"Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine."
AN HOUR EARLIER "You feel okay champ?" Father Krickett asked as he and Boris stood in the back of the store while they set up the display and table for the signing. Boris glanced at John, raising an eyebrow. "Did you just call me 'champ'? I know you go by 'Father' but that doesn't mean you get to talk to me like you're my dad," Boris said, making John laugh as Boris brought his water bottle up to his lips and drank. This had been a few weeks in the making, this book signing. Boris's poetry book had actually been doing fairly well, so the next logical step was to have a a book signing. Boris was a curiosity, his publisher claimed; the public always loved when someone of his advanced age managed to come out of the blue and procure a book deal or a film deal or some kind of media. It always, as his publisher had said, 'brought out the hope that even near the end of your life, anything can be achieved'. "You're not nervous are you?" Father Krickett asked, and Boris shook his head. "Naw, I'm fine," Boris said, "I mean, it's a little surreal, certainly, but I'll manage. This is honestly something I've been looking forward to my whole life, something I never once dreamed would actually come true. So yeah, it's strange but it's also exciting." Just then, the woman who had arranged the signing at the bookstore - an intern who worked there - approached; her hair in a ponytail, her shirt tucked into her pants, and holding a clipboard. "Your table is just about set up, if you're ready to start," she said, "My name is Greta and I'll be helping you." "Thank you Greta, I'll be ready momentarily," Boris said, waiting for Greta to leave before glancing at John and saying, "Welp, here we go." Meanwhile, elsewhere in the store, Whittle and Sister Jenn were walking down an aisle, looking at various books on various shelves. Jenn stopped and slipped one of the books from the shelf with her fingertips, admiring the art on the cover until she slid it back into its nook. Whittle reached a magazine rack and pulled it, opening it and flipping through a few pages before stopping. Jenn walked over and joined her, reading from over her shoulder. "I must be old if I now read magazines about how to make an attractive yet usable kitchen," Whittle said, sighing, maybe Jenn chuckle. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting things to be nice," Jenn said, "it's only natural I feel to want your surroundings to reflect who you are as a person and what kind of energy you wish to project into the world." "That sounds suspiciously like new age talk, you better not let the church hear you speak like that," Whittle said, smirking, making Jenn giggle as Whittle continued, turning to a new page, "honestly though, I would love to modernize that kitchen we have. It's not bad by any stretch of the imagination, but I want something better. Something far more...well...modern." "You sure are good with words," Jenn said, making Whittle chuckle. "I'm a nurse, not a writer," Whittle replied. This was the kind of thing Jenn loved. These simple acts of domesticity. Cooking together, shopping together. These were the sorts of things she had begun to crave desperately since meeting Whittle. She'd always liked women, but she'd never acted on those feelings, not even remotely, but for some reason something about Whittle attracted her more than she'd ever been attracted before. Perhaps it was Whittle's interest in her nursing profession, proving she was compassionate, or perhaps it was simply that Whittle was beautiful and funny, but whatever reason it was, Jenn was going crazy imagining a life between them. "Are you proud of Boris?" Jenn asked, and Whittle set the magazine down, looking back at Jenn. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, absolutely. I always knew he was talented, and it's been great to see him finally achieve something with said talent," Whittle remarked as they continued down the aisle; "that being said", she added, "I just hope he doesn't let all this go to his head and inflate his already questionable ego." But Boris was, and Whittle knew this deep down, not the kind to be inflated. He was a fairly humble person, which was partially why she had liked him more than most of the seniors at the home. Boris was, however, feeling particularly special on this day as he seated himself at his table, Father Krickett sitting beside him, and he had every right to be, really. After all, he'd worked hard for this, and now he was appreciating the fruits of his lifelong labor. As he started practicing his signature, John opened one of the books from the table and started reading. "Have you not looked inside it until now?" Boris asked. "No, I've been so busy with getting this church started I haven't had much time to do anything other than that," John replied, "which kills me, because reading is one of my favorite hobbies." "Well, I think you'll find something in there that appeals," Boris said, making John smirk. And just that like, the signing began. People began lining up, some with copies, some without, to have Boris meet them and discuss his work and, in some instances, sign their books. John didn't interfere, he just sat quietly beside them, smiling as he watched Boris appreciate people who appreciated his writing. John flipped through a few pages and read further, impressed at Boris's literary abilities, while Whittle and Jenn came back through an aisle, heading back towards the front of the store, when Jenn stopped and looked at a book on a shelf, her eyes glued to its cover, featuring two women kissing. Her heart skipped a beat, and then skipped again when she realized Whittle was standing next to her. "You find something you like?" Whittle asked, and Jenn snapped her neck to the side, looking at Whittle, her eyes wide. "What?" she asked. Whittle smiled and picked the book up, looking at the back cover. "It sounds wholesome and cute," Whittle said, "but lord I don't read romance. Besides, not exactly my demographic." "Not exactly?" Jenn probed, trying to gain insight into this vague statement. "Well, when I was in college, doing nursing school, I did have this roommate who was also a nurse," Whittle said, sighing, "her name was Kaley, and she was nice, and she was much better than I was when it came to school. One night, at the end of the year before summer break, we were celebrating having both done well that year, which was definitely much more for my benefit considering how much worse I was than her, and we got...I don't know...we didn't sleep together. I've never slept with another woman, and generally, outside of that singular moment I never really have had any interest in doing so, but we definitely kissed and had lots of heavy petting. Course, I was drunk, which I'm sure made it easier too. I think more than anything I was simply appreciate she was there and helping me more than anything else." Jenn's heart fell. It sounded like Whittle could never be remotely romantically in her, and she looked back at the book as Whittle pushed it back onto the shelf. As she did, she turned and glanced at Jenn, who was looking at Whittle, and for one brief moment, Jenn swore she saw something in Whittle's eyes that said she could have a shot. Jenn approached, reaching out to touch Whittle, but just as she did, Burt came around the corner, and Jenn quickly instead just pushed some of Whittle's hair back over her shoulder, as if she'd meant to adjust it the whole time. "What are you doing here?" Whittle asked as she turned to face Burt. "Carol wanted to see Boris's signing, so I tagged along," he said. "Do you even read?" Whittle asked, and Burt looked hurt. "Why did you ask that as if you're assuming I'm illiterate?" he asked, making the girls laugh. Meanwhile, at the front of the store, Carol - who just straight up skipped the line and stopped at the side of the table beside Boris - was also perusing through his book like John had been while Boris signed copies and shook hands. Carol shook her head and scoffed as she shut the book and looked at the cover. "Amazing," she said. "Isn't it?" Boris asked. "No, I meant more that people would want it," Carol said, the both of them chuckling as she set that copy back on the table and, adjusting the purse hanging from her shoulder asked, "so, you sure these people are here because they're impressed, or because you're old and once an artist dies their work increases in value?" "Little column a, column b I'm sure," John said, not even looking up. "I'll have you know I'm a picture of health, thank you very much," Boris said, chuckling at John's joke, "besides, I'm a poet and this is my first published work-" "Yeah but it could be your only published work given your age," Carol said, interrupting. "-so it's not exactly like I'm high on the list of well known writers," Boris said, finishing his sentence, before clearing his throat and standing up, "I'm going to the bathroom real quick, just please let the good people know I will return momentarily." Boris stepped away from the table and headed towards the back of the store, to the bathrooms. As he passed by the shelves, filled to the brim with so much literature it made his heart melt, he couldn't believe he was finally able to have a work of his very own sitting in the very same building, on the very same shelves, next to names he'd admired his whole life. He felt like his life was finally complete. He pushed the bathroom door open and entered the bathroom. He used the facilities, then walked to the sink to wash his hands. As he finished washing his hands, he looked up and, lo and behold, he spotted a woman in the mirror behind him, and quickly turned, face to face with her. "Uh...hello," he said. "I'm so sorry," the woman said, approaching him; she was wearing jeans and a tight blouse, her hair done in one long braid as she added, "I'm so so sorry." "...what?" Boris asked, half laughing out of nervousness." The woman got closer and reached out, putting her hand on his face, and she felt cold as ice. Boris inhaled, surprised at the temperature, and then stumbled against the bathroom counter, trying to keep himself from falling over. The woman stood there and continued looking at him, and it wasn't until he recognized her eye color that he understood. It was Polly, but...but when she was young. How could this be? "Pol...Polly?" he whispered. "It's not your fault Boris," she whispered, "this isn't your fault." And then the bathroom started blurring, everything looking like it was melting. His breathing tightened in his chest and his knees gave out, as he slumped to the floor on his back, Polly kneeling beside him, keeping him company. After a few minutes, he heard the bathroom door open and realized a crowd was forming, and Whittle was right at the front, trying to give him care. Before he knew what was happening, Boris was being lugged outside on a stretcher. As he passed by, he caught a glimpse of Carol, her face twisted into tears, and he could feel John holding his hand the entire way, also crying gently. But the one thing Boris kept noticing was Polly. Polly Polly Polly. Everyfuckingwhere. In every group, every crowd, every spot his eyes managed to land on. As Boris was loaded up in the ambulance and it started speeding down the road, he could feel himself starting to lose consciousness, and it scared him. "Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine." And Boris nodded, and then everything went black. *** John Krickett was pacing in the hospital hallway, nervously chewing his nails. This was yet another moment in a series of recent moments where he wished he could find the rosary beads his ex had given him. After pacing for what felt like hours, he turned and looked at Sister Jenn, Whittle, Burt and Carol sitting in chairs nearby. "Would you sit down, you're making me nervous," Burt said, "Jeez." "...it was a stroke," Carol whispered, "I know it was. I've seen it before." "You have?" Whittle asked, and Carol nodded. "One of the first people I met in the home, her name was Virginia Beams, she had a stroke one day while we were playing a card game," Carol said, "the look on her face, I'll never forget it. It was seared into my memory. That's exactly how Boris looked. I guarantee it. He had a stroke. I just hope it was mild." John finally sat down, and cupped his hands in his lap as he stared at his shoes. He didn't say anything, he just lost himself in thought. Of course this was bound to happen eventually, how could he have been so stupid to think that what they had would last forever? Boris was old. He wasn't ancient, but he was old. He should've expected this sort of thing, and yet it never once crossed his mind. John sighed and ran one hand over his face and then up into his hair. Boris's mortality suddenly had become crystal clear to him, and the thought of him not being here in his life anymore scared the shit out of him. Carol, as well, had never really thought about it, which also didn't make sense. She spent all her time around the home, around death, how could she not expect her closest friend to eventually potentially bite it? Carol had nerves of steel, and yet this rattled her to her very core. And Whittle too. Whittle had never once considered the prospect - just like the others - that one day Boris might meet his end. He just always seemed so lively. So...unready to end. But now, all of them sitting there together, contemplating a life without Boris down the road, they realized how grateful they were to currently have him with them, and how desperately they wanted him to be okay. Suddenly the door opened, and a doctor stepped out, shutting it behind her. She turned to the group as John stood up. "He's going to be okay," she said, "he had a minor stroke, but he's going to be okay. There wasn't any real serious damage, and overall, he should be fresh as a daisy in no time, with some proper care and help." "Thank god," John said. And for the first time in a long time, he really meant that.
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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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