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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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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