"This is stupid," Boris said as he tried to search through a small, plastic blue box containing dozens upon dozens of beads of different sizes, shapes and colors, "Where's all the goddamned brown?"
"I think Alice took them," Carol said, sniffling as she blew her nose into her kerchief before turning back to the task at hand." "God, that's disgusting," Boris said, shying away from the snot rag. "Oh, I'm sorry, does my bodily function bother you?" Carol asked. "How're we doing over here?" a tall, lanky man with blonde facial hair, wearing a tucked in long sleeved blue shirt with a pin on it that read 'Alex' asked as he stopped at their table, "Everything going okay? Some of these are tricky to get right, so if anyone needs any help-" "Yeah, could you ask Alice to stop taking all the goddamned brown? Or, if she won't, maybe kill her?" Boris asked, making Carol snicker. "Just pick a different color, asshole," Alice said from the end of the table, forcing Boris to groan and look down the table towards her. "Don't make me come down there!" he shouted. "Like you could, Walker Texas Ranger," Alice shouted back, and Boris grimaced, looking at his sad crafts project in front of him, muttering. "It's a cane," he said under his breath. "What is the point of this activity?" Larry asked, "Nobody is ever going to come get it, trust me, and I certainly don't need some goddamned beads on colored string to make me feel better. Is there a point to this other than wasting an afternoon?" "They make us do this shit because it 'keeps us vital', keeps our minds active," Carol said, and Alex grinned, touching her shoulder. "That's exactly right," he said, "We wouldn't want you guys to slow down, we want to help keep you sharp and active. That's why we have these activity days." "So we're not forced labor making cheap knock off wallets?" Boris asked. "No, that's the elementary school down the street," Carol replied, the two of them laughing. Alex eventually went back to his rounds, checking in on other tables and for a bit nobody said a thing. Boris was having a lot of trouble getting his beads threaded, and kept gritting his teeth due to the frustration. After a few seconds, he looked over at Carol and tried to follow her technique, which was to lick the end of the string and then thread it, but that just tasted awful, and finally he heard Whittle standing beside him. "Need some help?" she asked happily, kneeling down beside him, "I used to do these sorts of things in girl scouts. I'm an expert threader." "This is so mind numbingly boring, so if their intention is to keep our minds active, I think it's backfiring," Boris said, and Whittle chuckled as he continued, "So you were in the girl scouts?" "Yeah, for a few years. I was only in it because my parents made me pick an extracurricular activity to do and it was that or something like soccer, and I sure as hell wasn't going to play a sport. I mean, I like playing sports by myself, tennis or something, but not team stuff." "God dammit!" Alice shouted from down the table, "The whole string just snapped, goddamned beads just went everywhere!" "That's what you get, thief!" Boris called down to her. "Just die already!" Alice called back. "You wish, Wrinkled In Time," Boris replied, before turning back to Whittle who had successfully threaded a few beads and was now halfway done; he sighed, and rested his cheek on his fist, posted up on his elbow, "So...I never did any sorts of crafts or anything." "You weren't a creative kid?" she asked. "I...I wrote, a little, I guess, but nothing else," Boris said, "I wrote poetry every now and then." "You wrote poetry?" Carol asked. "Was I talking to you?" "You're talking by me," Carol said, shrugging, "What's the difference, really?" "Proximity doesn't dictate participation," Boris said annoyed, turning back to Whittle, "But yeah, I did some poetry when I was younger and-" "This is bullshit!" a voice finally shouted as a man, Thomas Lederman from the 4th floor, slammed his cane end on the table, "This is bullshit and we all know it! Fucking crafts?! Are you kidding me?! Fucking arts and crafts?! All the things I've accomplished, all the things I've achieved, and my last years are spent doing goddamned scrapbooking?! You've gotta be kidding me! I've won war medals for fucks sake! This is an insult!" Nobody said a word, but a nurse and Alex finally started to approach Thomas. "Would you like to go back to your room and lay down?" the nurse asked. "I don't want to lay down! I want to do something that isn't a waste of time! It's bad enough I served my country, gave my family the best years of my life and in the end I get stuck here, forgotten, ignored! But no, you gotta give me some stupid fucking beads and string and..." Thomas put his hand to his chest and started to sit down, his breathing getting labored. Alex motioned to get a doctor, but before the nurse was even down the hall, Thomas looked down at the box containing beads in front of him and fell face first in it. When they finally got him out of the room, it was revealed he'd suffered a mild stroke from raising his blood pressure, and they let the crafts activity get out early. Boris and Whittle headed out of the room and down the hall together. "I mean, the guy's got a point," Boris said under his breath. "I'm scared of getting old," Whittle said, "I've read up on my entire family history, and all the things everyone has suffered from, and I'm trying so fucking hard to make sure none of that happens to me, and you know it's all for nothing. Exercise? Dieting? You die either way." "Life is a terrifying series of consequences you have little to no control over," Boris said, hands in his coat pockets, "But in the end, there's something to be said for having lived a full life, despite winding up in a place like this." "You think?" Whittle asked. "Sure," Boris said, "...all the trash has to go someplace, right?" and she smirked at him. *** When Boris wound up back in his room, he sat down on the bed and sighed. He put his hands on his knees and hummed to himself as he glanced around at his room and finally went to the closet, opened it up and got on his knees and pulled out a box. He opened it up and it was full of clothes. He did the same to another, this one filled with photos and such. Finally he opened a third box and it was nothing but books, all the same book. He took one out and looked at the cover. "I Hope This Reaches You & Other Poems by Boris Carlyle" He opened the book and a photo slid out, landing at his feet. He picked it up and looked at it, his eyes tearing up, and then he stuck it under his mattress before getting up and heading back out into the hall. Boris searched for a bit, trying to find Whittle, but unable to do so, he finally gave up and sat down in the Quiet Room where people went to read. As he sat in a rocking chair, Carol came in, stirring a cup of tea, she motioned at the book with her spoon. "What's that?" she asked. "Mmm? Oh, just something I wanted to show Nurse Whittle," he said, "Nothing important." "Lemme see it," Carol said, taking the book from him, "...you were a published author?" "Author's a bit generous," Boris said, "But yes I did write that book." "That's...really cool, Boris," Carol said, sitting on the arm of his chair and reading a passage, "You are the phone call that never comes, the package that is never delivered, the pair of shoes that is never sold; you are here, but unable to be attained, and you like it better that way. That way you always have someone to blame, but I feel the shame, believe me I do, and I would do anything for you, I hope this reaches you." Carol put the book down and looked at Boris, their eyes meeting. "That was beautiful," Carol said, "...would you mind if i held onto this and read more of it?" "No, go...go ahead," Boris said, smiling, trying not to cry, and she thanked him and got up, but as she turned to leave, he said, "Carol?" "Hmm?" "...please don't go," he said softly, and she nodded, sitting back down in a chair beside him. Boris was starting to realize that the things he'd done, the people he'd lost? None of that really mattered now. What mattered now was this, here, the people he did have, the things he was doing. That's what really mattered, and sometimes it took a lot to remember that.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
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
|