The reviews were in, and they were being clipped out and pinned on a corkboard in Boris's bedroom. Each day, a new review to be cut from the paper and posted to the board. Then, he'd get dressed, stand back and admire the view, smiling to himself. These people were talking about him, about something he'd made, and he couldn't be more proud of himself. Sure, at first he was worried, scared even, but once he started getting good reviews, his fears and anxieties regarding the situation were gone in an instant. And now, standing in a bookstore downtown and looking at his poetry book on its own little island table, he couldn't believe his luck. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he shook, somewhat surprised, until he realize it was just Father Krickett standing there, a book in his hand.
"It really is something to behold, isn't it?" Krickett asked. "Would you call it a miracle?" Boris asked. "...no, no I wouldn't," Krickett said, chuckling, "but to be fair, I don't call much miracles, so maybe I'm not the best one to ask." Boris smirked, then, taking a sip of coffee from the cup in his hand, he nodded at the book in Krickett's hand. "You find something?" he asked. "Need some reading material regarding starting an organization," Krickett said, "Since Jenn and and I are going to do this upstart downtown, we need to be armed with all the possible information we might need upfront before really talking to people about it. It's going smoothly so far, but we want to be prepared." "Solid idea," Boris said, "never hurts to be prepared." "So, how's it feel, looking at your own creation?" Krickett asked as they approached the counter and he slid his book to the cashier; he and Boris glanced back at the island where his poetry book sat in stacks upon stacks, and Boris couldn't help but blush a little. "It feels pretty damn good, John," he said, "pretty goddamn good." *** The noisemaker popped right next to Larry, who quickly threw his hand over his ear and yelped loudly. "Christ! That was right in my hearing aide!" he shouted, as Caroline laugh. "I'm so sorry, but we're celebrating an anniversary at the home today," she said, coming around and handing out noisemakers and party hats to those seated in the lounge area; she continued, "so everyone take a hat and a noisemaker and just...ya know...be in a good mood. I don't think that's asking too much from you guys." "Then you don't know us very well, somehow," Burt said, strapping his party hat on. "Please, I know you guys better than any of your lovers have ever known you and I've certainly put up with more than they ever did," Carol said, scoffing as she put down her supplies and start taping streamers to the walls, adding, "it's a special occasion, how many more special occasions are we gonna have the chance to experience?" "I think I've experienced too many and frankly I'm over it," Larry said, adjusting his position in his chair and going back to reading his magazine, folding his legs. "You guys are the literal definition of party poopers," Carol said, hands on her hips, shaking her head. "Hey, we have incontinence, okay, that can't be helped," Burt said, making everyone laugh. Even Carol chuckled a little as she headed down the hallway, towards the cafeteria. When she got inside, she did the same thing, putting up streamers and various decorative items, while a few people sat and ate lunch. After a few minutes she stepped back and admired her handiwork once again, before noticing Boris was standing beside her. "Oh!" she said, "I didn't even know you were here." "I only just got here," Boris said, "I was out with John, and we went to a bookstore. What are you doing?" "Celebrating," Carol said. "Life in general or something in particular?" Boris asked. "Why would I ever celebrate life in general?" Carol asked, making Boris laugh as she added, "no, it's an anniversary today. I only celebrate special things; birthdays, holidays, anniversaries. That kind of crap." "What's the anniversary?" Boris asked, and Carol stopped and exhaled. Should she even say? Would it take away any of the special feeling the day held if she shared the real reason for the celebration? She hesitated, then turned and looked at Boris, smiling warmly. "Nothing you need to worry about," she said. *** Regina Whittle was putting dishes away in the kitchenette of the apartment as Chrissy sat the table, doing homework. Neither had said anything to one another, but that was kind of how they preferred it. Each liked to live in silence amongst someone else's presence. It felt far more comfortable than trying to make conversation that neither was truly invested in. Chrissy bit the top of her pen and then put it down on the table and turned in her chair, looking at Whittle as she pulled open a cabinet and started stacking plates inside it. "If the school told me that they needed to talk to my parents, would you go?" Chrissy asked, "I mean, you're not my mom, but would you?" "We enrolled you, so I don't think they care much," Whittle said, "you've been living here a while, so I'd say it's fair to say we're your legal guardians for the time being. Why?" Whittle stopped and leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Cause we're supposed to have parent/teacher meetings, and the teachers are supposed to show our parents what we've been doing, and what we've been excelling at, but obviously I can't just go and ask my parents to go. That's why I was asking if you guys would go." "What, me and Boris together?" Whittle asked. "Or you and John? If it feels weird to go with an old man," Chrissy said, "John is closer to your age, he could pass as a father figure." "Well, I wouldn't want to outright lie, Chris," Whittle said, sitting down at the table now, "why do you want us to lie?" "Is it a lie? I mean, you said it yourself, we're a family, right?" Chrissy asked, "that we all live here, under the same roof, and-" The door to the apartment opened, and Boris and Father Krickett entered, in the middle of conversation. "You're telling me that you only like chocolate that has coconut inside?" Boris asked, "You have to be one of the only people I've ever heard of who prefers coconut to literally anything else. That's quite the refined palette you have there." "Well," Krickett said as they entered the kitchen, "what can I say? I like the finer things in life. Like really old wine and annoying old men." "Annoying? How dare you," Boris said. Whittle patted Chrissy on the back, and she gathered her things from the table and headed to her bedroom. Boris pulled the fridge open and rooted around inside as Krickett sat at the table and started leafing through the book he'd picked up from the store. Whittle nodded towards the book, curious. "You find something that'll help?" she asked. "You know," Krickett said, crossing his legs, "they never tell you how hard it is to establish a church, or even a branch of a church. Apparently it's the same as any business, until it comes to paying taxes. Then again, I guess it's not that different, considering most business avoid paying taxes too. But Sister Jenn and I are hoping to have this open sometime next year, if we can secure the building. We've picked out the spot and everything, and we have the money, it's just a matter of contractors and city terms." Whittle nodded, scratching her nose as she turned away from John and looked back at Boris, who'd pulled a sandwich out of the fridge and was plopping it into the microwave to warm it up. "We have to talk," Whittle said, tapping the back of the chair with her nails, "Chrissy says that her school has a student teacher meeting thing, and that someone is required to come and represent her. I guess we're her legal guardians, though not legally really, but I was wondering if you were interested. If not, John and I could go." "Whoa whoa whoa, I'm not raising your kid," Krickett said, making them chuckle, before he smiled and said, touching Whittle's arm warmly, "I'd have no problem going, I love that little lady and I'd do anything to help you guys." "I was never very good at dealing with teachers," Boris said, "even with my own daughter, I was rarely the one who went. Lorraine was always the one who dealt with stuff, and on the rare occasion I did have to show up, I never spoke. I don't do well with adults who try and crush kids spirits." "If that were true, you'd hate every adult," John said without even looking up from his book, biting into his bear claw. "Who said I don't?" Boris asked, getting his sandwich from the microwave, sighing, "but...if it's important to Chrissy, if it'll help her..." "Boris, don't do something that'll make you uncomfortable," Whittle said, "you know there's no reason to push yourself into something, especially if you know you won't do well once you're there, alright? We have a few days to make a decision, so we'll figure something out." Boris sat at the table and cut his sandwich in half, then picked up one half and bit into it. As he chewed, he looked at the cover of John's book and shook his head. "Yes?" John asked. "Nothing," Boris said, mouth full of sandwich, "just didn't know you were allowed to read anything besides the bible." John chuckled a little, taking another bite from his bear claw. "You're really pissing me off today, man," he said, both men laughing. *** Carol entered her bedroom and sighed, tossing her bag of party supplies on the floor. She flicked the lights on and looked around the room. The home was quiet, it was the evening now, and she had nobody left to talk to, not that she felt particularly like talking right now. Carol sat on the bed and looked at the mail on the bedside table, the mail she'd gathered that morning, with the one torn open envelope, the one piece that had pushed her to have a little celebration. She sighed and reached for it again, pulling it off the table, sliding it out from the envelope and unfolding it once more. She still couldn't believe it. Celia Barrows was dead. When Carol couldn't succeed the way she wanted, she gave her designs to Celia - her roommate when she was young - and Celia, in turn, had done wonders with them elsewhere. For years, that was how it had worked. Carol would design something, and Celia, being the businesswoman, would pass them off as her own, then send half the money to Carol. It was a mutual, beneficial partnership that nobody even knew about, and now...now Celia was gone. Carol laid on her back on the bed and sighed, hugging the letter to her chest, trying not to cry. When was the last time she'd talked to Celia? It must've been a year ago now, on this day, which would've been her birthday. It was such a nice, pleasant conversation, one that made Carol feel like a young woman again. Celia was the last friend from her early life who was gone now, and it had begun to sink into Carol how little time left she likely had. How much longer, realistically, would she or any of them be here? It was not only inevitable, it was inching ever closer, and it terrified her. Carol's head rolled on her pillow, and she found herself scanning the contents of her closet, full of clothes she and Celia had created together, and she smiled. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle her cries, but she was crying nonetheless, happily even. Celia might be gone, but their clothes would outlive them, and suddenly Carol understood Boris's fascination with writing poetry. Creating something that ensures the world doesn't forget you were here, and you cared and you felt things. This was what mattered. Carol fell asleep quickly, and she dreamt of herself and Celia designing clothes, and when she woke the following morning, she didn't feel so sad anymore. Sometimes all we can do is accept reality, and try to move on. Something only the oldest people can really grasp. *** Chrissy was in bed, reading a book when the door opened and Boris entered. He smiled at her as he sat on the side of her bed, and she put her book down. Boris exhaled, then put a book on his lap and cleared his throat. "So...Whittle tells me we may have to come talk to your teachers," he said. "It's just a standard meeting, I'm sure it'll be fine," Chrissy said. "...my book came out," Boris said, "I thought you might like to hear something." "Okay," Chrissy said, smiling, excited as Boris cracked open the book, thumbed through it a bit until he stopped on a specific page and took a long, deep breath. "For every mountain, there is a lake, and for every sky, there is a star. For every fix, there is a break, and for every plane, there is a car. There is always another, an alternative being, one we might ignore but cannot ignore seeing. There is always an option, for better or worse, for every wedding limo, there is a hearse. And for every family, there is a black sheep, and for every lie, there's something that's true. For every father, there is a failure, and for every me, there is a you." He stopped and shut the book, then looked at Chrissy, smiling, tears in his eyes. "I wrote that for you. Before I met you, I just sort of accepted that my time dealing with kids was over, and that I'd done a shit job anyway so why bother? But seeing you deal with a rough home life, the way I did, the way my daughter had to, it made me want to do something about it. Of course I'll go to the meeting, Chris. We're not your parents, but god dammit do we love you, and wanna be there for you." "...you wrote me a poem?" Chrissy asked, hugging her knees. "Yeah," Boris said, "you needed a change, so you made one. I needed a change, and you were an inspiration for building to change. I'm not your grandfather, but I definitely care for you the way one would. I just want to see you be safe, happy, successful, especially if it means I get to help you be that. Otherwise, what's the point of living to be this age if you can't help those younger than you? What's the point of accruing wisdom if you don't intend to share it." Boris kissed her on the head, then tucked her in and gave her the book. "This is for you," he whispered, "it's your book now. Now get some sleep." Boris exited, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Standing in the hallway, he saw John pulling his jacket on and the two men stopped and looked at one another for a moment. "You taking off?" Boris asked, putting his hands in his pockets and approaching. "Yeah, figured I should get a good nights sleep. Sister Jenn and I have meetings all day tomorrow with investors and contractors," John said, "...you know, seeing your book in the store today, it made me realize just how far you've come. Seriously, you're a much different man now then you were when we met. I'm proud of you." "Awww, thanks dad," Boris said, making John laugh. "Seriously Boris," he continued, opening the door and stuffing his book in his coat pocket, "you put something into the world that didn't exist before. I mean, you did that with a child too, but you know what I mean. Something eternal. Something that won't go away, unless of course the world turns to ash, but by that point who would care?" "Not makin' me feel better, John," Boris said, chuckling. "When we get the church up and running, please, come by and see it," John said, "because I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't have people around me who felt the need for comfort in places they couldn't find it before. I think all the things we make as people - be it art or other people - is highly facilitated in its creation by the people around us. So for someone so anti religious, how's it make you feel knowing you're somewhat responsible for the creation of a new church?" Boris chewed his lip and nodded. "Pretty disgusted, not gonna lie," he said, "might have to start worshipping Satan, actually." John and Boris cracked up and hugged, then Father Krickett turned and left. Boris went to bed himself shortly after, but before he fell asleep, he laid in his bed and read some of his poetry book first. After all, he'd waited his whole life for this moment. He may as well savor it.
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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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