"She was selling candy," Boris said, "You can't say no to a little girl selling candy, even if most of them are from well off families who don't need the money to begin with."
"You're a real sentimental person, aren't you?" Father Krickett asked, smirking. The two men were seated on a bench downtown, just taking in the view. That morning, as Boris had gone to get them lunch for the afternoon, he found a young girl with a card table stashed outside of the deli, and when she told him she was selling candy bars to secure her future for college, well, Boris couldn't just say no to that. He happily bought one, a Mars Bar, the same candy bar he'd loved as a young boy. Sitting here now, admiring the wrapper as it was still unopened, he could feel a twinge of nostalgia in his heart. "It's a right of passage, I think," he said, "to sell stuff as a kid to adults that they don't need. Wrapping paper, magazine subscriptions, candy. I think it's something you have to do or you don't have the full childhood experience." "Right, because unchecked capitalism is what makes one wistful for the time of your youth, not growing and learning and playing," Father Krickett replied, the both of them laughing. He opened his sandwich, tore open a mustard packet and applied it, then closed the sandwich back up again, taking a bite. "It's more about sharing that with every other kid," Boris said, "like...like it's a universal thing every child went through, so you don't feel so alone. Does that make sense? Kind of like losing your baby teeth." "Not sure that's the best example of shared childhood nostalgia," Father Krickett said, "but I get where you're coming from. A shared sense of commonality amongst your peers. So why did you pick a Mars Bar?" Boris looked down at the candy bar and he felt his eyes tear up. How could he ever explain how a Mars Bar had had so much unexpected impact on his life? How could anyone ever understand it without experiencing it themselves? He sighed and looked up at the school across the street, watching kids playing on the playground. Boris smiled weakly, remembering how he used to pretend he was going to be an astronaut, how he was going to go to Mars, be the first human colonizer on the planet. And how, in the end, all he got was a candy bar. "It's all about attachment," Boris said, clearing his throat, "it's about the things that were a part of your life, whether knowingly or unknowingly. I don't think I've ever told you about my family. My mother, my father. My mother was...god...she was a different kind of woman than the other women in her time period. She was science focused, interested in pursuing the future in a way that would only be dreamed about later on. My father was supportive of her, which, again, was unlike men back then. I took after my mother a lot. We shared a love of literature, a love of science, the future. The future always seemed hopeful...at least until you experience it." Father Krickett nodded, sipping his coffee from his styrofoam cup and listening closely. "...but I suppose it's somewhat an attachment to what my mother represented. Hope. The future. At least until those things are taken away from you in an instant. I tried to raise my daughter with the same beliefs, that she was capable of anything, but I did it the wrong way. I chose what she should be capable of, instead of letting her choose for herself. I tried to be my mother, but I failed. I even failed to be my father." "Nobody should be their parents," Father Krickett said, tossing his trash in the can beside the bench and wiping his pants off with his palms, "god forbid, that's the absolute last thing anyone wants to become." "I didn't know what to be," Boris continued, "but I did know one thing...and that's that a Mars Bar was crucial." *** "You're looking better," Jenn said, bringing Melody a bowl of soup as she sat up on the couch, groaning a bit as she moved. "Yeah, well, it was mostly superficial I'm betting," Melody replied, "but either way, I guess it's good not be so physically disfigured that everyone can instantly tell I survived something I put myself through. The last thing I want is to answer questions." Jenn sat down on the couch herself, sighing and looking at her nails. "I know you probably don't wanna hear this," Jenn said, "but...I think it's good to answer questions. Being asked things are how we internally identify who we are and what we believe in. It forces us to renew our perspective, see if it shifts and changes over time. Realign ourselves with our new morals and ethics and beliefs." "Aren't morals, ethics and beliefs essentially the same thing? Why do we need three words to express one idea?" Melody asked, causing Jenn to stop talking. Whittle, who had been in the kitchen and overheard the conversation, moved into the living room behind the couch. "Do you have any family we could contact? Any friends? Anybody? Because if so, they're probably worried and-" "First off, no, I don't have anyone, and secondly, even if I did, they wouldn't be worried, I can assure you," Melody said, eating the soup Jenn had brought. Whittle and Jenn exchanged a look, then Jenn got up from the couch and followed Whittle back into the kitchen. Whittle started the dishwasher, as an effort to hush their voices further so they wouldn't be heard. "She can't just live here," Whittle said, "she needs to be in some kind of facility or, barring that, with people who know her." "You heard her, she doesn't have anyone who knows her." "I don't know that I believe anything she says, honestly," Whittle remarked, "she's dodgy about everything, and she tried to run her car into our apartment complex. She's not exactly a reliable source of information." "We could take her to the hospice," Jenn said, shrugging. "She's in her 20s, she's not elderly," Whittle replied, "besides, the last thing they need is someone with her viewpoints on living. Carol has enough work cut out for her keeping everyone upbeat there as it is. She doesn't need some sad sack parading around, declaring to everyone that they too should try to end their lives, seeing as how close to the end they already are." Jenn peeked back out from the kitchen to the living room, watching Melody eat, and sighed. She knew Whittle was right, but what could they really do? They couldn't just turn her loose. Besides, Boris would have a thing or two to say about that if such a decision were to be made without him. Suddenly an idea crossed her mind. "I could take her to church," she said. *** "I never knew you were so into the stars," Father Krickett said as he and Boris walked down the street, passing through a nearby park. Boris was still admiring the candy bar wrapper in his hand. "Well, it wasn't so much the stars themselves, but what they represented," Boris said, "growing up, reading pulp science fiction dime store novels, the future was always presented as hopeful. Space was this vast frontier of unexplored possibilities that could only improve our lives if we managed to somehow tame it. So it was more the idea that we had a lot more chances at something great...instead, we got the future we got, and we rarely go to space now." Father Krickett nodded, silently acknowledging that Boris wasn't wrong. He could remember being a young boy and watching space shuttle launches himself, eager and excited at the scope of what they meant, but now...now they were lucky if they even sent a supply ship up the ISS on a regular basis. Space had gone from a thing of grand wonder to another in a long line of mankinds failures to control the universe. "I still don't understand what the Mars Bar has to do with any of this," Father Krickett said. "...my mother was a writer, like me, and she was in the middle of writing a collection of short stories that took place on Mars," Boris said, "unfortunately, she got so sick that she eventually lost her energy to write. It wouldn't be until years down the line that I realized what she had was Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, something that wouldn't be recognizable nor diagnosable for years afterwards. Now instead of writing, she just did the bare minimum of upkeep around the house, including very little cooking, and this was when my father got angry. Said she wasn't upholding wifely duties. While he slaved away in an office all day, she was here, essentially 'resting'. Their marriage started to break down, but now my mom had no creative outlet to turn to." "Good lord," Father Krickett muttered, "that sounds like it must've been stressful to grow up around." "Yeah, which is why my mother didn't want me growing up around it and sent me to stay with her sister for weeks on end," Boris said, "the last time I went to see my aunt, I was sitting on the front porch, and my mother gave her what bit of writing she had accomplished for that collection...and a Mars Bar. She told me that no matter what, the stars were always reachable if I just tried hard enough." Boris stopped and looked at the candy bar in his hands, feeling his eyes water up. Father Krickett put a hand on Boris's shoulder. "...when I came home, she had been committed to a hospital, and I rarely got to see her after that," Boris said, "and try as I might to take her words to heart, much like the love of a parent, the stars are inaccessible to some of us. Some of us will never be astronauts, and some of us will never have mothers." *** The church was nearly done at this point, and would likely be opening in the next two months. Walking through the chapel, Sister Jenn couldn't contain her pride over the hard work she and Father Krickett had put into it. Melody and Whittle followed a little bit behind, both seeming rather uneasy to be here. As they passed by a pew, Whittle smirked. She remembered the first time she'd kissed Jenn, right here on one of these pews, and how, in a way, maybe church wasn't such a bad place afterall. "Why did she insist on bringing me to this place?" Melody asked, "my legs are still very sore, I don't really like walking." "Well, get used to it," Whittle replied, "sorry, not to sound rude, but, you're not handicapped. You're gonna have a lot of walking left to do in your life, might as well strengthen up now while you have the downtime. As for why she thought this was a good idea...Jenn has this belief that church can be a welcoming place for anyone if they just let it." "Do you let it?" Melody asked, and Whittle folded her arms, chewing her lip. "I...I do, I think," she said, "that doesn't mean I'm religious by any means, but it's nice to know there's a building out there dedicated solely to the security of my soul, and in making me feel heard and understood. Not every church is like that, for the record, but they've put in the effort to make this one understanding to anyone and everyone, and non judgmental, and I think that goes a long way." "So you don't think God would hate me for trying to end my life?" Melody asked, and Whittle shrugged. "I'm not the nun, that's not for me to say," she replied. Melody scoffed and headed ahead, catching up to Jenn, who was now looking at a large stained glass window. Melody stopped alongside her and looked up as well, then looked back at Jenn, who smiled happily at her. Melody had to admit, religion seemed to bring Jenn a kind of peace and zenlike attitude she'd never before seen on someone, and she was somewhat jealous of that. "So, uh...do you believe in God?" Melody asked, and Jenn exhaled. "I think," Jenn said, "whatever name you want to ascribe to it, that there's a higher power of some sort in the universe that cares about our well being. People point out the flaws in this, of course, 'oh why would God have me suffer like this if they care so much?' but...suffering is just a part of life. You can't have pleasure without pain. Happiness without sadness. Tears without joy. To block out one is eliminating an entire spectrum of emotions. It's a dangerous slippery slope. But I don't think God themselves is necessarily orchestrating all the negativity either. It's random chaos. They're just here to watch, and help us when we need it. When we need someone to listen, because nobody else will." "So...you do believe in God?" Melody asked. "I believe in what I like to call The Inevitable Whatever," Jenn said, smiling brightly, "there's something out there, we'll find out eventually regardless of if we want to or not, and since we can't have definitive proof of its existence, I have no right to name it, so it is whatever it is. It's the inevitable whatever. But knowing that something loves me...something wants me to be safe...that brings me peace of mind no matter what." Melody nodded, listening. She was beginning to understand. She wasn't going to rush out and join a convent, or anything, but she did see the comfort in believing something, whatever it was, only had your best interests at heart. There was a level of love in that that nobody else in the world could give you. A level you just had to have faith and hope in, and that was where Melody fell off. She struggled to have faith and hope in anything now. "It's pretty cool you built a church," Melody said. "It is, isn't it?" Jenn replied. *** Boris and Father Krickett had stopped at their usual diner, getting an early dinner. But neither had spoken much since Boris had told his story about his parents, and Father Krickett, admittedly, didn't really know what to say in response to it all. He'd rarely seen Boris break down like this, and it made him nervous. Sitting there, reading through the menu, John sucked air through his teeth anxiously while Boris tapped the table with his fork. "...do you know where Nilda Avenue is?" Boris suddenly asked, and John looked up from his menu. "Uh, yes, actually I do," he replied, "I used to do sermons out there from time to time when I was just starting out. They'd send me in while they looked for other preists to take over for full time duties. Why?" "My childhood home is on that street," Boris said, "and I think I'd like to see it before I die." "Well we can easily arrange that," John said. "It's funny," Boris said, "you spend your whole childhood waiting to be an adult, escape the places you grew up in, and then as soon as death starts to creep in, it's the only place you wanna go back to. Circular irony, I suppose. I haven't been back to it since I left, I wonder if it looks the same or it's been renovated." "What it looks like now doesn't matter, what matters is what it looked like then, during the time it mattered most," John said. "That wasn't the time that mattered most," Boris said, coughing and chuckling as he reached across the table and held John's hand, adding, "this is." John could feel himself wanting to cry. He wanted to break down and beg Boris not to leave him, even though he knew he had no choice in the matter. Death waits for nobody, and it comes for us all. But...it felt impossibly unfair to meet someone who got you, who cared, and then who left. John had had so many people he loved leave already, why did Boris have to leave too? John's belief in his faith had become shaky, to say the least, but instead of crying or giving into the sadness, he just smiled, swallowed his gloom and nodded in agreement. Because, in a sense, Boris was right. John knew even now that, no matter what else happened with the rest of his life after this...the time he'd spent with Boris would be the most important of all, and he'd never trade that for anything. "I'll take you home," John said.
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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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