"Do you actually believe in the afterlife? Does belief come from being associated with the church, or is it a personal thing? One might assume that you might be swayed by the surroundings and imagery of your workspace to believe in something if you normally wouldn't," Boris asked.
Boris and Father Krickett were sitting at their favorite local diner, in their usual booth, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Par for the course for their general daily luncheon. "First of all," Father Krickett said, wiping his mouth on his napkin and then folding his hands on the table, "I don't really like calling what I do 'work'. It kind of devalues it. I like to think that I serve a higher purpose. I'm not in an office somewhere filing papers. There's a real calling to what I do, and I'm capable of actually helping people with it." "You just insulted every secretary throughout history," Boris scoffed as he lifted his coffee to his lips. "But, I think your assumption is correct, sure, one could be convinced if one were in the right headspace and the right place, but you have to remember, I decided willingly to go into this field. I wasn't raised in a particularly religious household. I mean we went to church on occasion, but only when it was deemed societally expected, like Christmas mass, stuff like that. Otherwise my folks were pretty distanced from the idea of any kind of religious thinking. They didn't shun it, but it wasn't the basis for their morals." "You're not answering my question, you're doing that thing where you just ramble about semantics only remotely adjacent to it, without answering it. You really like to hear yourself talk, you should get a radio show," Boris said, making Father Krickett chuckle. "Yes, Boris, I believe in an afterlife," Father Krickett finally said, "but I have to admit that that belief may come at the expense of having survived severe trauma. Belief in the afterlife is, and I hate to admit this but, more often than not a coping mechanism for peoples grief. They can't fathom the concept that those they loved so dearly are no longer of this plane of existence, and so it helps them to think that maybe they're somewhere else, safe, taken care of, still able to see us. Me personally, I think it's pretty fifty fifty in my case. Certainly some of it is a direct response to what happened to me, around me, but some of it - in fact most of it I'd even willing to say - is just a genuine belief in a higher power of sorts." Boris finished drinking his coffee and nodded, listening. He sighed and picked up his sandwich. "Do me a favor," Boris said, "if I die before you, which is very likely considering the age difference between us, please give my eulogy. You speak beautifully." "Will do," Father Krickett replied, laughing, "what about you? You believe in anything?" A moment passed as the waitress stopped by and refilled Boris's coffee mug. He took a bite from his sandwich, chewed for a bit, swallowed and then finally sighed. "I think, when you reach my age, you start to believe in it whether you want to or not, because the idea of nonexistence is so goddamn terrifying that, really, the alternative is worse. So you cling to whatever hope you can get of there being something after death simply to spare yourself the pain of there likely not being anything after death. Sometimes that can lead to true belief, but most deathbed conversions are, in my opinion, the brain simply trying to grant itself some relief. Do I personally? Probably not. I think it's very unlikely. I'm not saying it's not possible, but I'd be surprised if it turns out to be true." "If it does, please try and give me some kind of sign from the other side," Father Krickett said. "God, even dead you won't stop giving me busywork," Boris remarked, the both of them chuckling. This conversation had taken place shortly after Polly's death. Neither had any idea how relevent it would become. *** Boris pushed the door to the apartment open while Sister Jenn Whittle helped carry the woman from the car inside. They laid her out on the couch, as Boris came over to the couch and sat down on an ottoman, watching her closely with Sister Jenn while Whittle went to call the hospital. Boris glanced over at Jenn, who was holding a rosary between her hands, clearly praying, and he smirked. "I haven't done that in years," he said. "I don't do it for myself," Jenn admitted, "but I do it for those in need, or who I care about. I just...I don't understand what could drive a young woman to want to end her own life. I understand why some people might do it. The terminally ill, for example-" This made Boris feel a bit more comfortable around Jenn, hearing her say this, considering his recent interest in the topic. "-but," she continued, "at first glance, she doesn't seem sick. She doesn't seem terminally ill, anyway. Course invisible disabilities exist, but...it's just so sad. I need something to drink, do you want something?" "No, I'm okay, thanks," Boris said, as Jenn got up and headed to the kitchen. He continued to think about what he'd been doing the moment before this woman had run into the wall beside his apartment. He himself had almost attempted to do the very same thing, albeit in a less violent manner, and then he thought about the car accident. After all these years, here was another car accident, and this time he'd managed to actually get this girl out before any long term damage could be done. He clasped his hands together, elbows posted on his knees, as he hung his head and just listened to the deafening silence surrounding him. Suddenly he felt something gripping his wrist, and he looked up, the woman on the couch looking at him with one eye half open. "Don't...call anyone...please," she begged, and Boris felt his heart race. "But...but you might need serious medical attention, you might-" "They'll put me under supervision," she said, "I can't...I can't have that." Just then Whittle entered the room, on hold on the phone with the hospital. Boris looked over at her, and she looked over at him, their eyes locked. Boris looked back at the woman, her one good eye pleading with him as much as an eye can plead. He sighed, stood up and walked to Whittle, took the phone from her and hung up. Both Whittle and Jenn stood there, completely surprised by his actions. "...nobody calls anybody," Boris said, "you're a nurse, you watch over her, we'll take shifts." "Jesus, Boris, she might-" "This is what she wants," Boris said, looking back towards her and adding in a low whisper, "and after a lifetime of denying women what they want, I wanna give one what they want." *** Carol was sitting at her desk when the door opened and Burt came in, reading through the mail. As he reached the desk, plopping it down, Carol stood up and went to the nearby coffee machine in the office, pouring herself a cup. Burt sat down and sighed, scratching his head. "Ya know, nobody tells you this, but running a business is just 90% paying bills," Burt said, "why is all of life just revolving around paying bills of one kind or another? I swear to god if I die and go to heaven and I have to pay bills, I'm going to punch God right in his stupid bearded face." "What do you care, they're not even your bills," Carol said, chuckling as she sipped her coffee. "I'm mad on your account," Burt said, "God forbid a man show righteous anger for the right reasons for once." Carol laughed loudly, heading back to the desk, sitting down and setting her mug down before picking up the mail and going through it one by one. After a few moments of silence, the door to the office opened again, and this time Boris walked in. Carol smiled upon seeing him, as he high fived Burt. Boris walked right to the coffee machine and poured himself some before looking at Carol. "To what do I owe this sudden arrival?" Carol asked. "A woman tried to kill herself in front of me last night," Boris said, sipping from the mug. "Yeah but that's par for the course for you, right?" Burt asked, smirking, making Boris chuckle. "She drove her car directly into the wall near my apartment," Boris said, continuing, "now she's just resting in Chrissy's...in the guest room. I wanted to take her to a hospital, but she insisted on not going. Said they'd commit her for observation." "Well, she did try and kill herself," Carol replied, "Seems only justified that that's the action they'd take." "Well, I'm of the belief that one shouldn't be punished for doing what they feel is right for them," Boris said, "You're brought into this world without your consent, but you have no say in when you leave it? What's the point in having supposed 'freedom' if you can't even act for yourself in a manner befitting of you, so long as it isn't hurting others. And one could make the argument, I suppose, that your suicide would hurt those who love you, but death is inevitable, you're gonna die anyway, so all you're doing by not helping yourself is putting off their pain to a later date. Anyway, I didn't call the hospital." Carol looked at Burt, nodding. Burt understood, stood up and exited the office, shutting the door behind him as he went. Carol sighed, stood up and smoothed out her dress, then walked around the desk, hands behind her back, thinking. After a moment, she stopped at a window and looked out at the garden for Larry and his wife. "Boris," she said, "I know your perception on the futility of existence is a tad...warped, at the moment, considering your terminal status, but are you sure you're doing what's in her best interest? I know she asked you not to call anyone, but...maybe she needs that level of help." "Are you doubting me?" Boris asked. "Someone has to, eventually," Carol said, "Whittle, Krickett, Polly...everyone else has always just gone along with your beliefs, always giving in to how you think. Even on the occasions you have disagreements, they eventually find a mututal understanding in how you feel. But therein is the difference. Those are about things that affect YOU and YOU alone. I'm thinking about her. I'm thinking about what could be best for this poor woman in your care." "Listen, Whittle's a nurse," Boris said, "she's got more than enough experience to help take care of her for the time being. From what we can tell, she doesn't have any internal bleeding or anything serious. Just some minor scrapes, cuts, bruises, stuff of that nature. I'm just doing what she asked me to do. I thought you of all people would understand." Boris slammed his coffee mug down on the desk, turning and heading for the door. As his hand wrapped around the knob, he turned and looked back at Carol. "And for what it's worth," he continued, "you're wrong. Polly, Krickett, Whittle, they've all fought me on various things. Just because you want to act noble, don't disparage others who you think haven't done the same." And with that, Boris exited the premises, leaving Carol to think about what he'd said. *** "I brought you something to drink and a sandwich," Jenn said, sitting down on the ottoman by the couch, putting a small TV tray beside it and placing a paper plate with a sandwich on it and a glass of orange juice alongside it. The woman nodded weakly, sitting up best she could and reaching for the food. As she picked it up and took a large bite, chewing, Jenn watched her with wide, happy eyes. "You know," Jenn continued, "when I worked at the church, we would have homeless drives. People would come in off the streets, be given food, shelter, help getting them back on their feet. I'm not calling you homeless, for what it's worth, I'm just saying this reminds me of that. It's nice to help people. It's been so long since I've been able to help anyone." "I appreciate it," the woman replied meekly, voice still hoarse, as she chewed; while she swallowed, she glanced around at the apartment, then asked, "do you live here?" "No, my friend Boris and my girlfriend share this place," Jenn said, then realizing for the first time she'd called Whittle her girlfriend, and it felt good. It felt right. She blushed at this realization; Jenn cleared her throat, then asked, "why did you do it?" "...I'm tired," the woman said, "So exhausted from fighting my own thoughts all the time. Everything is so hopeless. Nothing ever improves, no matter what I try and do, or how long I try and do it for. Everything just seems so...so stuck. I just didn't know what to do anymore. It feels like the right thing to do, to just take an early exit. I know that's frowned upon in your belief system, but-" "Actually, for what it's worth," Jenn said, interrupting her, "I am part of a new church that's all about autonomy. The priest I work with, he's always seen the church as far too restrictive on aspects of ones life that have no bearing on the faith. So, he and I started a new church that's all about simply being there for others when they need guidance, and is accepting of anyone, regardless of their belief system." The woman nodded solemnly, smiling weakly. "So, as far as what we think of suicide...even if we don't personally agree with it, we would never tell someone else they can't do what they think might benefit them best," Jenn said, "besides, isn't the whole point of going to Heaven to be reunited with God again? Why wouldn't he be happy you got there sooner?" The woman laughed a little, coughing as she did, making Jenn chuckle a little as well. "I guess you have a point," the woman said. "What's your name?" Jenn asked. "Melody," she replied. "Melody, I'm Jenn," Jenn said, "and you are among friends here. You are safe." And Jenn wasn't just saying this to make Melody feel better. This was really what Krickett and Jenn believed in. There was no point in shaming anyone for the things they did that they felt was best for themselves. So long as they weren't actively harming others, what was the real damage? Far too often priests and those within the church felt like they knew what God would really want from people, but the truth was in fact nobody knew what God would want, and to claim they did was just as blasphemous as sinning outright was claimed to be. The best thing they could really do was guide others to the best of their ability. Regardless of where that meant the people they helped wound up. *** Polly's stone was the cleanest in the cemetery, thanks to Boris coming by regularly and wiping it down. On his knees, doing just that at this very moment, he dropped the washclothe on the bucket lip and ran his hand down the smooth, grey and black fleckled marble, smiling at the sun glinting off the top of it. "Fancy meeting you here," Father Krickett said from behind him. Boris turned and looked behind himself at John, then held his hand out so John could help him up, which he did. Once standing, Boris wiped his pants off. "Yeah, well, might as well get used to being here," Boris said, "gonna be here for eternity, after all." "Solid reasoning," John remarked. "How did you even know I was here?" Boris asked. "Because you always come here at this time every three days," John said, "walk with me." Boris nodded, picked up the bucket, and together the two men started walking through the cemetery in silence. It was late afternoon, and the trees overhead were rustling gently in the wind as they walked beneath them. John smiled as they passed by some very old marble statuette graves, reaching out and touching one in particular as they did. "I've always found cemeteries to be peaceful," John said, "I know to most people they're just an uncomfortable reminder of what's to come. Most people don't like being reminded of their mortality, instead opting to ignore the inevitable, but I find some sort of comfort in it. The idea that life is finite, that there's an end to it all, like a good book has an epilogue. Everything comes to an end." "No matter how painful life is, eventually the pain stops?" Boris asked. "Okay, well now you're making it depressing," John replied, both men chuckling; John then asked, "Are you doing okay?" John, nor anyone else, knew about his near suicide attempt the night previous. John didn't even know about the girl in the car. Boris contemplated telling him about it all, but opted instead to play his cards close to his chest and avoid anything serious for the time being. There'd be plenty of time for serious things soon enough. So instead, Boris simply shrugged, and cleared his throat, pounding his fist gently on his chest. "About as okay as can be, I suppose," Boris said, "So, tell me then, John, do you think you'll go to Heaven? You think you're comfortable with the concept of your own non existence? I only ask since you've had so much experience around the subject, between your brother, your boyfriend, what have you." Father Krickett looked up at the trees and thought. They walked in silence for a few moments, before they stopped near a large tombstone, and John reached out, planting his hand on the top, just gently rubbing it. "I'd be a hypocrite to say I don't believe in Heaven when I preach about it," John said, "but the fact of the matter is, yes, I do, and yes I don't. It's outright ignorant to look around at the world and not believe there's not some kind of greater force at work here. Everything at a base levels works too well together. But does that mean I believe in the kind of Heaven and God the religions teach? Not necessarily. A power, of some sort, certainly, but not in the ways one might expect. I do look forward to the moment, but I'm also not hoping it comes any sooner than it should." Boris nodded, listening. "Polly wasn't scared," Boris whispered, "I hope I can show that same level of conviction in my final moments. That sort of fearlessness." "Just because someone doesn't show it doesn't mean they weren't scared," John said, "and there's nothing wrong with fear. Fear is natural. Ignoring it isn't. Come on, I'll buy dinner." With that, Boris and Father Krickett continued towards the parking lot. The entire time, until they were sitting down to eat, Boris couldn't get his mind off the woman from the car, and what her reasonings could possibly be for wanting to do the very same thing that Boris himself had wanted to do. He knew, in due time, he'd come to those answers. In due time, he and this woman would have ample understanding of one another, and in due time, perhaps, even mutual respect. The problem was...Boris no longer had due time.
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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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