isn't the church supposed to want to feed the needy?" Boris asked as they turned and walked down the hallway toward the front doors of the school. "Boris?" "Yeah?" "Shut up." "Alrighty."
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"What the hell is tapioca?" Burt asked as he and Carol stood in line getting lunch. She shrugged and plopped another jello square onto her tray.
"I don't know, some kind of pudding I'd guess," Carol said. "Everyone assumes old people eat the grossest shit. Tapioca, oatmeal, liver and onions...don't they realize that our palette hasn't changed just because we've aged? I want cheeseburgers god dammit," Burt said, making her chuckle as they carried their trays back to the table, finding Larry already seated and eating an enormous burrito; Burt looked at him agog, and asked, "Where did you get that?" "From a little vendor outside," Larry said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, "You should try leaving the home once in a while. It's amazing what things you can find two feet from the door." "I'm gonna kill you and eat your lunch," Burt mumbled. "Hey," Carol said, interrupting the bickering as she shifted her food around her plate, "...what do you guys think about, like, a senior prom?" "What about it?" Larry asked. "Like, you remember going to prom, right? We all presumably went to prom," Carol said. "I like that you said presumably," Burt said. "Well, who knows, you could've been a loser who stayed at home and danced with his mom, I just didn't wanna make any assumptions," Carol replied, smirking, "but do you guys think that would be a good idea? Sort of a little party to celebrate the fact that we're seniors? Seniority has a lot of perks to it, aside from being closer to death than anyone else." "I think it's a cool idea," Larry said, "We could get suits and dresses and do decorations and maybe order catering." "Exactly. And for people with alzheimers, it'd be nice, it'd be like reliving the days they think they're living already," Carol said, "I know they say you shouldn't wallow in your memories but sometimes those are what get you through the day. Memory is important." "I'll try to remember that," Burt muttered, making them all laugh. *** Boris parked the gremlin and got out. He stuffed the keys in his coat pocket and started walking through the parking lot, unsurprised when he heard the sound of heels rushing up behind him, and found Lorraine walking beside him now. "Boy, you drive in style," she said, smirking. "I do what I can to impress the ladies, yes," Boris said, smiling a little himself, "Did Ellen tell you anything at all about why she wanted us to come to her therapy session?" "No," Lorraine said, hoisting her purse strap further up her shoulder, "No, all she said was that it was important, and that was enough for me. I no longer require explanation, I'm just trying to be there for her whenever she asks." "Yeah, exactly," Boris said, kicking small pebbles in front of him as they approached the building. He reached out and opened the door, letting Lorraine enter first. She thanked him, and he followed her inside. They checked in at the counter, then were told to take a seat, and they would be let into the office in a few minutes, so Boris and Lorraine seated themselves. Lorraine picked up a well worn looking magazine from the table by her chair and started flipping through it. "I used to think it was important to keep a nice household," she said, looking at the various photos in this housekeeping magazine, sighing, "but really, the household itself doesn't matter. The people inside it matter. You can keep the most disheveled home, but so long as the people inside it are tight knit, the appearance doesn't matter." "Deep," Boris said, "You should write a philosophy book." Lorraine looked at him, somewhat smiling at his statement, but also wishing that, for once, he'd be serious. "...we didn't try hard enough," she finally said, flopping the magazine down in her lap, "we thought all you had to do was get married, remember? That was it. Get married, have a kid, everything else would fall into place. It'd just work. That isn't how it works." "No it is not," Boris said, laughing a little, "but...I don't think it's fair to say we didn't try hard enough. We tried plenty. It just...didn't work. Sometimes things just don't work. Sometimes the people you wanna have in your life are...are not meant to be there that long." He looked away and ran a hand through his thin hair, making Lorraine reach out and hold his hand. "You really miss her," she said quietly. "Every goddamned day. I've never missed a woman I didn't romantically love more than her," he said. "Losing a friendship, especially a really good friendship, can be just as brutal as losing as a lover," Lorraine said, "I'm sorry that happened to you, Boris, she seemed like a good friend to you." The door opened and a woman was standing there. She smiled and waved at the couple, insinuating they could follow her, which they did. They got out of their chairs and headed through the door, then followed the woman down the hall towards an office. Once inside they found Ellen sitting there, and she smiled weakly at them as they entered. Boris immediately got an awful feeling in his gut. "Hi sweetheart," Lorraine said, hugging Ellen, who hugged her back. "Hi mom, hi dad," she said, and Boris smiled at her and hugged her lightly after Lorraine was done. The two took their seats again and looked from Ellen to the therapist, who just scrawled something on a piece of paper on a clipboard and then looked back up at everyone else. "So," she said, "I'm Dr. Krowder, it's nice to meet you. I'm very glad you were able to meet with us today," she said, "I've been working with Ellen for a few months now, and we have made...uh...decent progress, I guess, is a way to put it. Nothing outstanding but also more than nothing at all. She's been great to work with, but she really wanted you guys to come in this week because she remembered something and she wanted to bring it up to you both." Lorraine and Boris exchanged a seemingly nervous glance before looking back at Ellen, who was now looking at her hands in her lap. "Okay," Boris said, "Well, whatever we can do to help her, obviously." "Why did you and mom split up? I remember the fight, the night you left," Ellen said, still not looking at them, "and, uh..." she paused and pushed some hair back behind her ear, sniffling, "and I just never really understood why it happened. But I guess piecing it together now, it makes sense, if we had an accident and you felt responsible and whatnot..." "That was a big part of it," Boris said. "but why did you say what you said?" Ellen asked, causing Boris and Lorraine to, once again, exchange a glance before Boris furrowed his brow. "What...what did I say?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. "You said you never wanted a family to begin with, that mom is the one who wanted this, and that you knew you wouldn't be good at being a father," Ellen said, finally looking up at her father. "...when your mother and I met, I was trying desperately to be a writer," Boris said, "I was taking any job I could, doing copy, whatever, but...but in my spare time I was working mostly on my poetry. She and I met at a small poetry group at a local bookstore, and she was immediately smitten." "It's true, I can't deny it," Lorraine said, chuckling nervously. "and likewise," Boris continued, clearing his throat and cupping his hands, "uh, I thought she was beautiful and very very intelligent, and so we immediately started dating. We just...I guess, we assumed that's what you did when you got serious. You got married, you had kids, whatever. It wasn't...it wasn't so much that I didn't..." Boris scratched his head. "How do I explain this," he muttered, "uh...I wasn't against having you. Does that make sense? After we got married, after you were born, yeah, I started to realize that that wasn't the life I wanted and we had both been kind of pressured socially into doing that, and while I may have regretted giving into that pressure instead of following my original plan...I never once regretted you." "I believe that," Ellen said softly, "but I...I feel like the accident, what happened to me specifically, is what caused you two to finally split." "No, look, we were not doing well already by that point," Boris said, "and the accident itself may have triggered it ultimately, but you weren't the reason. I was at fault. I was always at fault. I could've walked away at any point before that, and I chose not to because that's something you didn't do back then. You didn't break up your family. It made you less of a man, whatever the hell that means. So I stuck around until I literally felt so guilty for sticking around that I couldn't anymore. I felt like maybe if I'd left before that, the accident wouldn't have happened, and if it hadn't had happened, you wouldn't have needed the operation and then you wouldn't have been in a coma and we wouldn't even be here right now and it's ALL my fault." Lorraine looked at Boris and smiled. She'd truly see the growth he'd made in the last few years, and she was once again finally recognizing the man she'd once loved so deeply. "I just remembered the fight the other night, and it...it made me feel bad because I felt like I was the reason you guys were unhappy. Like I was why you were stuck," Ellen said. "Sweetheart," Boris said, "you were never the reason for anything bad, okay? If anything, even if this isn't what we wanted originally, we've never regret having you. You've been the only good outcome of our life together. That's never gonna change." Ellen smiled and wiped her eyes on her sweater sleeve, making Boris smile. "...I love you guys," Ellen said, surprising them both; she continued, "I didn't...I don't remember everything, and what I do remember I don't remember well, but I'm glad to have parents who love me so much. I love you mom and dad." "We love you too," Lorraine said, making Boris nod. For the first time in a long long time, Boris felt like perhaps memories weren't such a bad thing after all. *** "You sure you don't want a drink?" Lorraine asked, Boris now sitting in the living room back at her house, the house that had once been their house; she strolled back into the room and handed him a glass, but he waved it off. "Naw, I gotta drive home still," Boris said as she sat down in a chair near the couch and watched him, casually sipping her drink. After a moment he cleared his throat and added, "Maybe we weren't such bad parents after all." "You've changed," Lorraine said, "in a good way. You seem more at ease. You don't seem so tense. You seem...different. I don't know how to put it. Today in that office you were so open and honest and emotional and it was...it was something I hadn't seen in you in a long time. I remember when you took me to a quiet lake for a picnic, and you read me a poem you wrote for me, and I just thought to myself what a good man you were and how lucky I was to find you and claim you as my own. That's how I'm feeling lately. Seeing that man again." "I missed that guy," Boris said, making them both chuckle as he added, "I started writing poetry again." "Really?" Lorraine asked, actually surprised. "Yeah, I...I guess I just wanted to try my hand at it and see if I still could do it," Boris said, "You expect your skills to atrophy over time but, surprise surprise, I wasn't terrible, hah. Don't think I could do it professionally anymore though. Think that time has passed." "Sunset gold on silver blue, sentiments old but feelings new, green to red and red to brown, all this beauty when you're around; the colors and the seasons change, but nothing leaves me feeling strange, because the winter brings something fresh to see, the best part of you is how you feel for me." Boris looked at Lorraine, who smiled weakly and stirred her drink. "You still remember parts of it by heart," Boris said, "Impressive." "It's not impressive," Lorraine said, "that's what love does to you. It makes you remember. Memory is, good or bad, all we have in the end. I choose to make it good." Boris smiled and said, "I think I will have that drink after all. I can stay a while." *** Carol was sitting by Larry's garden, sunning herself on the chaise lounge; sunhat pulled over her face, sunglasses covering her eyes. She didn't even hear Boris walk up beside her and seat himself on a footstool beside her. He eventually cleared his throat and she pulled the hat up and pulled her sunglasses down, turning her head and smiling at him. "Hey," she said, "Where you been?" "Had a doctors appointment," Boris said, "Anything going on around here?" "I'm throwing a senior prom," Carol said, "Bring us all back to our youth for just one evening. You wanna come?" "Are you asking me to be your date?" Boris asked and Carol cackled. "Right! Like I'd be caught dead going with you," she said, making him laugh, then added, "You can bring a date if you want. I know I will. Hey, do you know what tapioca is?" "You mean besides disgusting?" Boris asked, shrugging, "No clue, why?" "I'm thinking of serving it at the prom, if only just to piss off Burt," Carol said. "Wow, petty." "You gotta find ways to entertain yourself at this age," Carol said. *** That night, Boris brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. As he passed down the hallway, he heard Chrissy still awake. He opened her bedroom door slowly and peeked inside, to find her curled up on her bed under the blankets, crying. Boris entered the room and sat down on the bed. "Hey, you okay?" he asked. "...the kids at school keep making fun of me cause I don't have a family," Chrissy said, "but I do have family, it's just not the same kind of family they have. Why can't they understand that?" "Kids are stupid, they got tiny brains," Boris said, then ruffled Chrissy's hair, "Except this one. This kid's got a big brain, and frankly I think science is going to have to intervene and explain how she got this way before it gets too out of hand and she overpowers us all." Chrissy laughed and rolled onto her bed, looking at Boris. "Did you have a good family growing up?" she asked and Boris's entire face changed. He exhaled through his nose and looked around the room. Finally, after a few minutes, he looked back at her. "When I was a kid, family was an obligation," he said, "you stuck with them through thick and thin, even if you hated one another, because it's what was expected of you, and to do anything different was damn near blasphemy. It's not like that now, and that's a good thing, hell it's a GREAT thing, because a lot of times birth is all based around circumstances, you know? You have no control over being born, or who you're born to, and that isn't fair, and now people are taking their lives into their hands and saying, 'ya know what, you're not good for me, and I deserve better' and that's awesome." Chrissy watched him as he paused and scratched at his chin. "No, I didn't have a good family growing up. They weren't abusive or anything, but they were parents because they were obligated to be, not because they wanted to be. They had a child because they were expected to, not because they loved one another enough to create another person. I think your parents love you. I just think they don't love eachother, and often times the child gets caught in the middle. But hey, lucky you, you got a 2nd home! Most kids don't have that. So really, when the shit hits the fan at home, and those kids have nowhere to be, think how lucky you are and who'll be laughing then." Chrissy smiled and nodded as Boris leaned in and kissed her on the nose. "Sleep good kitten," he said, "Have sweet dreams." As he exited the room and stood in the hallway, he thought of how utterly lucky he was, in fact, to have a 2nd chance himself. Not just by having the chance to raise Chrissy in some way, but to also rebuild his relationship with his own daughter. Boris headed to his bedroom and shut the door, then sat down on the bed and looked at the drawer of his bedside table. He pulled it open and pulled out a small old leather brown photo album, opening it and turning to a particular page which showed him as a child and his parents. He sighed and shook his head, then put it back into the drawer, laid down and shut the lamp off. Not every memory is a pleasant one. But the cool thing about memory, Boris was coming to acknowledge, was that you were always able to make new better ones. "You feel like a big man now?" Krickett asked, leaning against the wall of his garage, rubbing his cheek with his hand as Boris stood in front of him, looking at him, his hands clenched into tightly balled fists. Chrissy was standing behind him, just watching the two men.
"Get up and fight back, we're trying to prove something," Boris said. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Boris. I'm done," Krickett replied, turning and going through the door that led back into the house. Boris unclenched his fists and looked at Chrissy, who seemed somewhat worried about what had just transpired. Maybe Krickett was right. Maybe non violence was the answer. *** "I haven't been to a school in so long," Boris said, as he and Whittle said in the hall outside the principals office, waiting to be invited in. "I know," she said, "I mean, I never had kids, but I just...I haven't been to a school in ages. It feels awkward now." "I used to get called in quite a bit for Ellen, back when she was in grade school," Boris said, slapping his hands onto his knees and exhaling, "not because she was a trouble maker or anything, but because she had a lot of problems adjusting to school. She constantly asked to be homeschooled and got teased a lot. She just...didn't know how to either ignore it or deal with it herself." "I was teased a lot too," Whittle said, "but I was quite the opposite. I kicked anyone who was mean to me in the shins. Course this meant I spent a lot of time suspended, but my folks were proud of me at least cause I stood up for myself so it all worked out." "Ironic that as someone who dealt pain you'd go into a business focused on healing," Boris said, snickering, making Whittle laugh. "Well, I'm trying to right my wrongs," Whittle said, "My conscience doesn't let me sleep." Just then the door opened and Chrissy was standing there. Her eyes were red, like she'd been crying hard, and she motioned for them to come inside. Boris and Whittle stood up and headed into the room, as Chrissy shut the door behind them and seated herself once again, now sitting between them. Kevin Arnold, the head master, was sitting behind his desk and smiled at them as they sat down. "It's nice to see you two again, even if it is under circumstances such as these," he said, adjusting his tiny round spectacles, "let me just start by saying that Chrissy is an excellent student and a wonderful young lady. This meeting is not about her being in trouble, contrary to what you probably thought. In fact, it's kind of not about her at all." Boris and Whittle glanced at one another, now somewhat confused. "Huh?" they asked in unison. "Chrissy has been targeted by a small group of girls for her unusual living arrangements with you two. They know she isn't living with her family, and they...well they've said some nasty things. Chrissy always comes to me about it, but unless it gets physical there isn't much I can beside mildly berate them for their words. I'm asking you two to come in and help me find a solution." "She should clean their clock," Boris said, surprising both Whittle and Kevin. "Pardon?" Kevin asked, leaning forward, still somewhat in shock at his abrasive answer. "When I was growing up, if someone shit talked you, you punched their lights out," Boris said, "I know it's kind of cave man ethics, but it worked. They left you alone. Nowadays everyone wants the adults around them to take care of their problems, and while most of the time that works and is a perfectly viable solution, it isn't what's going to work all the time. Sometimes you have to take things into your own hands, and then use those hands to hit the other person." "I...I do not condone what he is saying, I hope you know," Whittle said, making Kevin smirk. "I'm just saying that she should defend herself. All we tell kids now are 'sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me' but bullshit, look at how much words hurt. Well, sticks and stones hurt way more. Verbal abuse might be verbal, but it's still abuse." Chrissy tried to hide her grin, but she was having a hard time doing so. "...well," Kevin said, "I don't really know what to say to that. You're not wrong, but you're also not right." "I'm no advocate for violence by any means. War has done more damage than it has helped, but...sometimes it's all anyone responds to, because it proves that what they're doing has actual consequences for themselves. If more people actually felt ramifications for their actions, perhaps things wouldn't be so fucking mean." Chrissy lost it and started laughing loudly, catching everyone by surprise. Kevin asked her to go wait out in the hall, and she did without argument, but she laughed the whole time. This was why she loved Boris. He told it like it was, and that was exactly what she needed right then. *** "Have you ever fought anyone?" Boris asked, sitting across from Father Krickett at the diner. Father Krickett finished sipping his cocoa and put his mug down, smacking his lips and thinking. "When I was in high school I punched a guy who was hurting this friend of mine. He was assaulting her, right there on campus, and nobody would do anything, so I stepped in," Father Krickett said, "of course I was also suspended like he was, but...it felt good knowing I did the right thing." "See, violence does solve something," Boris said. "These days I'm more or less against violence," Father Krickett said, "but yes, in that instance it did solve something." "How can you be against violence? You're part of the church. Your entire religion is based around colonizing and then spreading the gospel, no matter what the cost. More people have died in the name of God than for any other reason." "Just because that's an accurate depiction of our history doesn't mean I abide by it," Father Krickett said, "Yes, the church has a horrible history entwined with violence, violence of all kind, from altar boys being sexually abused to outright burning those at the stake who disagreed with us, but that doesn't mean I by any means agree what what they did." "I wanna teach Chrissy how to fight," Boris said, "She needs to know how to defend herself." "You gonna take her to a gym? Be her coach?" Father Krickett asked, chuckling. "No, I'm gonna fight you," Boris said. "Pardon? You're what now?" *** When Boris and Chrissy arrived that weekend, Boris was surprised at the openness of Father Krickett's garage. He had a nice home, but he especially had a nice garage. And, unlike many garages, it wasn't crammed to the gills with plastic or cardboard boxes full of things he no longer used but didn't want to donate, or holiday decorations that would only get lugged out once a year for a month or less. It was clean, and organized, and it had clear sections. In one area he could tell Krickett did woodworking, and at another was his actual toolbench, while at another was a spot for electrical work. "Wow, this is swanky," Boris said, entering as Krickett handed him a bottle of water, leaving the garage door open so the sunlight could stream in. "It's not bad," Father Krickett said, before kneeling, face to face with Chrissy and smiling, asking, "so, you ready to learn how to hurt others for the sake of your own ego?" "That isn't what this is about, John. She's not going to just go around pummeling anyone she wants. This is to be used strictly in situations when she is being attacked or needs to help someone else. I'm not trying to teach her to go out and mug people or anything." "Well, let's get started then," Krickett said, positioning himself and raising his hands in front of his face in fist formation, "Chrissy, one of the few tips I can give you that will absolutely help is to keep your arms raised like this at all times when fist fighting. This way it not only protects your face, but it also gives you a direct line to their face, granted they're the same height as you are." "You box?" Boris asked. "Did in college, but only for exercise, never like against others for sport," Krickett said. "Everytime I think I know everything there is to know about you, I find out there's more," Boris said. "What about hitting them anywhere besides their face?" Chrissy asked. "It's frowned upon but it's certainly not illegal or anything," Krickett said, "Hell, you're already fighting, you may as well fight dirty. Besides, it's not like fighting has morals. Oh sure, some sportsman would like to tell you that there are rules, but let's face it, fighting is wrong to begin with, so that argument goes right out the window." "If it's wrong, why do it?" Chrissy asked, looking from Father Krickett to Boris, who was now positioning himself in front of the priest. "Because it's important to know how to defend ones self," Boris said, "Especially for a woman, who more often than not are taken advantage of and attacked than men because they're seen as more vulnerable. This is partially why knowing how to fight matters, because an attacker often won't expect a woman to be able to take him. They may expect her to fight back, but not in a way that could actually stop him." "He isn't wrong in that fact," Krickett said, jabbing at Boris, who immediately dodged it, surprising the priest with his flexibility and agility given his age; Krickett continued, "women are, sadly, seen as weaker, which couldn't be further from the truth. People love to talk up Jesus Christ, but Jesus wouldn't exist without Mary, so I think women deserve far more praise than they're given." Chrissy smiled and continued watching. "Everything comes back around to the church for you, doesn't it?" Boris asked, throwing a punch that connected with Krickett's side, before jabbing again and catching him in the chest, throwing him off balance, making him stumble. "Well," Krickett said, "Boris, it is my lifes work after all. But it isn't just about women. Lots of people can't defend themselves the way they need to. Minority groups, for one example, are often also targeted for simply being nonwhite or non heterosexual, which puts them at real risk for danger as well." "This is true," Boris said, as Krickett threw a punch that hit the old man in the shoulderblade, causing him to swear momentarily under his breath until he said, "and that's a problem, definitely. All these people should know how to defend themselves." "Unless they don't wanna bring themselves down to that level of cruelty," Krickett said. "Cruelty? How is defend yourself cruel?" Boris asked, the two men throwing punch after punch at one another, both often dodging, but sometimes a punch connecting. "Because the fact is you shouldn't be being attacked often enough to warrant a defense," Krickett said, "The real thing that needs to be taught is civility, not violence." "Yeah, cause hateful people love a good conversation about togetherness," Boris said, "Trust me, Chrissy, it's important to know how to protect yourself, whether it's moral or not." "Chrissy," Krickett said, stopping for a moment and looking at her, "you don't have to defend yourself. Your personhood doesn't require defense. You exist as you are, and that should be respected no matter what, and I know that it isn't and that that's the problem but-" And suddenly he stumbled back against the wall and felt his cheek pulsing, red hot and somewhat swollen. "You feel like a big man now?" Krickett asked, leaning against the wall of his garage, rubbing his cheek with his hand as Boris stood in front of him, looking at him, his hands clenched into tightly balled fists. Chrissy was standing behind him, just watching the two men. "Get up and fight back, we're trying to prove something," Boris said. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Boris. I'm done," Krickett replied, turning and going through the door that led back into the house. Boris unclenched his fists and looked at Chrissy, who seemed somewhat worried about what had just transpired. Maybe Krickett was right. Maybe non violence was the answer. Boris looked at Chrissy, who seemed somewhat shocked, before excusing himself and heading inside after the priest. He found Krickett standing in the kitchen, holding a cold steak against his cheek. "A steak? Really? What era are you from?" Boris asked. "Don't worry, I'm gonna eat it," Krickett said, seating himself at his kitchen table and sighing, "...Boris-" "John, I'm sorry. That was low of me," Boris said, "I just...I feel like I hurt Ellen, and I don't want to see Chrissy get hurt too." "What you did wasn't intentional, that was an accident." "Rationalizing it doesn't make the guilt go away," Boris said, "I just want her to be able to take care of herself. We're not always going to be around to fight her battles for her. She's...she's a great kid, John, she needs to know how to be able to defend herself from those who think she isn't." "When I was in college, I was attacked for being gay," Father Krickett said, "I knew how to fight back, sure, but that didn't stop it from happening. Why double down on something as evil as violence? Yes, minority groups, women or people on the LGBTQ spectrum are more at risk, but after that happened I...I just didn't want to fight anymore. It just seemed so...barbaric. These people use physicality to back up their outdated viewpoints. The hate isn't just mental, it goes all the way to their actions." Boris sighed and rubbed his forehead, seating himself and chuckling. "Hell of a family she's got, isn't it?" Boris asked. "At least she knows people who are willing to go to bat for her," Father Krickett replied, "that alone means more than you'd think. A lot of people don't even have that. She knows how to defend herself, Boris, just not in the way we think of." The two men smiled at one another and sat quietly in the cool kitchen for a few minutes. "So, you wanna stay for dinner?" Father Krickett finally asked. "Not if you're serving that steak," Boris said, making him laugh out loud. *** Monday morning, Boris told Whittle he'd drive Chrissy to school, but first he was going to take her to breakfast. He picked up Father Krickett on the way, and the three of them went to the diner they often frequented. They ate breakfast and checked over Chrissy's homework, praised her for her work, and then piled back into the car, heading towards the school. As Chrissy thanked them and got out of the car, heading across the street, Father Krickett smiled. "She'll be okay," he said, patting Boris on the back, "don't worry." "I try not to, but that's what a parent does, worry," Boris said, "Even if I'm not her actual family, I worry." They suddenly noticed another girl and a small group with her confront Chrissy, but they couldn't hear what anyone was saying. After a few moments of tension, Chrissy looked at her feet and it looked like she was about to cry. Boris felt his insides burn, and he wanted to get out of the car and berate the girls, until Chrissy suddenly hit the girl square in the nose, throwing her to the ground and making her cry. Chrissy then continued on her way into the school. Father Krickett pumped his fist and high fived Boris. "That's our girl!" Krickett shouted. "What a woman she's gonna be," Boris said, laughing as he started the car, "Come on, let's go get a beer." "And held in such high esteem, reaching for a lofty dream, yet the pain so sharp the failure real, that that was all that he could feel," Boris said, finishing as he looked up at Carol, Burt and Larry seated around him in the living room area of the home. He shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and asked, "So, what do you think?"
"I like poems that come in greeting cards," Burt said. "Yeah, well, I like when you shut up," Boris replied, making Carol laugh. "I think it's great, but it's a bit...heavy," Carol said, "Does it have to be so heavy? Surely you could find a way to rhyme with beauty, poise and elegance instead of misery and suffering. Aim higher, not lower, Boris, and then you'd find your niche audience." "I'm not doing this for an audience. Writing poetry has never been about fame or success, it's been about putting myself down on paper in a way that I couldn't put myself out there in person," Boris said, sitting back down and looking at his poem again, sighing as he added, "...maybe I really just aren't good enough." "Poppycock, it isn't about being good enough, you don't have to be good at something to do it," Carol said, "Look at the people who become politicians. No. All that matters is that you want to do it and you make it happen. I think whatever you write is fine, and that should be enough." "You just told me it was too heavy," Boris said, looking up across at her, confused. "And what do I know? I'm not a literary scholar," Carol said, "Let a professional editor decide that, and if they also don't like it, fuck 'em, self publish it. We live in an age now where you can make your dreams come true, no matter how big or small they are." Boris nodded, chewing his lip, before standing up and excusing himself to get a snack. As he walked away, the others watched before Burt looked back at Carol and Larry and shrugged. "I still like my greeting card idea," he said. "I will kill you," Boris shouted back at him from across the room, making him flinch. *** "I just don't think that it's what I'm supposed to be doing," Boris said, pushing his food around on his plate with his fork, sighing, "...I just...I write poetry to cope with things, and things have been rough lately. Between Ellen and then that thing with Leanne, I just have not been feeling too well and writing poetry helps me feel better." "Well then," Whittle said as she sat down at the table with her own plate, "why don't you submit something somewhere? See what a publication has to say?" "We had to write poems in class last year," Chrissy said, "My teacher told us to stick to visual descriptors, and not just write freeform." "What the hell does that mean?" Boris asked, making Whittle laugh. "Beats me," Chrissy said, shrugging, "I was just as confused as you are." "I didn't used to have this problem," Boris said, "I used to be able to just...let it pour out of me, but now...now it feels like everything I do is a challenge. Like...like I have nothing real left to say or nothing left to examine and that's scary. What do you do when you've lived so long that you don't feel anything new?" "I think you should still just write whatever you want," Whittle said, "There's people out there who'll enjoy it, no matter what it is. Everyone has an audience somewhere." Boris leaned back in his chair and ruminated on this, then realized she was right. He did have an audience. Maybe he'd go see them. *** "That gnawing ache, the one when you break, it can instead be taught to soothe; the end won't be near, there'll be nothing to fear, and the ache will help the pain move," Boris finished reading, looking to his right at the little mesh window in the confessional; he cleared his throat and asked, "So, what do you think?" "I think your skill is obvious," Father Krickett said, "but it doesn't sound sincere. It sounds like you're trying to sound sincere. Almost as if you're attempting to imitate the very sincerity that once permeated your old poetry." "...that...is certainly not something I've been told yet, so thank you," Boris said. "Can we not do this through the confessional? It's awkward," Father Krickett said, and the two men each exited their boxes and faced one another, now standing in between the pews; Father Krickett smoothed his garment and sighed, "sorry, I get oddly claustrophobic in those things. Anyway, your heart is in the right place-" "-thank goodness, because if it wasn't that'd be a serious medical emergency," Boris said, interrupting and making Father Krickett smirk. "but," Father Krickett continued, "I think your can get back to that sincerity. I don't think it's gone. You just need to stop trying to imitate who you used to be and a new version of the person you once were. More experienced, more insightful, perhaps a bit worse for wear but overall well aged. The elderly are like a fine wine, they grow more beautiful through time, and after enough years, they become what we all aspire to be." Boris raised an eyebrow in confusion as he whispered, "...wine?" "That was a weird analogy, I'm sorry, I'm just not myself today," Father Krickett said, rubbing his face, making Boris chuckle. "I appreciate it John," Boris said, patting the priests back, "and for what it's worth you're not wrong. I think of all the people I've come to for some sort of inspiration, you've been the one to give me the best input thusfar. Maybe I'll sleep on it and see what comes out tomorrow." Later that evening, however, after Boris had fallen asleep, he was awoken abruptly by a sound in the kitchen. He quickly stood up, slipped his slippers on, fastened his robe belt around his waist and headed down the hall. Whatever it was, nobody else had heard it, because both Whittle and Chrissy were still sound asleep, no light coming from under their bedroom doors. Boris continued down the hall of the apartment and finally reached the kitchen, where he spotted a youngish looking woman sitting at the table, drinking from a scotch bottle. "You're finally here, thank god," Polly said, "Pull up a chair, have a glass." Boris stared in disbelief. It was Polly, that much couldn't be refuted, but she looked to be in her twenties. Boris nodded slowly and approached the table, grabbing a glass off the counter on his way there. He sat down and watched as she poured him his drink and then poured herself more. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Drinking scotch," Polly said, flinging her bangs out of her eyes and smiling, "course, it isn't good scotch, but you never were one to spend much on quality. What are you doing here?" she asked, leaning forward and crossing her arms, surprising him. "I...I live here?" he responded. "No, Boris, I mean what are you doing here? What are you actually doing? Because it seems to me that you ain't doin' nothin'," Polly said, leaning back and sipping her drink, continuing with, "in fact, it seems you're trying to do anything other than something. You got all this guilt, all this pain, all this angst, and yet you can't write." "Those things don't make a writer," Boris said, "They enhance the way you view the world, sure, but they aren't necessary. My pain doesn't have to be financially viable for it to mean something." "So if you don't wanna work from those, what else is there?" Polly asked, lifting her legs up on the table and leaning back in her chair, relaxing, "...what about the opposite of those things? Why not focus on something that means something instead of the idea that nothing means anything?" "...you meant something," Boris said, and Polly grinned, leaned forward again and grabbed his hand, patting it. "Then go with that," she said. And then he woke up. *** "She was frustration, an itch you can't scratch, she was frustration, clothes that won't match, she was frustration, a rock in your shoe, she was frustration, photos hung askew. She was frustration, but she was my friend, and nothing frustrated me more than to see her life end. Now I am frustration, a shirt covered in fur, but I'm mostly frustrated that I can't be with her." Boris looked up across from himself, at the headstone with Polly's name on it. He sighed and lowered his head again, sighing. "I know it isn't great, but it's something," he said softly, exhaling, "you were the only thing that meant something to me aside from my daughter, and I just never expected you to be gone. I'm not even mad that you died, I'm mad that you're dead, does that make sense? The act of dying? Impossible to avoid. Can't blame you for that. But the act of continuing to stay dead? That seems spiteful, personal, like it's directed at me, and I love you for it," Boris said chuckling. He folded the paper up and tucked it under a candle left on the base of the headstone, before shuffling beside it, leaning against it and looking out at the graveyard in peace. "my best friends in this world are a priest and a dead woman," he said quietly, "and yet somehow, that seems right. Thanks for irritating me all those years. You really made old age worth it." Boris then sighed, put his palms into the dirt and stood himself up. He wiped his hands on his pants and then shoved them in his coat pockets, looking back down at her grave. "I'll be back next week," he said, "I'll bring lunch,"; He turned and started to leave, then stopped and turned back, adding, "don't you go anywhere on me." *** God, wasn't it Friday yet? All Elise Bentley wanted to do was go home for the weekend. Have a few beers, take a long hot bath and watch some old favorite comedies. She would order in. She would give into her most primal urges. But it wasn't Friday yet. It was Wednesday, and it wouldn't be Friday for a while still. Elise, walking down the hall in her suit, heading towards her office, was flipping through files in her hands when her assistant approached and walked alongside her. "Do you want coffee?" her assistant, Niah, asked. "It's the middle of the goddamned day, why would I want coffee?" Elise asked, stopping and looking at her young, African American assistant; she smirked and said, "Run downtown, go to that really fancy bakery, and get cocoa, and like...a box of glazed donut holes. And get a few things for yourself. Put it on my company card, alright?" Niah smiled, nodded and headed the opposite direction just as Elise got to her office. She entered and looked up, almost screaming as she jumped backwards, hand to her chest. Sitting in the chair across from her desk was her equal in the company, Dennis Bortcham. "God dammit Dennis, you scared the shit out of me," Elise said. "Sorry!" Dennis said, grinning, turning around and around in the chair excitedly, "but it's worth it, you're gonna love what I brought you today." "I hope so, we haven't had anything good in ages," Elise said, seating herself behind the desk and beginning to look through the pile quickly, "pfffft...rejected twice already and I wish they'd stop sending me stuff, this is smut, this is smut, this is decently written smut and I'll take it home for private reading," she said, shifting one folder to the side and making Dennis laugh as she continued, "god, it just seems like I cannot catch a break." "People ain't writin' anymore, it's a dead artform," Dennis said. "The bookstores would tend to disagree," Elise said. "The ones full of books nobody will read?" Dennis asked. "If nobody's writing and nobody's reading, what the hell is everyone doing with their time?" Elise asked, and Dennis shrugged. "I don't know, drugs?" he responded. "Not a bad guess actually," Elise said, "I need to get some drugs." "Well, I'll see what else comes in, but you're gettin' a little picky. You're gonna have to just choose something eventually, otherwise your literary magazine won't have any literature." As Dennis stood up from the chair and headed towards the door, Elise snapped her fingers repeatedly at him, causing him to stop and turn to face her again. She was looking down at a file clutched in her hands, open, reading it quickly. "Yeah?" he asked. "...Dennis," she said, starting to grin, "find me everything you can on Boris Wachowski." |
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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