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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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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