"Haaaappy birthdaaaay to youuuuu...." everyone sang, trailing off towards the end, showing their clear disinterest. Boris was seated at the table, a party hat on his head, while all the seniors were surrounding him, along with a few nurses.
"Alright, well, do you have any words to say about your birthday, Boris?" a male nurse asked, as Boris groaned and shrugged before the male nurse continued, "Alright, well how about everyone has a slice of cake, and we all-" "Actually," Boris said, sitting upright now, "I do have something to say about my birthday. I want to say that for most of my life, birthdays were a joyous thing. An opportunity for your family and friends to gather with you in warm spirits and tell you they were happy to be there, and that they loved you, but when you turn our age, what the fuck does it even mean? Carol," he stopped, looking at her, "Your last birthday, what happened?" "You know goddamn well what happened," she said, annoyed, "You were there. It was a disaster. Wrong kind of cake, crappy presents, and the freakin' banner spelt my name with a goddamned K! Who spells Carol with a K?!" "And Burt, what about you?" "They didn't even remember my birthday. I spent it alone, in my room, eating a sugar free cupcake from the cafeteria," Burt said, "Actually, it was one of the nicer birthdays, cause all of you weren't there, but still, I get your point." "What IS your point?" Polly asked. "My point," Boris said, standing up now, "Is that the older you get, the less meaningful birthdays become. Honestly, they're a positive way to count down how many years you have left on this miserable, rotting ball of dirt, and we just disguise them in glitter and cards and sweets, all because we like to think that as we age, we get wiser or some bullshit, but guess what, I'm not any goddamned wiser today than I was 15 years ago!" "Tell me about it!" a voice shouted from behind everyone. "Shut up Alice!" Boris shouted back, "All I'm saying is that, at a certain point, you have to wonder what's the goddamned point, right? What're we celebrating? The fact we're still alive? Nobody here wants to BE alive anymore! In constant pain, needing dozens of medications to get through a single day feeling moderately alright, no family comes to visit us. Nobody wants to celebrate, 'yay! another 5 possible years of emptiness!' because let's admit it, this is miserable." Boris sighed and looked down at the table, wincing, trying not to cry. "When I was younger, I had the best birthdays...I'd come home and my daughter would be so thrilled to see me, and she'd give me this gift she'd hand made, and my wife would've made dinner and gotten a cake from a bakery and we all were together, just...just happy to BE together, you know? Just being together is no longer enough. Now you have to be DOING something together. Nobody just sits with one another anymore. That was the happiest part of my year, was my birthday. Now it's just a yearly reminder that I'm alone, hated and not much longer for this world." Boris sat down and poured himself a glass of caffeine free soda, drinking it in one go before wiping his arm on his sleeve and looking back at everyone else. "...Boris?" Carol asked as he took the party hat off his head and looked at it in his hands. "Yeah Carol?" "...can we have some cake now?" she asked. "Sure." And with that, the male nurse started cutting into the cake as Boris got up and walked down the hall and out to the garden area, where he found Whittle sitting alone, smoking a cigarette. She quickly waved her hand in the air as he sat down by her, and held his hand out. She put the cigarette between his fingers and he took it, taking a drag. "...happy birthday?" she asked cautiously, and he exhaled, shaking his head. "Nobody gets it." "I think everyone gets it, it's just...shitty to focus on. Nobody here wants to think about the fact that they're alone, forgotten and going to die soon. You need a hobby, Boris. Maybe take up writing again?" "I have nothing interesting left to say." "You have plenty interesting things left to say!" Whittle said, "Boris...I'm your friend, and I know how you feel. Goddamn dude, I'm in my late 20s and I feel the way you do. I want to die. I've wanted to die for a long time now." "...you have?" Boris asked, eyeing her. "Yeah. I've been seeing a therapist about it for a while, trying to keep myself level and busy, but those things don't make it go away, they just distract me long enough for me to forget for just a little while that I want to cut my wrists. I know how you feel, Boris. I really do." "I just don't know how anyone can take aging seriously. Time itself is such a stupid concept, and the concept of aging is even worse shit piled on top of it! Experience does not equal intelligence, trust me. I've known plenty of full grown adults who're stupider than 12 year olds, alright? Wisdom, experience, all that shit is just what greeting card companies want you to believe are important, but you know what's important, Whittle? What's really, utterly, irrefutably important?" "What?" "NOTHING," Boris said, throwing his arms in the air, almost laughing, "And that makes existence hilarious! Because think about all the things you take seriously, right? Your health, politics, love, none of it means SHIT, because none of it's going to LAST. This means that you should instead just focus on having fun, being with people you like being with, and take everything for granted. People say you shouldn't take things for granted, but you SHOULD, because by NOT taking things for granted, that means you don't appreciate them enough! I'm not saying you should use people, but you should take advantage of the fact that they like you, that they wanna be around you, that they're HERE AT ALL! Think about it! You exist at the same time as people you love! That's crazy!" "It is pretty wild." "Atoms collided and built two people who manage to get along, and enjoy one anothers company, and yet people say 'don't take them for granted!'. No! Take EVERYTHING for granted! It's here! It exists! Love it with all the strength you can muster! Because one day, it, and you, won't exist, especially not at the same time. And sometimes, you WILL exist at the same time, and they won't want to know you anymore, or they won't be here anymore, and then what? Then you'll hate yourself for not taking them for granted. For not taking all the time with them you could've taken, and you'll want to die. But here's the thing...even what I'm saying is bullshit. Don't believe it. Don't let me tell you what to believe. This is just what works for ME." "Does it work for you though?" Whittle asked, putting her cigarette out, "Because you seem pretty fucking unhappy all the time. Wouldn't it be better to have something, anything at all, to believe in?" "Possibly, but it hasn't thus far in my life. I find far more comfort in the reality of the inevitable nothingness than I ever did from the supposed comfort of a 'god' or whatever. But again, that's just ME. Do what makes you happy." Whittle sighed as she stared out at the senior community garden and she pulled a small package out from her jacket pocket, handing it to him. "Happy birthday, Boris," she said, hugging him gently before getting up and walking inside. Boris looked at the present and then back at the doors she'd just disappeared through before looking back at the present. He looked at the community garden, and shut his eyes, letting the sunset glow onto his face and warm his old skin. For a moment, he swore he could hear Ellens voice when she was a child. The past...it was so close and yet he couldn't reach it. It was just out of his grasp forever now, because he'd already lived it. He looked down at the present in his hands and started to unwrap it, careful not to rip the carefully wrapped clown wrapping paper Whittle had put on it. Inside was a box, and as he lifted off the lid to this small, cardboard box, inside he found was a watch. He looked at it, and pulled it out, and sighed before slipping it on his wrist. He then looked back in the box, and found a small note that had been folded and hidden under the watch. He pulled it out, unfolded it and read it to himself: "Dear Boris, happy birthday. I know a watch is a sorta cliche gift, but I figured it'd make the most sense to give you one, so you can make up for lost time. Love, Whittle." Boris smiled and looked at the watch again. Just then, the door opened and Carol joined him, eating cake off a paper plate and handing him a plate with a slice on it, along with a plastic fork. "I brought you some cake," she said, before reaching into her coat pocket and pulled out a flask, "And some Whiskey." "You beautiful woman, you," Boris said, making her laugh, "...thanks Carol. Thanks for the cake, and...thank you for taking the time to know me. I appreciate it." "You're kind of a douchebag, but you're a good douchebag who knows he's a douchebag. I can appreciate that level of self recognition, because being that aware often means you are trying to change those bad parts of yourself. So you're welcome, Boris," Carol replied. Carol smiled warmly, and patted his back as they sat and ate cake. As the sun set, she simply whispered, "Happy birthday, douchebag."
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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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