"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.
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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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