Carol opened the door to the room, and Boris and Burt stepped inside, or as inside as they could, given that most of the rooms square footage was now filled with flowers as far as the eye could see. Boris's eyebrows raised in concern, while Burt immediately started sneezing from allergies.
"These are all for Larry?" Boris asked, "Is Larry in here?" "We'll need a machete to find him," Carol said. "I have accepted my floral fate," Larry said from somewhere in the room. "What's going on here?" Burt asked, "What's with all the flowers?" Carol pushed further into the room, Boris right behind her while Burt stayed at the door to help control his sneezing fits. "A few days ago, one bouquet came, and then they wouldn't stop coming," Carol said as Boris pushed some flowers out of his face as they moved further through the room. "Why?" Boris asked, "He's not a teen heartthrob." "That's what YOU think," Larry said, still not visible. Carol, meanwhile, pushed a small card into Boris's hands. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, looking at the card. "Dear Larry Burkstein, we are so sorry to hear of your passing. Our condolences to your friends and remaining family in this trying time. May your afterlife welcome you with open arms," Boris read, before adding, "friends? He doesn't have friends." "He's also not dead!" Carol shouted. "Not yet, but leave him in this room for a few days and see what happens," Burt said from the door, making Boris smirk. Boris handed the card back to Carol, who slid it back into her pocket as they continued into the room, finally reaching the bed and finding Larry seated on the bed, with nothing surrounding him but flowers. "Why do people think you're dead?" Boris asked. "Like I would know," Larry said, shrugging, "maybe the computer sent out an incorrect e-mail about my demise. I don't know." "I'm surprised you even knew this many people," Carol said, glancing around at the flowers before turning her focus to the folder under her arm, tugging it out and opening it in her hands, adding, "seriously, this is a health hazard." "Only for Burt," Larry said, as Burt sneezed in the background. "Here," Carol said, writing something down and then handing the slip of paper to Larry, who took it and furrowed his brow. "You're giving me a ticket??" he asked, "Can you even DO that?" "I run this place, I can do whatever I want," Carol said, "you have 24 hours to remove these flowers from this room, or your shuffleboard privileges will be revoked." Carol turned, slapped Boris on the arm and he turned with her, and together - with Burt - they exited the room back out into the hall, as Larry shouted, "this is fascism!" behind them. Once the door was closed, Burt, nose still clogged and eyes still watery, excused himself to go in search of some allergy medicine, leaving Carol and Boris to stroll down the hall casually. "You'd think he enjoys being dead," Boris said, "given how he's reacted to the news." "He's taking the news of his death fairly well," Carol said, "better than I would, that's for sure." Boris chuckled and scratched the back of his head, adjusting his hat before asking, "...are you a religious person, Carol?" "Do I seem religious? I'm not saying I'm not spiritual in some sort of way that's as abstract and vague as religion itself, but I'm not whole hog, no. Why?" "A friend of mine is starting a church, and I thought that, you know, maybe you'd be interested in doing their bookkeeping considering you've running the home for a while now, so clearly you know how to manage a business of some kind. He's looking for someone to help with managing the finances of the organization, and frankly, I don't think anyone would question a sweet little old lady." "Sweet? Ew," Carol said, scoffing, before adding, "honestly, it could be good for me to spread my wings a little, and get some more experience under my belt. Then I can pass on whatever knowledge I accrue to whoever takes over the place once I'm gone, whenever the hell that might be." Boris and Carol stopped in the hall and looked at one another. Carol pulled her files and papers to her chest, clutching them like she was hugging a child, as Boris smiled at her. They each backed away, against the wall, as some other seniors walked past them. After they had passed, they reconvened in the center of the hall, still facing eachother. "Anyway," Carol said, "sure, have him call me or come see me. I'm definitely interested." "Well actually, we're having dinner with them tonight, if you want to come," Boris said. "For sure, that sounds like a plan. I don't think I've ever seen your place," Carol said, "I'll bring flowers. Larry's flowers." "Like hell you will," Larry muttered, passing by them, making them laugh. *** Sister Jenn, in her civilian clothes, was standing by the kitchen table, watching Father Krickett help Whittle prepare the table. That being said, what Jenny was really watching was Whittle herself. How gracefully she moved, how long her eyelashes were, how lifting her laugh was. Everytime she laughed, Jenny felt a surge of joy shoot through her heart, and this scared her. Whittle stopped and looked at the table, then looked at Jenny, who smiled at her politely, causing Whittle to smile back. "Does it look okay?" Whittle asked, "We rarely have company." "It looks wonderful," Jenny said, "what are you serving?" "Attitude," Krickett said, making the girls laugh as he blushed and stepped away from the table himself; John was wearing a beige turtleneck and green slacks, and he checked his watch as he sighed and said, "alright, well, I'm going to go pick up some kind of dessert, and then we can get dinner into the oven. We have a few hours." "That sounds like a plan," Whittle said, stepping across the kitchen to the sink and washing her hands down as Krickett headed out the door, leaving Jenny alone with Whittle. Jenny sat at the table and watched Whittle wash her hands. "Do you have OCD?" Jenny asked, and Whittle chuckled. "Yes, I do," Whittle replied, "nothing serious, but enough to be an annoyance at times. But, you know, you learn to live with these things. What gave it away, was it all the handwashing?" "I didn't wanna make assumptions, but, yes," Jenny said, "why are you guys having a fancy dinner?" "You're invited, you can stay, it's not just for us," Whittle said, wiping her hands on a dish towel and adding, "I mean, John is staying, so. Anyway, we just want to give Chrissy a taste of normalcy. She's scared because of an upcoming parent meeting with her school that we have to attend, and we want to make her feel safe and comfortable before then. Make her feel at home, cause this is her home." Jenny smiled, touched at how thoughtful Whittle was. She looked at her perfectly manicured nails and nodded. "I think it's wonderful that you give her a place to feel safe, and loved," Jenny said, "not many children get that, sadly. You're doing a beautiful and compassionate thing." "I guess when you either had shitty parents or, in Boris's case were a shitty parent, it kind of gives you a new perspective on things," Whittle said, laughing and turning back around to the counter, starting to chop potatoes and getting multiple dishes ready for dinner. Jenny stood up and approached the counter slowly, hands behind her back. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked. "You can please keep me company, and maybe help me cut these potatoes," Whittle said, sliding Jenny a knife, which she happily picked up and, pulling a handful of small red potatoes towards her, began to get to work on. Chopping through them, hearing the sound of the knives hit the cutting boards with a gentle thud, Jenny was happy to be here, dwelling in simple domesticity with a beautiful woman. Really, aside from praising the lord, that was all she'd ever wanted anyway. *** "She can ticket us??," Burt said, sitting in the lounge area with Larry; he looked concerned, then added, "jeez, I hope she never finds out about the things I do then, or I'm gonna get a lot of tickets." "Yeah, like what?" Larry asked. "Like putting my false teeth in the dishwasher in the kitchen," Burt replied, making Larry gag, just as Carol entered the lounge with Boris beside her. "Are we talking about punishable offenses?" Carol asked. "Maybe, maybe not," Burt said, shrugging, "guess you'll never know. Sucks to be you." "No, it sucks to be you, actually," Carol replied, handing Burt a ticket and then clenching her fingertips tightly into his shoulder, whispering, "I have cameras set up, Burt, I see eveeeerything. There's nothing in this facility you can get away with. I have eyes everywhere." And with that she let go of him and, with Boris, walked away. Larry and Burt exchanged a look, as Burt rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. "She's scary," Burt said, with Larry nodding in response. Boris and Carol headed down the hall, towards Carol's bedroom. Once inside, she shut the door and set her things down on her desk before pulling her closet open. Boris leaned against her desk and just watched as she pulled out a few different dresses and then, heading to her vanity mirror and using bobby pins, began putting up her hair. "So who's going to be at this dinner?" Carol asked. "Whittle, Father Krickett and his nun friend, myself, Chrissy," Boris said, shrugging, "the usual gang, you know? It's mostly to make Chrissy feel comfortable before we deal with a potentially frightening experience regarding a parent/teacher conference, but I figured since John spends so much time with us, then it would be good to invite you too so you two could hash out a deal of some kind." "You call your priest by his first name?" Carol asked, clipping on a pearl necklace an then admiring herself in the vanity, "...what's the deal with you two?" Boris thought about it, chewing his lip. He'd never exactly pursued a relationship with a man, but the thought had, on occasion, crossed his mind. Had he been born in a different time period, had things been different in any kind of way, perhaps he would've, but what he and John Krickett had definitely wasn't what one considered 'normal'. Boris certainly thought of him in a much deeper sense than just a 'friend', but he wasn't sure where he fell specifically in regards to terminology. "He's my priest, simple as that," Boris said. "Boris, people don't have their priests over for dinner on a regular basis," Carol said. "I bet the Pope does." "Well you're not the pope," Carol said, chuckling as she held up a dress against her and turned towards him, asking, "what do you think of this?" "It suits you. It sets off your eyes," Boris said, and Carol smiled. "You know you seem to know far too much about fashion for a heterosexual man of your age," Carol said, turning back to the mirror to admire her choice, and Boris nodded, smirking. If you only knew, he thought. *** "I went to a religious camp one summer," Whittle said, sitting on the counter, smoking a cigarette as Jenny continued to cut potatoes; she exhaled smoke out the window and added, "which is weird, because my folks weren't even remotely religious, but it was right after my grandma died and I think it set my mom off or something. Anyway it was weird, regardless. Not one of my most enjoyable summers." "It's not for everyone, and that's perfectly fine," Jenny said, "sometimes I think about the fact that I'm going to dedicate my life to the lord, and I wonder if it's truly what I should be doing. Would the lord be happier with me fulfilling my own desires instead, while still believing in them, or would they prefer me to solely focus my entirety on them? The second feels selfish. What kind of narcissistic God is that?" Whittle laughed, which made Jenny's heart skip, and she blushed as she continued, still chopping. "Overall, though, it's...it's something that brings me comfort. I won't go shoving it down anyone's throats, because I recognize it's not for everyone. But for me, personally, it brings me a small sense of comfort to believe that every day there is something watching out for me, wanting the best for me. In a world often fraught with people seeking to do harm unto you, it's nice to believe that there's something that only wants the opposite. I know that sounds stupid, maybe, or even childish, but-" "It doesn't, you're fine," Whittle said, "honestly, it makes a lot of sense, and it's not the first time I've heard such a thing. You can't imagine how often I dealt with patients on their deathbeds, and suddenly believing in the concept of an afterlife, simply because the concept of nonexistence was terrifying enough to warrant a conversion of belief. I personally don't find myself drawn to it, but I understand it. Especially in times of need." Jenny stopped cutting and looked down at the cutting board, exhaling. Whittle glanced over, putting her cigarette out in the ashtray on the other side of the sink, away from the food. "You okay?" she asked, scratching her nose. "...yes, I'm fine," Jenny said. Just then the doors opened, and Boris and Carol entered, along with John who they had run into in the hall. Whittle smiled at her little makeshift family, and hopped off the counter to help finish preparing dinner. Whether she was a nurse or not, she just liked taking care of people, she found. *** Later that evening, after dinner was over and a deal between Carol and the church had been struck, she was given a ride home by Boris. When she got to the home, everyone was in bed, and she herself, feeling particularly tired from having to endure social activities, also decided she could use some sleep. She headed to her room, pulling her earrings off as she entered and plopping them on her desk before turning her desk lamp and, in the vanity mirror, screaming at seeing Larry sitting in a recliner, legs crossed. "What are you, a super villain?!" she shouted, "what are you doing in here?!" "...I'm not paying this ticket," Larry said. "Seriously? That's what this is about right now? Larry, come see me tomorrow and-" "No, you don't get it, it's not because it's a ticket, I found that admittedly sort of funny," Larry said, "but I'm not the Larry they were meant for. This is a mistake. I just happen to share the same last name with another Larry who lived in this home. As a result, they were all sent to me by accident. I'm...I'm not gonna get flowers or anything when I'm gone. This is all I have. So I'm going to appreciate it, even as a mistake, and I won't let even a joke ticket take that away from me. Flowers were my wifes favorite things, and I guess getting them delivered to me kind of felt like she was still here, even if only momentarily, and even if only by accident." Carol stood there and listened, nodding. She realized that she'd put so much time and effort into the upkeep of the home, but never those who lived inside it, and she really needed to do better, especially for those she considered close friends, like Larry. Larry shrugged and headed for the door. "I just wanted you to know why I was protective of it," Larry said, "I'll get them out of my room though, and add them to her garden outside." "Larry," Carol said, snapping her fingers and holding out her hand. Larry smiled and plopped the ticket into her palm, which she promptly ripped up and smiled at him before saying, "good night." "Good night, Carol," Larry said. After Larry left, Carol undressed and got into her pajamas, then sat on the bed, where she noticed a tulip sitting on her pillow, and smiled. Maybe Larry was right, she thought. Maybe it was nice to get flowers.
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The last time the Wachowskis had had a family dinner was...god he couldn't even remember. Maybe when Ellen had graduated from college? Who knew. He couldn't pinpoint it. But either way it had been too long, and it seemed like it was a good way to start being a family again, after Ellen's therapy had been going so well. Boris had told Lorraine he'd pick her up, and pick her up he did. He was wearing a nice plaid button down shirt and black slacks, and Lorraine was wearing a lovely flowing dark blue dress, and had even gone to the effort of doing her hair. As she pulled open the passenger door to Polly's Gremlin, Boris couldn't help but smile at her.
"You look just as beautiful as you did when I first courted you," he said. "God, you're such a romantic schmuck," Lorraine replied, chuckling, "but I appreciate it," she added as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Boris then pulled the car away from the curb and headed towards the hospice center Ellen had been staying in for a while during her recovery. When they arrived, Ellen, leaning on her cane in front of the hospice, waved at them as they pulled up. She was also wearing a dress, something unusual for her, Boris thought, but happy to see either way. He always thought his daughter looked particularly pretty in dresses. Lorraine got out of the car and opened the backdoor, helping Ellen into the back of the car. Once inside and buckled up, Boris once again pulled away and headed to the restaurant that was holding their reservation. "You look lovely, sweetheart," Lorraine said, smiling back at Ellen. "Thanks mom, so do you," Ellen said before looking at her father and asking, "Where are we going anyway?" "Someplace very very special," Boris said, "someplace you're guaranteed to love." Ellen smiled and leaned into the backseat relaxing. Lorraine slid one of her hands onto Boris's leg and made him blush. For the first time in twenty years, it felt like the Wachowski's were a family again, and they couldn't be any happier. *** Whittle was standing at the stove in the apartment, making something, when she heard the front door open. She waited, then turned to glance over her shoulder, spotting Father Krickett and Sister Jenn entering the apartment. Krickett stopped and looked around, then noticed Whittle. Whittle waved at him as she lugged the oven door open and slid a tray inside with meat wrapped in foil on top of it. "Heyo father," she said, "what's going on?" "Is Boris here?" he asked. "No, he's out tonight with his family, what's going on?" Whittle asked. "I just needed somewhere to store some things until this presentation at the bank tomorrow," Krickett said, "do you think he'd mind if we stored it in his room until tomorrow?" "I don't think he'd care, no, go ahead," Whittle said. Father Krickett took some of what Sister Jenn was holding and headed down the hallway, leaving Sister Jenn there with Whittle, anxious and awkward. Whittle whistled a little tune, then pulled a chair out from the table and Sister Jenn happily took a seat, pulling her habit from her head and letting her long shiny blonde hair free, tossing it a bit. "Would you like something to drink?" Whittle asked. "I'm not a landscaper," Sister Jenn replied, "but sure, if you're insisting." Whittle laughed and headed to the cabinet, grabbing a glass from inside and then filling it with some juice from a pitcher on the counter. She held the glass out to Sister Jenn, who took it from her, their fingers briefly touching, and Sister Jenn blushing as a result. She took the glass and sipped from it as Whittle went back to making dinner for herself and Chrissy. Sister Jenn watched from the table, occasionally casually sipping her juice. "So, um, you're a nurse?" Sister Jenn asked. "Mhm," Whittle said, "though, I have been kind of taking some time off from work to figure out what I wanna do with my life, myself. Broke up with my boyfriend, been on a few dates since then, nothing's really led to much though. Just kind of taking stock of things, you know?" "That's good," Sister Jenn replied, "it's good to look around and note what is and what isn't important to your life. To figure out what you want from it, instead of going through blindly, just...just taking everything at face value, accepting what it seems like others want from you." "Well," Whittle said, turning from cutting some potatoes and leaning on the counter, looking at Sister Jenn, "I think the real issue was that while I know I was doing something good, I wasn't...I wasn't enjoying it. It was hard, like, getting attached to people who were going to die soon. That's why I don't mind rooming with Boris, because one old person is more than enough to alleviate my guilt from abandoning so many others." Sister Jenn cackled and then apologized, but Whittle just laughed and said it was fine. Whittle turned back to the counter and continued her chopping, as Sister Jenn watched. Sister Jenn's eyes wandered, admiring Whittle's outfit. She was dressed in khaki high waisted shorts and a cropped tank top, her hair pulled up to keep it out of her face as she cooked. Sister Jenn could feel her pulse quicken, and she grimaced, hating herself for being ashamed of the way she felt. A moment later, Father Krickett rejoined them, shaking glitter from his hair. "What happened?!" Sister Jenn asked, as he took a seat at the table, causing Whittle to look at him and laugh. "I guess Boris created a glitter trap to deter entrants into his bedroom when he wasn't home," Father Krickett said. "Just be glad it wasn't a bucket of water over the door," Whittle said. "Who is he, Dennis the Menace?!" Father Krickett shouted, "this stuff is never gonna come out!" "Oh, you're fine, you're gay so it works for you," Whittle said, making Sister Jenn and Father Krickett both laugh. After a little bit of chat, Father Krickett and Sister Jenn decided to take their leave. As Krickett headed out, insisting he'd be back in the morning for their things, Sister Jenn handed Whittle the glass back and thanked her for the drink. Whittle went and put the glass in the sink, and then headed down the hallway towards Chrissy's bedroom. As she shut the apartment door, though, Sister Jenn couldn't keep her eyes off the former nurse. Lord help her. *** The restaurant in question was a nice family restaurant called Glass Door (a less appetizing name he couldn't imagine, Boris always joked). It was a little ways away from the city, and usually was the place one went when they were to celebrate something. There was always some kind of party or get together happening, and the place was regularly rented out for events even. Entering tonight, even, Boris immediately saw two twin sisters celebrating a birthday, and as his eyes scanned the interior of the eatery, it was nothing but happy families as far as the eye could see. Their hostess led them to their table and seated them, handed them their menus and then told them a waiter would be with them momentarily. "So...do you remember this place?" Boris asked, sitting next to Lorraine, but across from Ellen, who gently shook her head, chewing on her lip; Boris nodded, adding, "well, that's fine. Maybe you will eventually. In any case, it's somewhere we came often with you when you were younger." "It's very pretty and the atmosphere is very relaxed," Ellen said, glancing away from her menu, around at the decorations and furnishings. "We came here when we got engaged," Lorraine said, "god, this place is old." "You came here when you got engaged?" "Yeah. We didn't get engaged here, but we came here to celebrate the engagement when we did," Boris said, "course, it was a bit different back then. They didn't start doing this 'family' thing until a few years after that, and hell, it seems to have worked for 'em if they're still here. We also brought you here for your 10th birthday. Do you remember that?" Ellen waited a moment, thinking, then - in a surprise to both herself and her folks - nodded. "Really?" Lorraine asked. "Yeah, I...I actually do," Ellen said, shifting in her seat, "I remember it because you guys forgot it was my birthday." Boris and Lorraine exchanged a nervous glance, as their waiter arrived at the table. "What can I get you folks tonight?" he asked, chipper. *** When Whittle opened Chrissy's bedroom door, she was sitting at her vanity, trying to apply eye makeup. Whittle leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, smiling as she watched for a moment before Chrissy noticed her door had opened and turned to see Whittle. Whittle entered the room and sat on the bed, still watching. "It's hard," Whittle said, "it takes extreme hand eye coordination." "I don't really care about other makeup, like some girls I know I know wear full faces, but I DO like eye makeup, it's so pretty and makes your eyes look so nice," Chrissy said, sounding exasperated, "but...it's so hard. My hands won't stop shaking, and it all comes out looking so bad." Whittle knelt down by Chrissy in front of the desk and snapped her fingers. Chrissy turned to face Whittle and handed her the eyeliner. Whittle got to work, doing Chrissy's eye makeup, carefully, cautiously, so as not to mess up. Whittle smiled as she applied, and Chrissy looked confused. "What?" Chrissy asked. "This is just the kind of stuff I never got to do with my mom," Whittle said, "she never taught me how to do makeup or anything, I had to kinda teach myself, so it's fun to do it with you. Girls shouldn't have to learn this stuff alone. Just makes me remember being young." "You're not old," Chrissy said. "Oh, my love," Whittle said, "I appreciate that SO much." Chrissy and Whittle started laughing and Chrissy continued to sit still while Whittle worked her magic. "You know," Whittle said, clearing her throat, "when I was your age, I was asked to a school dance by this boy, and I did my makeup before going, and when I was done, I looked like someone had punched me. Just a big, black circle around my eye. Course, this was elementary school, but still. I looked like an idiot. But practice makes perfect when it comes to this kind of thing, and you only get those days once, so I appreciate even the worst examples I have." Chrissy smiled, nodding to Whittle's story. "...i wish you were my mom," Chrissy suddenly said, causing Whittle to stop and pull back, looking at her seriously. "What?" "I wish you were my mom," Chrissy said, repeating herself quietly, "You're so nice and you like to do things with me, and my mom is always too busy. She and my dad are always fighting, and they...she never has the time to do stuff with me. She made all these promises and then didn't keep them. You're just...much better at being a mom than she ever was." Whittle wanted to cry. She felt so bad for this poor young girl, but also so touched at the same time that someone could think that highly of her. Whittle held back her tears and stroked the side of Chrissy's face. "Well," Whittle said, "for the time being, just think of me that way if you want. If it makes you happy, or feel safe. I don't mind. I'd be more than willing to play pretend mom to such a good kid." Without warning, Chrissy lunged forward and hugged Whittle tightly around the neck, and Whittle, surprised as she was, hugged her back. Sometimes, and this is what most people don't seem to realize, all a child wants is to be heard. To be told that how they feel matters or means something. Raising a kid is not that hard. It's just that, like many other things in life, people often don't wanna put in the effort. *** Boris, Lorraine and Ellen had sat in silence for the majority of dinner after Ellen's statement, each simply eating their meal, their eyes never leaving their plate. Occasionally Boris would say something to Lorraine, or Lorraine would make a general statement to the table, but overall interaction between the three was minimal. After Ellen finished her steak, she sighed and looked up at her parents. "This isn't fun," she said, "I don't wanna keep doing these memory jogs if you guys aren't going to accept bad memories. They're still MY memories. I still need to remember them, regardless of how positive or negative they might be. Yeah, so you guys forgot my birthday, so what. You made up for it." Boris and Lorraine exchanged a look, then looked back at their daughter. "We did?" they asked in unison. "...you...you don't remember?" Ellen asked, "the next day you guys took me out of school, took me to a bookstore and told me to get as much as I wanted. No restrictions at all. And not just books, anything they had. Then you guys took me to a little bakery somewhere downtown, and you guys got me the fanciest cake I could find, and we ate the whole thing right there in the bakery together." "...I...I had forgotten about that," Boris said softly, "fuck, am I really that old?" "I had forgotten about it too, and I'm in MUCH better shape mentally than you, so don't feel bad," Lorraine said, touching his shoulder, making Ellen laugh. "You guys screwed up, like...a lot, to be honest, but the one thing you guys always did that other bad parents didn't do, the thing that separates you, is you always acknowledged it, and made up for it in spades, and not because of guilt, but because you genuinely cared," Ellen said, "...you guys are better parents when I'm an adult than you were when I was a kid, but the effort matters nonetheless. But, if we're gonna keep doing this, you guys need to start being okay with the fact that a lot of these memories are gonna be bad, and that that's okay, cause now we can make new better ones." Boris wanted to hug his daughter so badly. How had she gotten so smart? When had she become so wise? How'd he miss this? He could remember when she was a little girl, asking typical childish questions about things everyone should know but, when you're a kid, you don't, and now here she was, more intelligent and emotionally stable than either of her own folks. "I'm so proud of you," Boris said, "I hope you know that. I was proud of you then, and I'm proud of you now." "We love you, honey," Lorraine said, "and we'll try to do better next time." "That's all I ask," Ellen replied, smiling, "...so...do they have dessert here, or?" Boris chuckled. She was, deep down, still just a kid it seemed. *** Father Krickett pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck as he headed for the door. Sister Jenn was seated at a small desk, doing some paperwork for their bank presentation tomorrow. He stopped and glanced at her, and she smiled back at him as he pulled on his gloves. "You gonna be okay here for tonight by yourself?" Father Krickett asked. "Eh, it'll only be an hour or so, then I can go home," Sister Jenn said, "...father, can I ask you a question? When we first met, when I first approached you about creating this new church, um...you told me if I was having doubts about my commitment to the lord that I should run and never look back. That...that if I thought I could truly be happier with a woman than with God, that I should do that." "I recall, yes," Father Krickett said, "Why?" "I just..." Sister Jenn said, her mind thinking back to Whittle, and her beautiful legs, her soft fingers, that smile, god that smile; she continued, "I just...I'm worried I am not strong enough to resist these urges. That my love for women far outpaces my love for God. Not that I don't love God, but-" "Let me stop you right there," Father Krickett said, "only you can make this decision. It's a deeply personal thing, and you're the only one who can cement in, and anyone else who would give you advice would only be giving you their lived experience as advice, and that isn't something you should take to heart because everyones experiences with their queerness is different. We all took a different road to get to the same destination. You know that, no matter what choice you make, I'll support you. You're my friend. And we can still work on this together even if you leave the church. But you have to choose that, okay?" Sister Jenn nodded, then went back to her paperwork. Father Krickett turned and headed outside. He reached into his coat pocket and sighed. He wanted his fucking rosaries back, and he was beginning to get annoyed with not knowing where they were. How's a man supposed to pray when he doesn't have something to pray on? *** "Long night?" Whittle asked, looking up from the couch as Boris entered the apartment. He pulled his jacket off and hung it up, as Whittle muted the television and then turned on the couch to watch him. "Exhausting, regardless of the length," Boris remarked, "I'd stay up but I gotta go to sleep." "...Boris, about this meeting with Chrissy's school soon...what do we do if they try and give her back to her folks?" Whittle asked, picking at her nails anxiously, "...like...tonight she told me she wished I was her mom, and I just...I don't wanna see her go back to a home where she isn't properly cared for, emotionally." "This is important and we should talk about this, but seriously Regina, in the morning please," Boris said, and Whittle nodded, recognizing he was wiped. Boris headed down the hallway and opened his bedroom door, heading inside. Whittle unmuted the television and after a moment Boris came back out into the living room and looked at her sternly. "What?" she asked. "Why is there an enormous diorama of the Sistine Chapel on my bed?" Boris asked, "I don't have anywhere else to put it and I can't lay down!" "Well, John said he'd be back in the morning for it, so," Whittle said, shrugging. "He's always pushing the lord into my life!" Boris shouted, half annoyed but joking as he headed back to his room, making Whittle laugh to herself. Sure, things weren't normal in their lives, and sure they weren't a real family in the traditional sense of the word, but she wouldn't trade what they had for anything else. Like Chrissy, all Whittle ever wanted was a place where she belonged, with people she belonged with. It had taken a long time to get it, but now that she had it... ...she refused to give it up without a fight. Boris was sitting on the grass, looking at his hat in his hands. He sighed and reached up, running his hand through his mostly gone hair. He shook his head and put his hat back on his head, then cupped his hands together.
"...things have been good with Chrissy lately," he said, "I got my poetry book published, and I gave her a copy. I wrote a poem for her, about her, and she thought that was neat. It's kinda nice, having her around to vicariously do the things I wanted to do for my daughter when she was her age. John is trying to start a new church downtown, one that's more welcoming of queer people, so that's been interesting." He glanced to the headstone beside him, the one that bore Polly's name, and he sighed again. "...god it's awful not having you here," he whispered,, "it's really....it's truly just awful. I wish you could say something, anything, to let me know that you're somewhere better now. Somewhere where you're...I don't know...not as restricted as you were in life, and maybe able to be happy with who you are. Where you aren't judged for yourself. You got lucky. You got out. I'm still stuck here, just without you." He checked his watch and shook his head, standing up and wiping the grass stains from his pants as a middle aged couple began to walk by. "I'll come see you again next week, alright?" he asked, putting his hands in his pockets, looking at the stone, "I'll wash your rock." "Your wife?" the man passing by asked, and Boris laughed. "No, no, god no. Just a friend. A very good, very missed friend," he said. *** "What is the point of having insurance if it doesn't cover what you need it to? What, just on the off chance it might cover something that happens to me? We're paying for POSSIBILITY?" Burt asked. He and Carol were sitting in Carol's office as she tried to get some paperwork done. Burt was looking through a file she'd finished, in which she'd consolidated everyone in the homes outdated insurance information. "Seriously, it sounds like a scam. 'Well, you might get hurt, so you should pay exorbitant amounts for this thing you'll likely rarely ever use'. That doesn't sound like a financially sound way to protect ones self. I'd rather just go to the doctor. Most insurance doesn't cover basic doctor visits anyway. Anyone who pays for insurance is a sucker, plain and simple." "BURT." Burt looked up, noticing Carol glaring at him, pen in her clenched fist. "Please," she added, "shut. up. I am trying to finish this." Burt nodded and went back to silently reading the file, listening to the pen scratches from Carol's desk while she continued getting her paperwork finished. "I'm just saying-" Burt continued. "Oh dear god," Carol muttered. "-it seems ridiculous to pay for something that won't cover a good portion of your medical needs. It doesn't cover dental, it doesn't over mental. Apparently anything that ends in the 'ental' prefix is right out. There's absolutely no need for there to be a difference. It's all a part of our body, which means it's all medical care. But these goddamned bastards decided a long time ago that it was more financially draining on us to charge for multiple aspects of our health, and there's no way to untangle that web of mess now." "I'm going to show you what good insurance is for in a minute if you don't shut the fuck up," Carol said through gritted teeth. Just then her office door opened, and Larry walked in, tossing a file onto her desk. She stopped her writing and looked up at the file, then up at Larry, who was now standing next to Burt's chair; after a moment she tapped the file with her pen and asked, "...what is this? Please PLEASE tell me you didn't just bring me MORE work." "I didn't. I'm just delivering it to you," Larry said, shrugging, "it's actually something you might be interested in looking into. Someone in the home doesn't have their medication covered, when it so clearly should be, and all because the insurance was under their husbands name." Carol looked at the file, then laid her face on the desk. Larry glanced down at Burt. "What're you reading?" he asked. "A pack of lies, that's what," Burt replied. "GET OUT OF MY OFFICE," Carol shouted, her face flat on the desk. *** John Krickett was seated in the usual booth at the usual diner. He checked his watch, then took a sip from his coffee. He heard the bell over the door jingle, and looked up to see Boris approaching. Boris took his coat off and slid into the booth, across from John, who was just smiling at him. "You're not usually late," John said. "I'm very punctual, yes," he replied, "I had to take care of something today." "Anything important?" A few seconds passed, and Boris looked away from the table. He pulled his hat off and set it on his jacket, then sighed. "...it's been a year," he said, "since...since Polly. Today, in particular, is the anniversary of her OD." "It's been a year? Fucking hell, it certainly doesn't feel like it," John said. "I was at the cemetery. I go to the cemetery every week and talk to her headstone, but of course you know that already," Boris said, "...but something about doing it today was...I don't know...somehow sadder than usual. I guess it made it sink in how final it all is. She's just not here anymore. She was here, and now she's not. And I'm still blaming myself. I'm still mad at myself for not stopping us from-" "You need to stop blaming yourself," John said, adjusting his roman collar and shaking his head, "I know it's hard to, but you have to, otherwise you're never going to move on in any real significant way. She made a decision. She was clearly unhappy. If nothing else, be grateful that you showed her, right at the end, that someone still cared. That someone was willing to be there, even at her absolute worse." "The woman was a mess," Boris mumbled, chuckling gently, "she was a goddamned nightmare from the day that I met her, and she continued to be a nightmare til the day that she died. But she was something else the oher folks at the home weren't, and that's honest. Far too many people my age, they like to pretend they've lived lives of no regrets, of no disappointments. That they're happy with the way things turned out. Plenty of them are not, and I know it for a fact. When you have insomnia, you spend a lot of time at night by yourself, and you can hear some of them crying in their rooms. They aren't happy. They're just too scared to admit that, now that they're so close to the end, there's nothing they can do to fix it." John leaned back in the booth and shrugged. "So what are you saying, that life is nothing but a series of neverending mistakes?" John asked. "I don't know what it is I'm saying, honestly," Boris replied, "all I know is this. Polly didn't pretend to be happy. She was pissed off. She was pissed off on getting screwed over time and time again all because of having been born at a specific point in time that didn't allow her to be happy. To feel like a real person. To feel equal to those around her, specifically to the men around her who got to openly flaunt their love for the women in their lives. It was refreshing. She was angry. She was mean...and I loved her for it." Father Krickett hadn't heard Boris speak of Polly in a while, but he was more than happy to listen right now. He was happy to hear Boris try and get things off his mind, and out into an open space. He felt the old man was generally way too closed up, and he needed to talk more. "Is that what made you guys friends? Mutual anger? I mean, didn't you feel the same way?" "I didn't love men," Boris said, laughing. "No, not like that," John replied, laughing, "but I mean, you were a man who wanted to do things that men didn't normally do. Poetry writing was more often than not a womans field, really. Or at least that's how it always came across. More feminine leaning." "There's been male poets for as long as literature has existed," Boris said, scoffing, "I'm not even entertaining the idea of that. But you're not wrong. I do think it was the anger. I was mad at myself for not being a better father, and mad at society for failing to teach me how to be more openly emotional. I failed my daughter. I failed my wife. I failed myself, but that's okay, it's okay to fail yourself. It's NOT okay to fail those who are depending on you. Those you support." A moment passed, and Boris wiped at his eyes with a napkin from the table. "You okay, buddy?" John asked, his voice hushed. "I'll be alright," Boris replied, "I have to. I don't really have any other choice." *** "But why isn't it capable of being covered?" Carol asked, pacing back and forth behind her desk, phone lifted to her face; she listened, rolled her eyes and then replied, annoyed, "because he's DEAD, this isn't complicated. Isn't she entitled to some kind of benefits if he dies? For god sakes, she's 82, she can't go out and apply for a job! She doesn't have the income to pay for insurance of her own!" After a moment, she groaned, then said goodbye and hung up. She looked at Burt, still seated in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, before she sunk into her own. "...I'm supposed to be able to help people," Carol whispered, "that was the whole idea of buying this place, was to be able to do the things nobody else could do. Go to bat for people our age who couldn't go to bat for themselves. But it feels like I get stuck at every turn, and it's infuriating, and frustrating. Nobody will take me seriously." "I take you seriously. The people here take what you do seriously. You do wonderful things, Carol," Burt said, which made Carol blush. She tapped her nails on the desk, resting her chin on her other fist and sighing. "...we could always go see Elaine," Burt mumbled, and Carol looked up. "Who?" "Come with me," Burt said, getting up and exiting the office, Carol quickly on his heels. *** "What do you do when you've made it?" Boris asked, "when you accomplish your goal? If I hadn't gotten this thing published, I'd still have my regrets about not going for it, but now that it's been produced, I don't have those regrets. Who the hell ever ends life fully satisfied?" "Not many do, but those who somehow manage to probably feel pretty pleased with themselves. Smug bastards," John said, making Boris smirk as he continued, adding, "but here's the thing...is that all life is? At the end, do you just run through a mental checklist and cross out everything you managed to do, while sulking on the ones you didn't? Seems kind of boring to me. You think, in those last few minutes, Polly had regrets?" Boris leaned back in his side of the booth and folded his arms, exhaling. "I...don't know," he said, "I really don't. A part of me would like to think that she didn't. A part of me would really like to believe that she truly was happy with how things had turned out. I mean, after all, sure...her family wasn't accepting, society was pretty heavily biased against her, but she did manage to be with the person she loved. So even if they died, so what? Everyone dies eventually, right? I mean, it's sad, but how many closeted people from our generation get to the end of their lives and wind up regretting never even trying, you know? She tried, and succeeded. I think that alone is cause for celebration." "Exactly," John said, smiling as the waitress stopped by the table and refilled his coffee; he took a long sip, then sighed and said, "it's so easy to accentuate the negative, because the negative is the thing that sticks with us. Our brains are hardwired to remember the bad, not reflect on the good. I don't know why we're hardwired that way, but we just are. Regardless, it takes effort to remember the positive, but I say if it takes effort, then it's something worth remembering." Boris nodded, listening. He glanced out the window and thought about Polly. Thought about how she'd feel today if she were still here. She was clearly in a lot of pain, clearly angry at the world, clearly upset with herself. She'd made her decision, a decision she felt was right for her, and Boris had to respect that even if it made him sad. "...there'll never be another like her," he whispered, a tear rolling down his face. John reached across the table and held the old mans hand to comfort him; Boris added after a moment, "...and that's good, because there was only one person capable of being her, and it was her." *** "Why don't I know about this?" Carol asked. She and Burt were standing in a janitorial closet, where Elaine Sylar was rooting through boxes and boxes of pill bottles. "Because you aren't in the circle," Burt said. "And you are?" "I'm circle adjacent, yes." "What's adjacent to a circle, a rhombus?" "Would you two PLEASE?" Sylar asked, glancing over her shoulder before going back to digging through boxes. Burt lowered his voice and approached Carol, pulling her a bit away so they wouldn't bother Sylar again as he started to explain the situation. "This is Sylar, she's a janitor, but she also steals and resells medication. She's also capable of acquiring medication from other nursing homes through her janitorial friends who work at those locations. They meet and swap info and meds, sometimes for free, often for a price. If someone needs something and their insurance doesn't cover it, Sylar's who you come to," Burt said, as Carol looked over him to get a good sight of the young drug lord in their midst. "And this is just...happening? I was never informed of this?" "Because would you have allowed it?" A moment, and then Carol shook her head, and Burt nodded. "Exactly," he said. "Here," Sylar said, approaching them, hand outstretched as she handed them a bottle, saying, "give this to them. This is what they need. You know, people often give me shit for my way of making money without thinking about the fact that the insurance business is an even bigger racket, generally full of worse criminals than I am. I'm not ripping anyone off. I'm stealing things that are no longer needed, and redistributing them to those in need, because the government apparently cannot be bothered to care for their own citizens, either young or elderly." Carol took the bottle and looked at it in awe, before looking back at Sylar. "....so sure, I'm a drug dealer, whatever. But at least I'm honest about it. At least I'm not hiding behind a guise of helping people when in reality my business is ripping them off and sucking them dry financially," she said, "that's what's most despicable is these companies absolutely adamant belief - their utter conviction even - to their own lies. I'm a thief, but I'm NOT a liar." Carol smiled and shook Sylar's hand, thanking her. Afterwards, she and Burt exited the janitors closet and stood back in the hall. Burt cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Welp," he said, "guess it's time for this ol' mule to mosey on to where he once came." "Who're you, the Lone Ranger?" Carol asked, laughing, "actually, Burt, thank you. Thank you for your help. I hate asking for help, but...I do appreciate what you managed to do here today, and I'm sure our fellow housemate will appreciate it as well." "All in a days work," Burt said, smiling, as he turned and headed down the hall. Watching him go, Carol realized just how little she actually knew the people around her, despite working for them. She made it her duty right then and there to become better acquainted with those in the home, and befriend them as well. Nobody deserved to be without their medication, and nobody deserved to be alone, especially not at this stage in their life. She looked at the bottle grasped firmly in her hand once more and smiled. She'd get this to its necessary recipient immediately, and then, maybe, she'd take a nap. She'd worked hard today, after all. She felt she deserved a little rest. *** Boris, the following week, was back at the cemetery, back at Polly's grave, but this time he brought his poetry book with him. He sat and he read poetry aloud to the gleaming, freshly cleaned headstone, and he ate the lunch he'd brought with him in between poems. Sometimes he'd stop and he'd tell Polly things, things about what was going on at home, or at the home, or about his new stuff he was working on. But all in all, he just liked being here. With her. Boris realized after his conversation with Father Krickett, that sometimes, just because someone is gone, doesn't mean you still can't spend time with them. She was here, and she'd always be here, and for that he was thankful. Boris coughed and re-opened the poetry book, after finishing the peach he'd packed as part of his lunch. He raised the book back to eye level and smirked. "You might like this one," he said, "it's about you, it's called 'Bitch'." He knew, if she were here, she'd have laughed. 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. The home was beautifully decorated.
Carol and company had really gone all out, it seemed. The place felt more cheerful and full of life than it had in recent memory, and standing in the bingo hall - which had been all but cleared out for snack tables, decorations and whatnot - Boris couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for his friend as he watched her still trying to put some last minute touches together before the Senior Prom that night. After finishing talking to someone, Carol walked back over to Boris and she leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply. Boris crossed his arms and chuckled at her. "I never knew you could be such a take charge leader," he said. "Neither did I," Carol replied, "I mean, I always suspected as much, but I did question if, when the chips were down, I could actually carry through with my duties, but here we are. You're going to come tonight, right?" "Yep," Boris said, "in fact, uh, I have a date." "Really?" Carol asked, surprised. "Yeah," Boris said, almost blushing, "should I bring anything, or-" "Naw, everything is already supplied, nobody needs to bring anything except themselves," Carol said, "and your date, I guess." Boris hadn't told anyone that for a few weeks, he had been seeing someone, and if he had alluded to it, he was very vague, only saying 'I've been having dates'. The feeling had been nice, going out again and doing things socially, romantically. He'd missed that. Boris sighed and checked his watch, then sucked on his teeth. "Welp," he said, "I guess I better get home, get my suit ready and whatnot. I'm proud of you, you know that right?" "Really? You're proud of me? Gee, thanks dad," Carol said, making him laugh. "I mean it!" he said, "You set yourself a goal, and you achieved it. You bought the home and remodeled it, you realized the death pool was cold and you put an end to it, and now you've put on a big party for everyone to be able to enjoy their old age and celebrate their lives. That's something worth respecting, Carol. You've done more good for this home than anyone else ever did." Carol smiled and looked at her shoes, annoyed at how giddy she felt at being complimented. "Well, thanks," she finally said, "...it just seemed like we were being swept under the rug, and I really wanted to do something for everyone, you know? The people who were running this place were running it as a business, not a selfless notion, and I think we deserve better than being treated like a commodity for some wealthy stock broker. At some point, we seem to forget that human beings - young or old - are not a product to use for your ledgers." Boris nodded. "That's why it's good we have old people like you," he said, "Because the best people to have helping old people are other old people. We best understand our needs and requirements, and we're the ones who will go to the ends of the earths to make sure they're met. Doctors, more often than not, see old people as expendable, and I think you alone have proved we're anything but." With that, Boris stood up, adjusted his jacket and hugged Carol, saying he'd be back that evening. He left the home, got to the parking lot and got into Polly's Gremlin. Boris started up the car and pulled out, heading towards the apartment. *** John Krickett wasn't having the best day. First he'd burnt his breakfast, then he'd shrunk a favorite t-shirt of his, and finally, on the way over to the church, he'd hopped up onto the curb while parking. As he walked inside the church, passing by the pews, he heard someone rushing after him, catching up and walking alongside him. It was one of the youngest nuns they had on staff there. "Good morning father," she said happily, almost chipper. "Good morning Sister," he replied. "What are you doing in here today?" "I came by to pick up something in my office," he replied, "why?" "Well, I was...I was curious...um...a lot of the other nuns have talked about you and they say that you're..." Father Krickett stopped and looked at her, waiting for the shoe to drop. "Queer?" he asked. "In not so polite terms, sure," she replied, "but I was curious if you feel like you've made the right decision to dedicate your life to an institution that doesn't respect or accept you. I myself am queer, though nobody knows, and lately I've been having doubts and-" "Let me save you a lot of trouble for the future, sister," Father Krickett said, putting his hands on her shoulders, "leave. If you're even having the smallest doubt, then leave. My situation was unique, but you don't have to follow in my footsteps. Go be yourself. Be happy. Be with someone you love. Don't marry God. Sure he's home every night, but he's kind of abusive." Sister Jenn smirked at this and nodded, understanding. "What if we left together? What if we made our own place of worship, where we didn't play the rules of the church, where you were free to be with whoever you wanted, as was I, without also losing our field of profession?" Sister Jenn asked. "...I'm interested," he said, continuing to walk towards his office with Sister Jenn in tow. "Well," she continued, "I was looking at space downtown and I noticed we could easily rent a building if we pooled our money and took donations, and we could get tax exempt status because we'd be a religious affiliation. But think about how many queer people there are that want to be religious but are fearful of the church, for good reason. We could be the saving grace to those people." Father Krickett tugged his office door open and started searching through his desk for what he'd forgotten as Sister Jenn kept talking. "Because, I can't speak for you personally, but I've definitely felt uncomfortable here, and I think a lot more people like us would be willing to participate in a church that saw their personhood as personhood instead of something to combat," Sister Jenn said, "...uh, Father, what are you looking for?" Father Krickett stopped, shutting the drawers on his desk and scratching his head. "...Uh...it doesn't matter," he said, "Anyway, I think it's a wonderful idea. We should talk about it more, maybe take some meetings with banks and the property owner and whatnot." Sister Jenn was glad to hear he was interested, but he also seemed distracted. He didn't even finish the conversation, and instead he left the room, and the church, getting back into his car and speeding away. Sister Jenn stood there in front of the church, watching him drive off, and felt all the more confused than she had before he'd shown up. *** "You look so handsome," Whittle said, adjusting Boris's tie and smiling at him while Chrissy ran a lint roller down his suit. "Well thank you," Boris said, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, "I do what I can with what I have." "It's a shame you don't have more," Chrissy said, making him and Whittle laugh as he reached down and ruffled her hair. "So what time do you think you'll be back tonight?" Whittle asked, finishing the tie and stepping away, hands on her hips as she watched Chrissy continue to run the lint roller down his pants legs. "No clue," Boris said, "Probably late. Carol likes to keep things going far past the point that anyone's interested, so. I'll try and be quiet when I get in." "Did you go to your actual senior prom?" Chrissy asked. "Yeah, of course," Boris said, "Went to all my high school events. Didn't enjoy 'em much, but I went. You were kind of required to and kind of ostracized if you didn't." "It's good to know things don't change," Chrissy muttered, making them laugh again. There was the sound of the front door opening, and Whittle swiftly exited the bathroom, heading out to greet whomever had entered the apartment. While she was gone, and as Chrissy finished delinting him, Boris sat himself on the side of the tub with her and looked at his watch. "You know," Boris said, "It seems like adolescence is the most important time in your life, but honestly...it's over so fast. You're older for far longer than you're young, it just doesn't feel like it because time speeds up and the way we perceive time changes so drastically as we age. This watch was given to me by my father. One of the few things he gave to me, besides lifelong trust problems, and it still feels like I just got it yesterday, even though it's been like 60 years now." "...I'm scared to mature, honestly," Chrissy said. "Well, the great thing is that your generation doesn't really have to, you guys have all but broken down all those barriers," Boris said, "Stick with the arrested development, it suits you well. Stay a kid as long as you can or want to. Being an adult is overrated." They looked up as Father Krickett and Whittle entered the bathroom. "Your ride's here," Whittle said. "You look dapper," Father Krickett said. "First time for everything I suppose," Boris remarked, as the two men sauntered out of the bathroom and headed toward the front door. They said goodbye to the girls, then exited the apartment. Whittle looked at Chrissy and smiled. "You wanna watch a movie and braid eachothers hair while eating nothing but peanut M&M's for dinner?" Whittle asked. "You read my mind!" Chrissy stated eagerly. *** Father Krickett was driving Boris to the home for the Senior Prom, but neither were speaking once they were in the car. Boris was concerned that perhaps he'd done something to upset the priest, but he couldn't exactly place what that could've been. Boris leaned forward and adjusted the air conditioner, feeling it blow on his face as he shut his eyes and enjoyed the breeze. "I can't find my rosary," Father Krickett finally said. "Eh?" "I can't find my rosary. They were a gift from Steven, my ex. I thought I'd left them at the church, but they weren't there when I went to look today, and I'm really worried," Father Krickett said, "they're very important to me." "I'm sorry John, I'll keep my eyes open for 'em," Boris said. "You excited?" Father Krickett asked. "Yeah, ya know what, I actually am. It's weird, too. It's an odd feeling, looking forward to something. I haven't been excited for anything in so many years that it feels like an almost foreign concept to me now," Boris said. "Well I'm glad, and I'm sure you'll have a great time," Father Krickett said, smiling, "...I'm leaving the church. I mean, not for good, but the church I'm with anyway. A nun and I are going to look into starting our own little branch downtown for queer people or anyone else who feels unrepresented by the major religious groups." "Well that sounds fantastic," Boris said, "Good luck to you guys." "But I need to find my rosary," Father Krickett said, "I wanna make Steven a little shrine there." Boris smiled. He admired how much love Father Krickett still had for a man who'd been gone for so long, and he only wish he himself had realized sooner that love wasn't something to run from, but instead to embrace. Father Krickett dropped him off, told him he'd be back to pick him up later, and then went along his duties. Boris strolled to the front of the nursing home, then instead went around the back, and headed towards the gazebo. He climbed up the steps and seated himself on one of the benches inside, watching the party from afar. He wanted to go in, he really did, but he felt nervous. He'd never really done well in giant social situations such as these, and he certainly didn't want to go in without his date. Boris sat there and listened to the records from that large vinyl collection they'd sifted through be played over a stereo, while everyone laughed and ate and danced. He could see Carol through a nearby window, and he was thrilled to see how happy she appeared to be. Suddenly he heard the sound of heels heading slowly up the gazebo steps, and he looked up to see Lorraine. "Hey," he said. "Hey yourself," she said, following his gaze to the building, "...you people watching?" "Far more preferable to interacting," Boris said. "Yeah, you never were one for socialization," Lorraine said, seating herself on the bench beside him, "Still, I'd like to dance at some point. I'm, admittedly, a bit shocked you asked me to come with you, seeing as we haven't done anything together in years and haven't really been good friends lately but-" "I owe you an apology," Boris said, "I was...I was not the easiest man in the world to be married to, but that doesn't mean I never loved you. I've never loved anyone like I love you. I didn't wanna leave. I had to, I hope you understand that, but I didn't want to." "I do," Lorraine said. "but it always killed me because in the back of my mind I thought 'here's a woman who, even after being abandoned, still hasn't divorced you' and perhaps it's just the generation we are that we don't believe in divorce, I don't know, but...god I missed you. I tried to make the same connection we had with other people; Burt has been a good friend, Carol's been an excellent companion, and Polly...but nobody-" "What about the priest?" Lorraine asked, surprising him, catching him off guard. "Wh...what?" "What about the priest?" she repeated, "I mean, you guys have...some sort of thing going." "...John's taught me a lot about myself, most importantly that, uh, if I was younger or he were older, if it were a different time or anything about anything was different, then we'd probably be together, and that's been nice, to stop running from that part of myself, but we're just friends ultimately. He's my best friend, but that's all he is. Well, and my priest, obviously." Lorraine smirked. "I know it's been too long and that a lot has changed and that we may not have a whole lot of time left but I'd like to try again," Boris said, "I'd like to, at least, salvage whatever it was we had." "I'd like that too," Lorraine said, "You've really grown, I can see it. You're the best version of the man I always knew you could be. I never stopped loving you either. I was mad, absolutely, but...I never stopped wanting you to come home." "I got you a flower," Boris said, pulling a blue orchid from his pocket and handing it to her, "it's the same color as your eyes. I know you liked these." Lorraine wanted to cry. For so long she'd wanted this sort of thing to happen, and now it was, and she was so happy. She touched the petals gently with her fingertips and smiled. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "You're beautiful," Boris replied, "do you wanna go inside and dance?" "I'd love to," she said. As they stood up and began to head inside the home, Boris's cell phone he'd borrowed from Whittle rang in his coat pocket, and he excused himself momentarily to fish it out and answer it. "Hello?" he asked. "Boris, this is Elise Bentley with the publishing house," the woman on the phone said, "How are you doing?" "I'm actually in the middle of something, can I call you back tomorrow or-" "Well definitely, in fact that's preferable because we have a lot to talk about," Elise said, "But I wanted to call ahead and give you the news now. Not only are we going to give you a regular poetry corner in the magazine, monthly, but I've talked it over with my partner and we're interested in giving you a book deal." Boris couldn't think clearly. Did he hear her right? A book deal? "Boris? You there, buddy?" Elise asked, half laughing, "I know it's a lot to take in, but-" "I'm here and that sounds wonderful," Boris said, "But like I said can I call you tomorrow?" "Absolutely, just phone my office in the early afternoon and we'll talk more then," Elise said. As the phone call came to an end, Boris slid the cell back into his pocket and looked at Lorraine standing near Larry's Gardenias, admiring them. She looked more beautiful than ever before, and for a brief moment in time Boris felt like he was a young man again. He felt like things were finally the way they always should've been. He and his wife loved one another more than they could imagine, he and his daughter were finally building a relationship worth having, he had found some sort of religious presence in his life and, finally, he was going to be a published author. As he walked down the gazebo steps and across the flagstone walkway, taking Lorraine by the hand, he kissed her on the cheek. "What was that all about?" she asked, "The call I mean." "Nothing that can't wait one more day," he said. And he wasn't wrong. After all, he'd waited 40 years already. What more could 24 hours hurt. Elise Bentley was having an excellent morning.
She'd gotten up early, she had a new outfit for the day and she'd managed to get her makeup and hair just perfect. She even was thrilled to discover that her favorite fast food place that served breakfast hadn't actually run out of stuff by the time she'd gotten there for a change. As she entered her office, she checked her watch, and saw the time. She smiled. In just an hour or so she'd be meeting with Boris Wachowski, and hopefully have a new, and extremely talented, poet on her hands for her literary magazine. Yes, Elise Bentley was having an excellent morning. Boris Wachowski, however, was another story entirely. *** "My back is killing me," Boris said, groaning as he lowered himself into his chair at the kitchen table; he sipped the coffee from the mug Whittle placed in front of him and then added, "I really wish I could just get one of those titanium spines you read about in medical journals." "Are you taking Chrissy to school or am I?" Whittle asked, and both Boris and Chrissy looked at one another, then looked back at Whittle. "It's....Saturday," Boris said. "It is?" "Yeah." "...oh. God I guess I've been kind of off lately," Whittle said, sitting down as well, "jeez. I had no idea. Well, in that case, do you wanna go with me to the salon and get our nails done?" "Okay!" Chrissy said, sounding excitable. Just then the front door opened and Father Krickett walked in, in his casual clothes. A salmon colored button up shirt with the collar done and black slacks with brown loafers. He stopped at the table and looked around at everyone, smiling politely. "Good morning," he said. "Mornin'," Boris replied. "What's everyone up to for this weekend?" Father Krickett asked, taking a seat beside Boris. "I'm taking Chrissy so we can go get our nails done," Whittle said, "What about you two?" "I got nothin' planned," Boris said, "Actually might even just go back to bed and lay down. My back hurt so much." "I brought your mail," Father Krickett said, plopping it down onto the table, "and resting isn't an option, because you have an appointment." "I...I do?" Boris asked, "...is it with death?" "No! Jeez!" Father Krickett responded, laughing loudly, "God no, just...open this and read it." Father Krickett slid a letter into Boris's hands and waited. Boris hesitated at first, then carefully ripped it open and slid the letter out. He unfolded it, leaned back in his chair and read it to himself. After a few moments, he was finished, and he had to reread it just to believe it. Finally he lowered it, looked at Father Krickett and grimaced. "This can't be real, right?" "Indeed it is, and I'm taking you," he replied. "What is it?" Whittle asked. "A literary magazine wants to meet with Boris about his poetry," Father Krickett said, "I submitted some stuff for you and it seems they're interested, so we have a meeting this afternoon." Boris was without words. Somehow this was both what he'd always wanted and also what he'd always feared happening. He didn't know whether to slap John or hug him. Eventually, he did neither, and instead got up to go get dressed and brush his teeth and hair. Whittle also left to go get dressed, leaving Father Krickett behind with Chrissy at the table. "Can I ask you a question?" Chrissy asked as Father Krickett buttered a piece of toast. "Of course," he said, biting into it and chewing. "...are you like a guardian angel?" Chrissy asked, "I mean, I know you're not dead, but...you seem to watch over Boris a lot more than an ordinary priest would, and it's..." "Sweet?" "Creepy." "Fair. To be honest, we have a complicated relationship," Father Krickett said, clearing his throat, "um, I...I'm not really sure I know exactly how to explain it, but...he's the sort of man that I would have fallen for romantically had he been my age. He's funny, he's driven, he's constantly changing, but more than anything else, he's kind. He comes off as gruff, sure, but in the end, he's a real loving person who cares deeply about those around him." "So...what you have is romantic?" "No, of course not," Father Krickett said, "I'm a part of the church, and he's much too old - nor do I think he's queer - but overall I still feel protective of him because of that. Let me put it this way, do you have a teacher you have a crush on?" "Yeah," Chrissy said, scooting her eggs around on her plate and blushing, "yeah, Mr. Lacks. He's my science teacher. He's really handsome and kind, and we like a lot of the same science stuff. Why?" "Because it's kind of like that. A person you obviously can't be with, but can fantasize about being with, you know? As a kid it's normal to have crushes on people older than you, and that doesn't change with age. I've found plenty of men older than me attractive. Boris just happens to be a special case in particular because I know him." Chrissy nodded and shoveled eggs in her mouth, then chewed and swallowed before pushing her bangs from her eyes and looking back at John and cocking her head to the side. "Yeah?" he asked, buttering yet another piece of toast. "...why do you stay with the church if you can't be with someone, especially if you can't be with someone in particular because of the churches beliefs? That seems like giving into their bigotry," Chrissy said, making Father Krickett think for a moment. "Because, in all honesty, if I didn't have the church, I wouldn't really have anything," he finally said, just as Boris came back out, ready to go. The two men said goodbye to Chrissy and then left the apartment, leaving her alone to think about the state of the world. To Chrissy, if she couldn't be with someone she loved because someone told her it was wrong, she'd be with them anyway. Your happiness should never come at the expense of someone elses comfort. *** "Why do you have a baby monitor in your office?" Dennis asked, picking it up and jiggling it a little. "It's so I can listen to the other higher ups and see if they turn someone down during their meetings, and if they do but I think the writer is worth saving, I'll swoop in after the meeting and snag them anyway," Elise said, not even looking up from her desk. "Wow, that's pretty underhanded of you," Dennis said, setting the baby monitor back down. "Well, we are in corporate america," Elise said, making Dennis chuckle. Dennis strolled across the room, his hands shoved in his pants pockets as he looked at the art hung on the walls and eventually he flopped down in the chair by the window, looking outside. "So..." he said, "you think this guy is really worth it?" "I think that nobody gives the elderly a chance to prove their worth," Elise said, "and I think that alone would be good publicity, but I also do think he's a pretty solid writer and poet, yes. You know me, man, I don't just pick people for fun unless I really think they have something worth sharing." There came a knock on the door and her assistant, Niah, poked her head into the room. "Um, they're here," she said, before leaving. "Welp," Dennis said, getting up, "I'll go gather 'em. Let's see what it is we're working with." Elise cleaned her desk off a bit, refilled the candy jar on the desk and then adjusted her hair a little using her compact. She snapped it shut and slipped it into her coat pocket as the door opened once more and Dennis, Boris and Father Krickett walked in. The three men took their seats - Dennis back in the chair by the window, Boris and John in seats across the desk from Elise - and Elise smiled at them all. "Thank you for coming in to meet with me," Elise said. "Thanks for being interested," Boris said. "How could I not be? After reading some of the stuff that was sent in, I immediately knew I had to meet you," Elise said, cupping her hands on the desk and leaning forward, smirking as she asked, "have you been writing poetry for a long time?" "Very," Boris said, "I started doing it to court my wife, and then I did it to help my daughter fall asleep. Eventually I gave up because I had to get a paying job and nobody was interested in poetry, so I just...put it on the backburner and only wrote a few pieces in private here and there over the years, often to satiate my own emotions." "Well, nobody may have been interested then, but we are now," Dennis said. "Boris, can you just tell me...why do you write poetry over general fiction or even genre fiction? What is it about poetry that pulls you in?" Elise asked. "I guess," Boris said, crossing his legs and thinking, tapping his nails on the arm of the chair, "...I guess because it's harder to convey exactly what you mean in a medium that's reserved for dialogue and plot. Poetry is pure form, pure feeling. It's the closest thing we have to expression of the soul verbally. People talk a lot of shit about purple prose in writing but that's almost all poetry is sometimes, and it's all the better for it." "You really know your stuff, I'm impressed," Dennis said. Boris smirked at this, nodded in his direction, then continued saying, "and I suppose it also was a way for me to work out my internalized issues about myself, my life, my family at the time. It was helpful. Sure, I wrote things for my wife and daughter, like I said, but I also wrote those things for myself. It was like writing it made it real. Like...like feeling it wasn't enough, and I had to somehow bring it into the world another way." "...interesting," Elise said, "Well obviously we're interested. We run a slew of magazines here, but I overhead the literary magazine called Scope, and I'd love to have you write a few pieces and see how it works out, if you're interested, of course." Boris chewed his lip and thought for a moment, then straightened up and, pulling his hat off, rubbed his balding head. "I just have one request," he said, "if I do this. I don't want to be paid for the pieces. I want what I would get compensation wise to be sent to charities for disabled and terminally ill children. That's my only stipulation." "That sounds fair, if you really wanna do that," Elise said. "Besides, who knows, maybe we'll find another way to pay you anyway," Dennis chimed in. "That's admirable, but not entirely necessary," Boris said, as he and Father Krickett started to stand up, ready to exit; as he tossed his scarf around his neck, Boris added, "you know, I always wondered what it'd be like to be a professional writer. I always wondered if I'd feel any different than I did beforehand. Turns out it changes nothing except your expectation for failure to be publicly visible." And with that, he smiled and exited the room, Father Krickett on his heels, leaving Elise and Dennis sitting there, utterly dumbfounded. Dennis finally stood up, scratched the back of his head and shut the office door before turning on his heel and looking back at Elise. "What a weird old man," Dennis said. "I love him," Elise said, grinning from ear to ear. *** Sitting in the diner after their meeting - Boris having ordered a stack of waffles even though it was well after lunch now and John having ordered a lambchop - the men were both uncertain of how to feel about what had just transpired. Boris felt like he should thank Father Krickett, after all, it was his persistence that got Boris the offer, but Boris also felt slightly irritated that he hadn't simply left well enough alone. Now he had expectations to let down, and that made him all the more nervous. Last thing an old man needs is higher blood pressure, he thought to himself. "So," Father Krickett asked while cutting into his slab of meat, "any idea on what you'll be submitting first?" "Yeah, a piece entitled 'People Should Mind Their Own Business'," Boris said snidely, "based on actual recent feelings." "I deserve that I guess," Father Krickett said, chuckling as he lifted a piece of meat into his mouth and chewed, pointing his fork at Boris, "but I just hate to see you squander potential while you've still got it. When we first met, you said you felt like you weren't doing enough with your old age, that you didn't want to just die and have the last part of your life read like a todo list. Woke up. Got dressed. Read the newspaper. You said you wanted to do things with the time you had left, be someone better." "I did say those things, but when the chips are down, and the moment comes, it can quickly remind you how terrifying it is to try and attain a legacy that will outlive you. I caused a lot of pain and grief to people, albeit not purposefully, and I'm scared that what I write will only hurt people further." "It's not like you write cruel things. If anything, it'll help. I mean, think about how many people, even years from now once we're both dead and buried, might come across your work and think 'finally, someone who gets how I feel!'. They'll be appreciative that you took a stand however many years prior to make your feelings known, so that they could feel known later on." Boris thought about this for a bit, then nodded. "Fair enough," he finally replied, pouring more syrup onto his waffles and cutting into them, adding, "but that doesn't make it any less frightening or daunting a task to undergo. Creativity isn't like a faucet you can just turn on and off, I've gotta be in the right frame of mind, the right emotional place. That's why deadlines and I never worked out." "Be good enough for the publisher to fight to keep you onboard and you can forego any deadlines," Father Krickett said, "Let me tell you a story. When I first started preaching, like seriously preaching in this church here, I was told that we do things by the book. A strict set of rules. Here's how we word things, here's words we avoid using, here's phrasing that people expect to hear, and if you didn't follow these rules, then you were considered an unreliable asset. A dangerous asset, even. But the thing is, because I went around those, preached my own way, and as a result got a lot of people coming to sermons because of the way I preached, the church couldn't outright fire me. I was bringing them people! I was worth something. How I preached was worth bending their precious little rules. People like other people who don't play by the rules, especially if they're doing it for good reasons and not selfish ones." Boris leaned back and chewed his waffle bite, then swallowed. He looked around the diner and thought about how he hadn't been writing well lately, how he hadn't felt very good about his work these days, and how he'd love to change that. Perhaps now this was the chance to do so. "Well," he finally said, "can't make my life any worse, can it? Just seems unsettling, like it's a challenge. Good things never happen to me, because when they do, they're followed by even worse things, so it's almost as if the universe is daring me to accept this. And I'm gonna, cause at this point, what more could the universe do that it hasn't already done?" "That's the spirit," Father Krickett said, as they clinked their glasses together. *** Ellen was laying in her hospital bed the following day when the door opened and Boris entered. She put down her book and looked at him, somewhat surprised and somewhat confused. He pulled a chair around and seated himself beside the bed. "Dad? What are you doing here? I don't have any therapy today, and you didn't say you were gonna come visit, so-" "Do you remember when you were a little girl and I used to read you poetry?" he asked, and she smiled. "Yeah, I do remember that, actually. Not very well, but faintly," she replied. "Then let's make some new memories too," Boris said, pulling out his journal and turning to a certain page, "I recently got an offer to do some poetry for a literary magazine and I'm trying to work on some stuff. For a long time I thought that perhaps the way I viewed the world was what was wrong with my writing, and it turns out I was right. I shouldn't say how I see the world. I should say how I wanna see the world. What I want the world to be." Ellen smiled warmly, and reached out, holding his hand. "By the way, all the money is going to disabled or terminally ill children, so I'm not even doing this for financial compensation." Ellen felt like she wanted to cry. She was still, admittedly, having trouble remembering who her father had been, but the man she was looking at she was becoming proud to call her dad now. "I hope you like this, I wrote it a few weeks ago," he said, "It's gonna be my first submission for publication next month. It's called 'Polly'." The apartment was a mess. Materials were thrown everywhere, glue was running down the wall and the shoebox they'd been working in was tipped over onto the floor. Father Krickett wiped his forehead with his sleeve and exhaled, leaning against the wall, looking across the room at Boris who was slumped on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
"This was a bad idea," Boris finally said. "Gee, you think?" Father Krickett asked. "What made us think we could help with this?" Boris asked, "I mean, we don't know anything about homes! We're probably the least two qualified men on the planet to be helping with such a project. Ridiculous to think we could." Father Krickett slid down the wall and onto the floor, his eyes landing on the shoebox. He reached up and ran his hand through his short blonde hair, wishing he knew what to say or what to do, but something in the old man brought something combative out in him, and he both hated and loved it. Boris made him feel things he hadn't felt in years.He scanned the room again, his eyes running from Boris back down to the floor and again landing on the shoebox. "We need to finish what we started," Father Krickett finally said. "Are you kidding me?" Boris asked, "We're gonna kill one another if we try that." "Here's to hoping," Father Krickett mumbled, making Boris chuckle. Yes, it was hard trying to make a visual representation of family. but it was something they both needed to try and do. *** "I have to make a shoebox diorama of our home," Chrissy said, sitting at the dinner table the previous evening, "But I don't really know how to do that. I mean, how do you make a visual representation of something that is so hard to understand as it is?" "What's hard to understand?" Boris asked, piling peas onto his plate, "you live here, with us, and we take care of you. I'd say that's pretty simple." "Because it isn't 'normal'," Chrissy said, making air quotes, "Because what we have is really unusual, so how do I represent that? I mean, you're not my grandpa and Whittle's not my mom-" "What about me?" Father Krickett asked as he took his seat at the table after getting himself a drink. "-and he's not my priest," Chrissy said, making him laugh as she finished, "I live with a nurse, a priest and an old man. That's not a family. That's the start to a joke." "For what it's worth," Whittle said, "A lot of people have unconventional families and they do just fine. Hell, single parents are still considered a somewhat unconventional family, even though it's been a normalized thing since forever. Plenty of people have families made up of people they aren't related to. We aren't any different than any of your classmates who have moms and dads at homes." "It's true," Father Krickett said, reaching for a roll to split open and put butter on, as he said, "after all, the way it's shaken out for you, you know you're taken care of. You live with a nurse, who cares for your health, a priest, who cares for your soul, and a Boris." "...I don't care about anything?" Boris asked, glancing at the priest. "I don't know, do you?" Father Krickett asked. "...no, you're right, not particularly," Boris said, making everyone laugh a little as he looked across the table at Chrissy and said, pointing with his fork, "except you. I care about you. We can help you, if you need it. I'd love to work on something. Give me something to do this weekend besides all the nothing I normally do." "I'd like to but I can't, I have a prior engagement," Whittle said, "but best of luck to you if you do." "Fine, but you're the one missing all the fun," Boris said. Whittle smiled as she watched and listened to everyone banter while she ate the dinner Father Krickett and Boris had helped make together. This was the kind of family she liked, in all honesty. For a short time, she'd wondered if she'd made the right decision about leaving her boyfriend, but this, what they had here, was far more suitable for her, and for everyone else it seemed. Oh sure, Father Krickett didn't live with them, but he was there often enough that it felt as if he did. Honestly, she thought, Chrissy was lucky. She'd have killed to have had this setup at her age. *** "So, I'm thinking streamers, everyone likes streamers, right? And a disco ball," Carol said as she and Burt walked down the hall, Burt jotting everything down on a little notepad. "How are we gonna get that stuff on the ceiling?" Burt asked, "I don't trust anyone here to climb a ladder, do you?" "We'll hire people to prepare for us," Carol said. Just then, they passed by a large walk in storage closet and stopped, backing up and peering inside. Inside the closet was Boris, standing on a small stepladder as Father Krickett stood beside it, keeping it steady. Father Krickett smiled and waved at Carol and Burt as they walked inside, joining them, a curious look on their faces. "What are you doing?" Carol asked. "Looking for arts and crafts supplies," Boris said. "Why you robbing us? The preschool closed?" Burt asked. "It's because this is what we had access to. And yes, the preschool was closed, in fact," Boris said, "Hold that ladder steady, dammit! I don't wanna fall on my ass!" "Like you have an ass anymore to fall on," Carol scoffed, crossing her arms and asking, "So, what is this even for?" "We're helping Chrissy with a project, a shoebox diorama of her home life," Father Krickett said, "But we don't have any supplies and he's too cheap to buy them himself, so here we are. Thank goodness you guys have a lot of stuff, because otherwise I think he actually may have tried to rob that preschool." "I'd fight preschoolers, I think I could take them," Boris said, making everyone laugh. "Well," Carol said, "if you're going to borrow stuff, the payment can be easy. I need you to help get the cafeteria ready for the Senior Prom. Think you guys could help with that?" "Sure thing," Father Krickett said, "we'd be happy to." Carol nodded, then turned and exited the room, leaving the boys to their thievery. Burt caught up with her and continued down the hall with her, still writing down her suggestions for the Senior Prom. Back in the storage closet, Father Krickett looked back from the door up the small ladder at Boris and grimaced. "What's a senior prom?" he asked. "It's something Carol's throwing to celebrate everyone in the home," Boris said, "I'll explain more later. Hold it steady, I've almost got all the glue." *** Unfortunately for the boys, come the weekend, Chrissy was sick and in bed. Whittle hesitated going on her date, but Boris insisted she do it, saying he and Father Krickett would watch her while she was gone, in addition to doing her diorama. Whittle argued for a bit, but eventually conceded and left, leaving the old man and the priest in charge. They broke out the supplies, scattered them on the coffee table and got to work. "The thing about a diorama," Father Krickett said, "is that it's not supposed to be perfectly accurate. It's simply supposed to represent the makers idealized vision of what it is they're seeing." "Deep," Boris said, "but if it isn't accurate, then aren't they just lying?" "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," Father Krickett said, cutting into some construction paper, shrugging, "Everyone views their homefront as something different. Every member of a family sees something different in what their experience is." "Like I would know anything about what makes a good home," Boris said. "I know the feeling. Coming from a home full of grief, it makes it hard to find a reason to try and make a new home," Father Krickett said, "Even if what happened wasn't entirely my fault. My brother dying wasn't because of me. Still, it makes it hard to care about creating something that's meant to be permanent, when I'm not sure the permanance is permanent. Life is so fleeting that even a home eventually becomes uninhabitable over time." "Gee, you're a bundle of sunshine," Boris said, smirking, as Father Krickett glued a little design to the construction paper, trying to make a proper wallpaper for the shoebox. "I just mean that home is a weird concept to begin with, and it can mean many different things to many people or nothing to many others," Father Krickett said, "They call the church the house of God, and yet it doesn't feel homely. It feels cold and empty. But to me, that's what home feels like. My own house, as a result, feels weirdly incorrect because it's warm and cozy." "Home isn't the place, home is the people," Boris said, "It's a construct of an idea. We try and make homes be the buildings, but it isn't, it's the people who reside in those buildings. That's why it can hurt when it all falls apart, because you;re not coming from a broken domicile, you're coming from a broken group of folks." "Interesting viewpoint," Father Krickett said. "Take home furnishings for instance," Boris said, "people like to put so much thought into what goes into their homes, but it's all outward visual extensions of the self. You don't get nice furniture or good artwork on the walls to represent yourself, you get it to hopefully trick visitors into seeing a different, often better, version of yourself. A version you aspire to be but could never reach." "Well that's a tad cynical, don't you think?" Father Krickett asked and Boris scoffed, standing up and throwing his arms into the air. "I mean, in my experience, the house is a lie. Photos are lies. The only thing true are lived experiences. Everything else is a ruse. A smokescreen," Boris said, "You're not the church, because, unlike the church, you're not cold and unwelcoming." "I never said it was unwelcoming-" "But it is, isn't it? I mean, let's face it, a good portion of the general public feel unsafe there," Boris said, "I don't know what it is I'm trying to say, John, I'm just...I'm just saying that a building doesn't represent a person, you know? This apartment? It's just a place to be, man. It doesn't say anything about its inhabitants." Father Krickett stood up and, jar of glue in his hands, started pacing, peering down at the table from time to time. "I suppose you have a point, but every child deserves to grow up in a stable environment, don't you think?" he asked, "I mean, by that logic, doesn't that mean the building then inherits the responsibility of those who inhabit it?" "It can't inherit anything, it's not a living being," Boris said, "ahhh, what do either of us know about family anyway." "A hell of a lot more than the little girl who lives here," Father Krickett said sternly, surprising Boris, as he added, "I mean, she didn't even know what kind of diorama to do, and now look, we're making it for her. Granted she's sick, so that's why it's fallen on us, but...but here's a child who doesn't know what a home is supposed to be. Do you wanna be realistic, cold and cruel, and create a visual representation of what a home actually is, or do you wanna give her some hope and something to wish for and create a visual representation of what a home should be?" Boris stared at Father Krickett, then furrowed his brow and waved his hand. "Whatever, forget it," he said. "Yeah, shrug it off, like you do with everything," Father Krickett, which got his attention again. "Excuse me?" "You always run from bad situations. You ran from your life after the accident, you ran from your problems with Polly and then you ran from what happened with her by becoming dependent on pain medication. No wonder you don't see a home as something that could be something good, because you never spent any time in one. If anything, a hotel is a better example of a living situation for you, because you're always on the move." "How dare you!" Boris shouted, grabbing the construction paper and throwing it on the floor, adding, "I don't just run! I've come a long way from that! Yes, I'll grant you that's what I used to do, but that isn't the case anymore! And what's it matter to you? What are you even doing here, John? Why are you so involved in this pathetic little excuse for a life I have if you think so lowly of me?" "I don't think lowly of you and that's the problem!" Father Krickett shouted back, "that's the goddamned issue, is how, like Polly, we both think more highly of you than you do of yourself! The things you're capable of and the things you've done, but you don't see that! All you see is failure and disappointment! When are you gonna open your eyes and start seeing what you're made of instead of what you think you're made of!" Father Krickett then turned and threw the jar of glue against the wall, screaming, surprising Boris. "I'm so sick of this, Boris! I'm so sick of seeing you continually believe that just because things have been bad that they'll always be bad, that your lived experiences will continue to define and dominate your future experiences instead of realizing your can make better ones! So you were a bad father, so what! So were a thousand other men! Guess who else is a bad father? I am! I'm a bad father! I'm a bad priest! Because I'd prefer to spend my time saving the soul of one old man instead of the hundreds of other people who might benefit from my help!" "My soul doesn't need saving!" Boris yelled. "Oh you're goddamned right it doesn't," Father Krickett said, half laughing, tears running down his face, "Because you...you don't even have one! Right? Isn't that what you believe? That you don't even have a soul? Well the body is the home of the soul, so I guess once your body shuts down your soul will be permanently nomadic, so let's hope it can get an apartment. We're all just houses! We're all just renters in these flesh prisons! That's what you're not seeing!" "Oh how existential of you," Boris said, sitting down on the couch again as Father Krickett leaned against the wall across from him; Boris continued, "...so you're saying this diorama isn't about the apartment, it's about HER. It's about how she views herself, and our input on her personhood?" "I don't know what I'm saying," Father Krickett said. "Why do you even care so much?" Boris asked, "If there's others out there who could use you, why stick around here and continue to be berated? Why do you-" "Because I love you, man!" Father Krickett said loudly, "because I...because I love you, man." Neither men said a word for what felt like an hour. The apartment was a mess. Materials were thrown everywhere, glue was running down the wall and the shoebox they'd been working in was tipped over onto the floor. Father Krickett wiped his forehead with his sleeve and exhaled, leaning against the wall, looking across the room at Boris who was slumped on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "This was a bad idea," Boris finally said. "Gee, you think?" Father Krickett asked. "What made us think we could help with this?" Boris asked, "I mean, we don't know anything about homes! We're probably the least two qualified men on the planet to be helping with such a project. Ridiculous to think we could." Father Krickett slid down the wall and onto the floor, his eyes landing on the shoebox. He reached up and ran his hand through his short blonde hair, wishing he knew what to say or what to do, but something in the old man brought something combative out in him, and he both hated and loved it. Boris made him feel things he hadn't felt in years.He scanned the room again, his eyes running from Boris back down to the floor and again landing on the shoebox. "We need to finish what we started," Father Krickett finally said. "Are you kidding me?" Boris asked, "We're gonna kill one another if we try that." "Here's to hoping," Father Krickett mumbled, making Boris chuckle. Yes, it was hard trying to make a visual representation of family. but it was something they both needed to try and do. As they got up and started to clean, they heard the front door open. Whittle was standing there, looking somewhat surprised. "What the hell did you do to my apartment?!" she shouted. "Why aren't you on your date?" Boris asked. "He had to reschedule. There's glue on the fucking walls!" she shouted. Just then they all heard a cough, and all 3 of them looked up to the hallway to see Chrissy standing there. Her eyes were red, like she had been crying. She was squeezing her plushie to her chest and then tossed her hair back behind her a little out of her eyes. "Can I have a glass of water?" she asked quietly. "...yeah, yeah go back to bed, I'll bring it to you," Whittle said as she entered the apartment, set her things down on the kitchen table and then filled a water glass up, heading down the hall, not even looking back at the men in the living room. As she opened the bedroom door, she saw Chrissy sitting on her bed, crossed legged, the lights off. Whittle entered and shut the door behind her, sitting on the bed and handing Chrissy the water as she reached behind her and rubbed her back. "Are you feeling better?" she asked. "not really," Chrissy said, "everywhere I go adults fight." "...when I was your age, my parents argued a lot too. I think that's partially why I was so willing to take you in, because I knew where you were coming from. My situation wasn't as bad as yours, but it was rough at times. But I think the thing to remember here is that your parents were fighting about themselves, and Boris and John are fighting about you." "That makes it better?" Chrissy asked. "Hell yeah it is, kid. How many kids are lucky enough to have adults argue about the best way to raise a kid because they care so much about them? Your parents argued because they were mad with themselves for failing themselves, but Boris and John are arguing because they're mad with themselves for failing you. That's a pretty important difference, I'd say. You're a very loved kid." Chrissy smiled as she looked into her water glass, then took a big sip. "Will you tuck me back in?" she asked. "Of course pumpkin," Whittle said. After Whittle put Chrissy back to bed, she came back out into the living room, but both men were gone, and the room was cleaned. She sighed, sat down at the kitchen table and started eating her take out. What had her life become? Different, difficult at times...but better than it was. She smiled to herself. Frankly that's what everyone in this apartment had now, and it was better than where they'd come from she thought. *** Father Krickett and Boris were seated in the school hallway. Boris was holding the diorama in his lap, but neither men would look at eachother, instead opting to watch the kids all go to their respective classes as the school day started. Father Krickett was wearing corderoy pants and a turtleneck with a sports jacket on it, while Boris was in a sweater with a collared shirt peaking out the top, and old black jeans. Eventually Father Krickett cleared his throat and looked at Boris. "...I'm sorry," he said, "for making things weird or whatever it was I did." "...you know," Boris said, "if things were different...another time period, if I were a different age, I might be more inclined to return your feelings. Nevertheless, I appreciate your concern, and for what it's worth, I love you too, man. I can't imagine my life without you in it. You're my best friend." "Same here," Father Krickett said, "I just hope this abomination passes for coursework." "If it doesn't, then we'll just redo it," Boris said. "Yeah, sure, and maybe this time we'll just bypass all the yelling and instead kill eachother outright," Father Krickett said, making Boris chuckle as he added, "...I don't think you're wrong, for what it's worth. I think homes are often a facade, but they don't have to be, and especially for a child they shouldn't be. I just wanna make sure Chrissy grows up in a better home than any of us did." "...yeah, that's what I want to," Boris replied, "I just want her to grow up at least feeling like someone cared enough to TRY." Just then they looked up from the diorama at Chrissy, now standing in front of them, looking down at the diorama. Eventually all their eyes met. "What are you guys doing here?" she asked. "We brought your diorama. We managed to finish it last night," Boris said, handing it to her, "...sorry it's such a mess." "Like I'd expect anything less," Chrissy said, "but, ya know, that's how I like it. Perfection is boring. I like how messy we all are. I like how messy our home life is. It's weird and it's unusual, but that just makes life more interesting, right? I mean...we're all weirdos, but at least we're weirdos together." Boris and Father Krickett smiled at her, then one another. "Thanks for helping, guys," she said, hugging them both, "I don't care what grade I get, cause at least I know the people who helped make mine really cared." The bell rang, and Chrissy turned, rushing off to class, waving bye to them over her shoulder. Father Krickett put his hand on Boris's shoulder as Boris slid his hands into his pants pockets, the two men standing in the hall, watching her run down the hall to her classroom. "Come on," Father Krickett, "I'll buy you breakfast." "You always buy me breakfast." "Yeah but this time it'll be for a good cause." "What, me not starving isn't a good enough cause for you? Isn't the church supposed to want to feed the needy?" Boris asked as they turned and walked down the hallway toward the front doors of the school. "Boris?" "Yeah?" "Shut up." "Alrighty." "What the hell is tapioca?" Burt asked as he and Carol stood in line getting lunch. She shrugged and plopped another jello square onto her tray.
"I don't know, some kind of pudding I'd guess," Carol said. "Everyone assumes old people eat the grossest shit. Tapioca, oatmeal, liver and onions...don't they realize that our palette hasn't changed just because we've aged? I want cheeseburgers god dammit," Burt said, making her chuckle as they carried their trays back to the table, finding Larry already seated and eating an enormous burrito; Burt looked at him agog, and asked, "Where did you get that?" "From a little vendor outside," Larry said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, "You should try leaving the home once in a while. It's amazing what things you can find two feet from the door." "I'm gonna kill you and eat your lunch," Burt mumbled. "Hey," Carol said, interrupting the bickering as she shifted her food around her plate, "...what do you guys think about, like, a senior prom?" "What about it?" Larry asked. "Like, you remember going to prom, right? We all presumably went to prom," Carol said. "I like that you said presumably," Burt said. "Well, who knows, you could've been a loser who stayed at home and danced with his mom, I just didn't wanna make any assumptions," Carol replied, smirking, "but do you guys think that would be a good idea? Sort of a little party to celebrate the fact that we're seniors? Seniority has a lot of perks to it, aside from being closer to death than anyone else." "I think it's a cool idea," Larry said, "We could get suits and dresses and do decorations and maybe order catering." "Exactly. And for people with alzheimers, it'd be nice, it'd be like reliving the days they think they're living already," Carol said, "I know they say you shouldn't wallow in your memories but sometimes those are what get you through the day. Memory is important." "I'll try to remember that," Burt muttered, making them all laugh. *** Boris parked the gremlin and got out. He stuffed the keys in his coat pocket and started walking through the parking lot, unsurprised when he heard the sound of heels rushing up behind him, and found Lorraine walking beside him now. "Boy, you drive in style," she said, smirking. "I do what I can to impress the ladies, yes," Boris said, smiling a little himself, "Did Ellen tell you anything at all about why she wanted us to come to her therapy session?" "No," Lorraine said, hoisting her purse strap further up her shoulder, "No, all she said was that it was important, and that was enough for me. I no longer require explanation, I'm just trying to be there for her whenever she asks." "Yeah, exactly," Boris said, kicking small pebbles in front of him as they approached the building. He reached out and opened the door, letting Lorraine enter first. She thanked him, and he followed her inside. They checked in at the counter, then were told to take a seat, and they would be let into the office in a few minutes, so Boris and Lorraine seated themselves. Lorraine picked up a well worn looking magazine from the table by her chair and started flipping through it. "I used to think it was important to keep a nice household," she said, looking at the various photos in this housekeeping magazine, sighing, "but really, the household itself doesn't matter. The people inside it matter. You can keep the most disheveled home, but so long as the people inside it are tight knit, the appearance doesn't matter." "Deep," Boris said, "You should write a philosophy book." Lorraine looked at him, somewhat smiling at his statement, but also wishing that, for once, he'd be serious. "...we didn't try hard enough," she finally said, flopping the magazine down in her lap, "we thought all you had to do was get married, remember? That was it. Get married, have a kid, everything else would fall into place. It'd just work. That isn't how it works." "No it is not," Boris said, laughing a little, "but...I don't think it's fair to say we didn't try hard enough. We tried plenty. It just...didn't work. Sometimes things just don't work. Sometimes the people you wanna have in your life are...are not meant to be there that long." He looked away and ran a hand through his thin hair, making Lorraine reach out and hold his hand. "You really miss her," she said quietly. "Every goddamned day. I've never missed a woman I didn't romantically love more than her," he said. "Losing a friendship, especially a really good friendship, can be just as brutal as losing as a lover," Lorraine said, "I'm sorry that happened to you, Boris, she seemed like a good friend to you." The door opened and a woman was standing there. She smiled and waved at the couple, insinuating they could follow her, which they did. They got out of their chairs and headed through the door, then followed the woman down the hall towards an office. Once inside they found Ellen sitting there, and she smiled weakly at them as they entered. Boris immediately got an awful feeling in his gut. "Hi sweetheart," Lorraine said, hugging Ellen, who hugged her back. "Hi mom, hi dad," she said, and Boris smiled at her and hugged her lightly after Lorraine was done. The two took their seats again and looked from Ellen to the therapist, who just scrawled something on a piece of paper on a clipboard and then looked back up at everyone else. "So," she said, "I'm Dr. Krowder, it's nice to meet you. I'm very glad you were able to meet with us today," she said, "I've been working with Ellen for a few months now, and we have made...uh...decent progress, I guess, is a way to put it. Nothing outstanding but also more than nothing at all. She's been great to work with, but she really wanted you guys to come in this week because she remembered something and she wanted to bring it up to you both." Lorraine and Boris exchanged a seemingly nervous glance before looking back at Ellen, who was now looking at her hands in her lap. "Okay," Boris said, "Well, whatever we can do to help her, obviously." "Why did you and mom split up? I remember the fight, the night you left," Ellen said, still not looking at them, "and, uh..." she paused and pushed some hair back behind her ear, sniffling, "and I just never really understood why it happened. But I guess piecing it together now, it makes sense, if we had an accident and you felt responsible and whatnot..." "That was a big part of it," Boris said. "but why did you say what you said?" Ellen asked, causing Boris and Lorraine to, once again, exchange a glance before Boris furrowed his brow. "What...what did I say?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. "You said you never wanted a family to begin with, that mom is the one who wanted this, and that you knew you wouldn't be good at being a father," Ellen said, finally looking up at her father. "...when your mother and I met, I was trying desperately to be a writer," Boris said, "I was taking any job I could, doing copy, whatever, but...but in my spare time I was working mostly on my poetry. She and I met at a small poetry group at a local bookstore, and she was immediately smitten." "It's true, I can't deny it," Lorraine said, chuckling nervously. "and likewise," Boris continued, clearing his throat and cupping his hands, "uh, I thought she was beautiful and very very intelligent, and so we immediately started dating. We just...I guess, we assumed that's what you did when you got serious. You got married, you had kids, whatever. It wasn't...it wasn't so much that I didn't..." Boris scratched his head. "How do I explain this," he muttered, "uh...I wasn't against having you. Does that make sense? After we got married, after you were born, yeah, I started to realize that that wasn't the life I wanted and we had both been kind of pressured socially into doing that, and while I may have regretted giving into that pressure instead of following my original plan...I never once regretted you." "I believe that," Ellen said softly, "but I...I feel like the accident, what happened to me specifically, is what caused you two to finally split." "No, look, we were not doing well already by that point," Boris said, "and the accident itself may have triggered it ultimately, but you weren't the reason. I was at fault. I was always at fault. I could've walked away at any point before that, and I chose not to because that's something you didn't do back then. You didn't break up your family. It made you less of a man, whatever the hell that means. So I stuck around until I literally felt so guilty for sticking around that I couldn't anymore. I felt like maybe if I'd left before that, the accident wouldn't have happened, and if it hadn't had happened, you wouldn't have needed the operation and then you wouldn't have been in a coma and we wouldn't even be here right now and it's ALL my fault." Lorraine looked at Boris and smiled. She'd truly see the growth he'd made in the last few years, and she was once again finally recognizing the man she'd once loved so deeply. "I just remembered the fight the other night, and it...it made me feel bad because I felt like I was the reason you guys were unhappy. Like I was why you were stuck," Ellen said. "Sweetheart," Boris said, "you were never the reason for anything bad, okay? If anything, even if this isn't what we wanted originally, we've never regret having you. You've been the only good outcome of our life together. That's never gonna change." Ellen smiled and wiped her eyes on her sweater sleeve, making Boris smile. "...I love you guys," Ellen said, surprising them both; she continued, "I didn't...I don't remember everything, and what I do remember I don't remember well, but I'm glad to have parents who love me so much. I love you mom and dad." "We love you too," Lorraine said, making Boris nod. For the first time in a long long time, Boris felt like perhaps memories weren't such a bad thing after all. *** "You sure you don't want a drink?" Lorraine asked, Boris now sitting in the living room back at her house, the house that had once been their house; she strolled back into the room and handed him a glass, but he waved it off. "Naw, I gotta drive home still," Boris said as she sat down in a chair near the couch and watched him, casually sipping her drink. After a moment he cleared his throat and added, "Maybe we weren't such bad parents after all." "You've changed," Lorraine said, "in a good way. You seem more at ease. You don't seem so tense. You seem...different. I don't know how to put it. Today in that office you were so open and honest and emotional and it was...it was something I hadn't seen in you in a long time. I remember when you took me to a quiet lake for a picnic, and you read me a poem you wrote for me, and I just thought to myself what a good man you were and how lucky I was to find you and claim you as my own. That's how I'm feeling lately. Seeing that man again." "I missed that guy," Boris said, making them both chuckle as he added, "I started writing poetry again." "Really?" Lorraine asked, actually surprised. "Yeah, I...I guess I just wanted to try my hand at it and see if I still could do it," Boris said, "You expect your skills to atrophy over time but, surprise surprise, I wasn't terrible, hah. Don't think I could do it professionally anymore though. Think that time has passed." "Sunset gold on silver blue, sentiments old but feelings new, green to red and red to brown, all this beauty when you're around; the colors and the seasons change, but nothing leaves me feeling strange, because the winter brings something fresh to see, the best part of you is how you feel for me." Boris looked at Lorraine, who smiled weakly and stirred her drink. "You still remember parts of it by heart," Boris said, "Impressive." "It's not impressive," Lorraine said, "that's what love does to you. It makes you remember. Memory is, good or bad, all we have in the end. I choose to make it good." Boris smiled and said, "I think I will have that drink after all. I can stay a while." *** Carol was sitting by Larry's garden, sunning herself on the chaise lounge; sunhat pulled over her face, sunglasses covering her eyes. She didn't even hear Boris walk up beside her and seat himself on a footstool beside her. He eventually cleared his throat and she pulled the hat up and pulled her sunglasses down, turning her head and smiling at him. "Hey," she said, "Where you been?" "Had a doctors appointment," Boris said, "Anything going on around here?" "I'm throwing a senior prom," Carol said, "Bring us all back to our youth for just one evening. You wanna come?" "Are you asking me to be your date?" Boris asked and Carol cackled. "Right! Like I'd be caught dead going with you," she said, making him laugh, then added, "You can bring a date if you want. I know I will. Hey, do you know what tapioca is?" "You mean besides disgusting?" Boris asked, shrugging, "No clue, why?" "I'm thinking of serving it at the prom, if only just to piss off Burt," Carol said. "Wow, petty." "You gotta find ways to entertain yourself at this age," Carol said. *** That night, Boris brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. As he passed down the hallway, he heard Chrissy still awake. He opened her bedroom door slowly and peeked inside, to find her curled up on her bed under the blankets, crying. Boris entered the room and sat down on the bed. "Hey, you okay?" he asked. "...the kids at school keep making fun of me cause I don't have a family," Chrissy said, "but I do have family, it's just not the same kind of family they have. Why can't they understand that?" "Kids are stupid, they got tiny brains," Boris said, then ruffled Chrissy's hair, "Except this one. This kid's got a big brain, and frankly I think science is going to have to intervene and explain how she got this way before it gets too out of hand and she overpowers us all." Chrissy laughed and rolled onto her bed, looking at Boris. "Did you have a good family growing up?" she asked and Boris's entire face changed. He exhaled through his nose and looked around the room. Finally, after a few minutes, he looked back at her. "When I was a kid, family was an obligation," he said, "you stuck with them through thick and thin, even if you hated one another, because it's what was expected of you, and to do anything different was damn near blasphemy. It's not like that now, and that's a good thing, hell it's a GREAT thing, because a lot of times birth is all based around circumstances, you know? You have no control over being born, or who you're born to, and that isn't fair, and now people are taking their lives into their hands and saying, 'ya know what, you're not good for me, and I deserve better' and that's awesome." Chrissy watched him as he paused and scratched at his chin. "No, I didn't have a good family growing up. They weren't abusive or anything, but they were parents because they were obligated to be, not because they wanted to be. They had a child because they were expected to, not because they loved one another enough to create another person. I think your parents love you. I just think they don't love eachother, and often times the child gets caught in the middle. But hey, lucky you, you got a 2nd home! Most kids don't have that. So really, when the shit hits the fan at home, and those kids have nowhere to be, think how lucky you are and who'll be laughing then." Chrissy smiled and nodded as Boris leaned in and kissed her on the nose. "Sleep good kitten," he said, "Have sweet dreams." As he exited the room and stood in the hallway, he thought of how utterly lucky he was, in fact, to have a 2nd chance himself. Not just by having the chance to raise Chrissy in some way, but to also rebuild his relationship with his own daughter. Boris headed to his bedroom and shut the door, then sat down on the bed and looked at the drawer of his bedside table. He pulled it open and pulled out a small old leather brown photo album, opening it and turning to a particular page which showed him as a child and his parents. He sighed and shook his head, then put it back into the drawer, laid down and shut the lamp off. Not every memory is a pleasant one. But the cool thing about memory, Boris was coming to acknowledge, was that you were always able to make new better ones. "You feel like a big man now?" Krickett asked, leaning against the wall of his garage, rubbing his cheek with his hand as Boris stood in front of him, looking at him, his hands clenched into tightly balled fists. Chrissy was standing behind him, just watching the two men.
"Get up and fight back, we're trying to prove something," Boris said. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Boris. I'm done," Krickett replied, turning and going through the door that led back into the house. Boris unclenched his fists and looked at Chrissy, who seemed somewhat worried about what had just transpired. Maybe Krickett was right. Maybe non violence was the answer. *** "I haven't been to a school in so long," Boris said, as he and Whittle said in the hall outside the principals office, waiting to be invited in. "I know," she said, "I mean, I never had kids, but I just...I haven't been to a school in ages. It feels awkward now." "I used to get called in quite a bit for Ellen, back when she was in grade school," Boris said, slapping his hands onto his knees and exhaling, "not because she was a trouble maker or anything, but because she had a lot of problems adjusting to school. She constantly asked to be homeschooled and got teased a lot. She just...didn't know how to either ignore it or deal with it herself." "I was teased a lot too," Whittle said, "but I was quite the opposite. I kicked anyone who was mean to me in the shins. Course this meant I spent a lot of time suspended, but my folks were proud of me at least cause I stood up for myself so it all worked out." "Ironic that as someone who dealt pain you'd go into a business focused on healing," Boris said, snickering, making Whittle laugh. "Well, I'm trying to right my wrongs," Whittle said, "My conscience doesn't let me sleep." Just then the door opened and Chrissy was standing there. Her eyes were red, like she'd been crying hard, and she motioned for them to come inside. Boris and Whittle stood up and headed into the room, as Chrissy shut the door behind them and seated herself once again, now sitting between them. Kevin Arnold, the head master, was sitting behind his desk and smiled at them as they sat down. "It's nice to see you two again, even if it is under circumstances such as these," he said, adjusting his tiny round spectacles, "let me just start by saying that Chrissy is an excellent student and a wonderful young lady. This meeting is not about her being in trouble, contrary to what you probably thought. In fact, it's kind of not about her at all." Boris and Whittle glanced at one another, now somewhat confused. "Huh?" they asked in unison. "Chrissy has been targeted by a small group of girls for her unusual living arrangements with you two. They know she isn't living with her family, and they...well they've said some nasty things. Chrissy always comes to me about it, but unless it gets physical there isn't much I can beside mildly berate them for their words. I'm asking you two to come in and help me find a solution." "She should clean their clock," Boris said, surprising both Whittle and Kevin. "Pardon?" Kevin asked, leaning forward, still somewhat in shock at his abrasive answer. "When I was growing up, if someone shit talked you, you punched their lights out," Boris said, "I know it's kind of cave man ethics, but it worked. They left you alone. Nowadays everyone wants the adults around them to take care of their problems, and while most of the time that works and is a perfectly viable solution, it isn't what's going to work all the time. Sometimes you have to take things into your own hands, and then use those hands to hit the other person." "I...I do not condone what he is saying, I hope you know," Whittle said, making Kevin smirk. "I'm just saying that she should defend herself. All we tell kids now are 'sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me' but bullshit, look at how much words hurt. Well, sticks and stones hurt way more. Verbal abuse might be verbal, but it's still abuse." Chrissy tried to hide her grin, but she was having a hard time doing so. "...well," Kevin said, "I don't really know what to say to that. You're not wrong, but you're also not right." "I'm no advocate for violence by any means. War has done more damage than it has helped, but...sometimes it's all anyone responds to, because it proves that what they're doing has actual consequences for themselves. If more people actually felt ramifications for their actions, perhaps things wouldn't be so fucking mean." Chrissy lost it and started laughing loudly, catching everyone by surprise. Kevin asked her to go wait out in the hall, and she did without argument, but she laughed the whole time. This was why she loved Boris. He told it like it was, and that was exactly what she needed right then. *** "Have you ever fought anyone?" Boris asked, sitting across from Father Krickett at the diner. Father Krickett finished sipping his cocoa and put his mug down, smacking his lips and thinking. "When I was in high school I punched a guy who was hurting this friend of mine. He was assaulting her, right there on campus, and nobody would do anything, so I stepped in," Father Krickett said, "of course I was also suspended like he was, but...it felt good knowing I did the right thing." "See, violence does solve something," Boris said. "These days I'm more or less against violence," Father Krickett said, "but yes, in that instance it did solve something." "How can you be against violence? You're part of the church. Your entire religion is based around colonizing and then spreading the gospel, no matter what the cost. More people have died in the name of God than for any other reason." "Just because that's an accurate depiction of our history doesn't mean I abide by it," Father Krickett said, "Yes, the church has a horrible history entwined with violence, violence of all kind, from altar boys being sexually abused to outright burning those at the stake who disagreed with us, but that doesn't mean I by any means agree what what they did." "I wanna teach Chrissy how to fight," Boris said, "She needs to know how to defend herself." "You gonna take her to a gym? Be her coach?" Father Krickett asked, chuckling. "No, I'm gonna fight you," Boris said. "Pardon? You're what now?" *** When Boris and Chrissy arrived that weekend, Boris was surprised at the openness of Father Krickett's garage. He had a nice home, but he especially had a nice garage. And, unlike many garages, it wasn't crammed to the gills with plastic or cardboard boxes full of things he no longer used but didn't want to donate, or holiday decorations that would only get lugged out once a year for a month or less. It was clean, and organized, and it had clear sections. In one area he could tell Krickett did woodworking, and at another was his actual toolbench, while at another was a spot for electrical work. "Wow, this is swanky," Boris said, entering as Krickett handed him a bottle of water, leaving the garage door open so the sunlight could stream in. "It's not bad," Father Krickett said, before kneeling, face to face with Chrissy and smiling, asking, "so, you ready to learn how to hurt others for the sake of your own ego?" "That isn't what this is about, John. She's not going to just go around pummeling anyone she wants. This is to be used strictly in situations when she is being attacked or needs to help someone else. I'm not trying to teach her to go out and mug people or anything." "Well, let's get started then," Krickett said, positioning himself and raising his hands in front of his face in fist formation, "Chrissy, one of the few tips I can give you that will absolutely help is to keep your arms raised like this at all times when fist fighting. This way it not only protects your face, but it also gives you a direct line to their face, granted they're the same height as you are." "You box?" Boris asked. "Did in college, but only for exercise, never like against others for sport," Krickett said. "Everytime I think I know everything there is to know about you, I find out there's more," Boris said. "What about hitting them anywhere besides their face?" Chrissy asked. "It's frowned upon but it's certainly not illegal or anything," Krickett said, "Hell, you're already fighting, you may as well fight dirty. Besides, it's not like fighting has morals. Oh sure, some sportsman would like to tell you that there are rules, but let's face it, fighting is wrong to begin with, so that argument goes right out the window." "If it's wrong, why do it?" Chrissy asked, looking from Father Krickett to Boris, who was now positioning himself in front of the priest. "Because it's important to know how to defend ones self," Boris said, "Especially for a woman, who more often than not are taken advantage of and attacked than men because they're seen as more vulnerable. This is partially why knowing how to fight matters, because an attacker often won't expect a woman to be able to take him. They may expect her to fight back, but not in a way that could actually stop him." "He isn't wrong in that fact," Krickett said, jabbing at Boris, who immediately dodged it, surprising the priest with his flexibility and agility given his age; Krickett continued, "women are, sadly, seen as weaker, which couldn't be further from the truth. People love to talk up Jesus Christ, but Jesus wouldn't exist without Mary, so I think women deserve far more praise than they're given." Chrissy smiled and continued watching. "Everything comes back around to the church for you, doesn't it?" Boris asked, throwing a punch that connected with Krickett's side, before jabbing again and catching him in the chest, throwing him off balance, making him stumble. "Well," Krickett said, "Boris, it is my lifes work after all. But it isn't just about women. Lots of people can't defend themselves the way they need to. Minority groups, for one example, are often also targeted for simply being nonwhite or non heterosexual, which puts them at real risk for danger as well." "This is true," Boris said, as Krickett threw a punch that hit the old man in the shoulderblade, causing him to swear momentarily under his breath until he said, "and that's a problem, definitely. All these people should know how to defend themselves." "Unless they don't wanna bring themselves down to that level of cruelty," Krickett said. "Cruelty? How is defend yourself cruel?" Boris asked, the two men throwing punch after punch at one another, both often dodging, but sometimes a punch connecting. "Because the fact is you shouldn't be being attacked often enough to warrant a defense," Krickett said, "The real thing that needs to be taught is civility, not violence." "Yeah, cause hateful people love a good conversation about togetherness," Boris said, "Trust me, Chrissy, it's important to know how to protect yourself, whether it's moral or not." "Chrissy," Krickett said, stopping for a moment and looking at her, "you don't have to defend yourself. Your personhood doesn't require defense. You exist as you are, and that should be respected no matter what, and I know that it isn't and that that's the problem but-" And suddenly he stumbled back against the wall and felt his cheek pulsing, red hot and somewhat swollen. "You feel like a big man now?" Krickett asked, leaning against the wall of his garage, rubbing his cheek with his hand as Boris stood in front of him, looking at him, his hands clenched into tightly balled fists. Chrissy was standing behind him, just watching the two men. "Get up and fight back, we're trying to prove something," Boris said. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Boris. I'm done," Krickett replied, turning and going through the door that led back into the house. Boris unclenched his fists and looked at Chrissy, who seemed somewhat worried about what had just transpired. Maybe Krickett was right. Maybe non violence was the answer. Boris looked at Chrissy, who seemed somewhat shocked, before excusing himself and heading inside after the priest. He found Krickett standing in the kitchen, holding a cold steak against his cheek. "A steak? Really? What era are you from?" Boris asked. "Don't worry, I'm gonna eat it," Krickett said, seating himself at his kitchen table and sighing, "...Boris-" "John, I'm sorry. That was low of me," Boris said, "I just...I feel like I hurt Ellen, and I don't want to see Chrissy get hurt too." "What you did wasn't intentional, that was an accident." "Rationalizing it doesn't make the guilt go away," Boris said, "I just want her to be able to take care of herself. We're not always going to be around to fight her battles for her. She's...she's a great kid, John, she needs to know how to be able to defend herself from those who think she isn't." "When I was in college, I was attacked for being gay," Father Krickett said, "I knew how to fight back, sure, but that didn't stop it from happening. Why double down on something as evil as violence? Yes, minority groups, women or people on the LGBTQ spectrum are more at risk, but after that happened I...I just didn't want to fight anymore. It just seemed so...barbaric. These people use physicality to back up their outdated viewpoints. The hate isn't just mental, it goes all the way to their actions." Boris sighed and rubbed his forehead, seating himself and chuckling. "Hell of a family she's got, isn't it?" Boris asked. "At least she knows people who are willing to go to bat for her," Father Krickett replied, "that alone means more than you'd think. A lot of people don't even have that. She knows how to defend herself, Boris, just not in the way we think of." The two men smiled at one another and sat quietly in the cool kitchen for a few minutes. "So, you wanna stay for dinner?" Father Krickett finally asked. "Not if you're serving that steak," Boris said, making him laugh out loud. *** Monday morning, Boris told Whittle he'd drive Chrissy to school, but first he was going to take her to breakfast. He picked up Father Krickett on the way, and the three of them went to the diner they often frequented. They ate breakfast and checked over Chrissy's homework, praised her for her work, and then piled back into the car, heading towards the school. As Chrissy thanked them and got out of the car, heading across the street, Father Krickett smiled. "She'll be okay," he said, patting Boris on the back, "don't worry." "I try not to, but that's what a parent does, worry," Boris said, "Even if I'm not her actual family, I worry." They suddenly noticed another girl and a small group with her confront Chrissy, but they couldn't hear what anyone was saying. After a few moments of tension, Chrissy looked at her feet and it looked like she was about to cry. Boris felt his insides burn, and he wanted to get out of the car and berate the girls, until Chrissy suddenly hit the girl square in the nose, throwing her to the ground and making her cry. Chrissy then continued on her way into the school. Father Krickett pumped his fist and high fived Boris. "That's our girl!" Krickett shouted. "What a woman she's gonna be," Boris said, laughing as he started the car, "Come on, let's go get a beer." "And held in such high esteem, reaching for a lofty dream, yet the pain so sharp the failure real, that that was all that he could feel," Boris said, finishing as he looked up at Carol, Burt and Larry seated around him in the living room area of the home. He shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and asked, "So, what do you think?"
"I like poems that come in greeting cards," Burt said. "Yeah, well, I like when you shut up," Boris replied, making Carol laugh. "I think it's great, but it's a bit...heavy," Carol said, "Does it have to be so heavy? Surely you could find a way to rhyme with beauty, poise and elegance instead of misery and suffering. Aim higher, not lower, Boris, and then you'd find your niche audience." "I'm not doing this for an audience. Writing poetry has never been about fame or success, it's been about putting myself down on paper in a way that I couldn't put myself out there in person," Boris said, sitting back down and looking at his poem again, sighing as he added, "...maybe I really just aren't good enough." "Poppycock, it isn't about being good enough, you don't have to be good at something to do it," Carol said, "Look at the people who become politicians. No. All that matters is that you want to do it and you make it happen. I think whatever you write is fine, and that should be enough." "You just told me it was too heavy," Boris said, looking up across at her, confused. "And what do I know? I'm not a literary scholar," Carol said, "Let a professional editor decide that, and if they also don't like it, fuck 'em, self publish it. We live in an age now where you can make your dreams come true, no matter how big or small they are." Boris nodded, chewing his lip, before standing up and excusing himself to get a snack. As he walked away, the others watched before Burt looked back at Carol and Larry and shrugged. "I still like my greeting card idea," he said. "I will kill you," Boris shouted back at him from across the room, making him flinch. *** "I just don't think that it's what I'm supposed to be doing," Boris said, pushing his food around on his plate with his fork, sighing, "...I just...I write poetry to cope with things, and things have been rough lately. Between Ellen and then that thing with Leanne, I just have not been feeling too well and writing poetry helps me feel better." "Well then," Whittle said as she sat down at the table with her own plate, "why don't you submit something somewhere? See what a publication has to say?" "We had to write poems in class last year," Chrissy said, "My teacher told us to stick to visual descriptors, and not just write freeform." "What the hell does that mean?" Boris asked, making Whittle laugh. "Beats me," Chrissy said, shrugging, "I was just as confused as you are." "I didn't used to have this problem," Boris said, "I used to be able to just...let it pour out of me, but now...now it feels like everything I do is a challenge. Like...like I have nothing real left to say or nothing left to examine and that's scary. What do you do when you've lived so long that you don't feel anything new?" "I think you should still just write whatever you want," Whittle said, "There's people out there who'll enjoy it, no matter what it is. Everyone has an audience somewhere." Boris leaned back in his chair and ruminated on this, then realized she was right. He did have an audience. Maybe he'd go see them. *** "That gnawing ache, the one when you break, it can instead be taught to soothe; the end won't be near, there'll be nothing to fear, and the ache will help the pain move," Boris finished reading, looking to his right at the little mesh window in the confessional; he cleared his throat and asked, "So, what do you think?" "I think your skill is obvious," Father Krickett said, "but it doesn't sound sincere. It sounds like you're trying to sound sincere. Almost as if you're attempting to imitate the very sincerity that once permeated your old poetry." "...that...is certainly not something I've been told yet, so thank you," Boris said. "Can we not do this through the confessional? It's awkward," Father Krickett said, and the two men each exited their boxes and faced one another, now standing in between the pews; Father Krickett smoothed his garment and sighed, "sorry, I get oddly claustrophobic in those things. Anyway, your heart is in the right place-" "-thank goodness, because if it wasn't that'd be a serious medical emergency," Boris said, interrupting and making Father Krickett smirk. "but," Father Krickett continued, "I think your can get back to that sincerity. I don't think it's gone. You just need to stop trying to imitate who you used to be and a new version of the person you once were. More experienced, more insightful, perhaps a bit worse for wear but overall well aged. The elderly are like a fine wine, they grow more beautiful through time, and after enough years, they become what we all aspire to be." Boris raised an eyebrow in confusion as he whispered, "...wine?" "That was a weird analogy, I'm sorry, I'm just not myself today," Father Krickett said, rubbing his face, making Boris chuckle. "I appreciate it John," Boris said, patting the priests back, "and for what it's worth you're not wrong. I think of all the people I've come to for some sort of inspiration, you've been the one to give me the best input thusfar. Maybe I'll sleep on it and see what comes out tomorrow." Later that evening, however, after Boris had fallen asleep, he was awoken abruptly by a sound in the kitchen. He quickly stood up, slipped his slippers on, fastened his robe belt around his waist and headed down the hall. Whatever it was, nobody else had heard it, because both Whittle and Chrissy were still sound asleep, no light coming from under their bedroom doors. Boris continued down the hall of the apartment and finally reached the kitchen, where he spotted a youngish looking woman sitting at the table, drinking from a scotch bottle. "You're finally here, thank god," Polly said, "Pull up a chair, have a glass." Boris stared in disbelief. It was Polly, that much couldn't be refuted, but she looked to be in her twenties. Boris nodded slowly and approached the table, grabbing a glass off the counter on his way there. He sat down and watched as she poured him his drink and then poured herself more. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Drinking scotch," Polly said, flinging her bangs out of her eyes and smiling, "course, it isn't good scotch, but you never were one to spend much on quality. What are you doing here?" she asked, leaning forward and crossing her arms, surprising him. "I...I live here?" he responded. "No, Boris, I mean what are you doing here? What are you actually doing? Because it seems to me that you ain't doin' nothin'," Polly said, leaning back and sipping her drink, continuing with, "in fact, it seems you're trying to do anything other than something. You got all this guilt, all this pain, all this angst, and yet you can't write." "Those things don't make a writer," Boris said, "They enhance the way you view the world, sure, but they aren't necessary. My pain doesn't have to be financially viable for it to mean something." "So if you don't wanna work from those, what else is there?" Polly asked, lifting her legs up on the table and leaning back in her chair, relaxing, "...what about the opposite of those things? Why not focus on something that means something instead of the idea that nothing means anything?" "...you meant something," Boris said, and Polly grinned, leaned forward again and grabbed his hand, patting it. "Then go with that," she said. And then he woke up. *** "She was frustration, an itch you can't scratch, she was frustration, clothes that won't match, she was frustration, a rock in your shoe, she was frustration, photos hung askew. She was frustration, but she was my friend, and nothing frustrated me more than to see her life end. Now I am frustration, a shirt covered in fur, but I'm mostly frustrated that I can't be with her." Boris looked up across from himself, at the headstone with Polly's name on it. He sighed and lowered his head again, sighing. "I know it isn't great, but it's something," he said softly, exhaling, "you were the only thing that meant something to me aside from my daughter, and I just never expected you to be gone. I'm not even mad that you died, I'm mad that you're dead, does that make sense? The act of dying? Impossible to avoid. Can't blame you for that. But the act of continuing to stay dead? That seems spiteful, personal, like it's directed at me, and I love you for it," Boris said chuckling. He folded the paper up and tucked it under a candle left on the base of the headstone, before shuffling beside it, leaning against it and looking out at the graveyard in peace. "my best friends in this world are a priest and a dead woman," he said quietly, "and yet somehow, that seems right. Thanks for irritating me all those years. You really made old age worth it." Boris then sighed, put his palms into the dirt and stood himself up. He wiped his hands on his pants and then shoved them in his coat pockets, looking back down at her grave. "I'll be back next week," he said, "I'll bring lunch,"; He turned and started to leave, then stopped and turned back, adding, "don't you go anywhere on me." *** God, wasn't it Friday yet? All Elise Bentley wanted to do was go home for the weekend. Have a few beers, take a long hot bath and watch some old favorite comedies. She would order in. She would give into her most primal urges. But it wasn't Friday yet. It was Wednesday, and it wouldn't be Friday for a while still. Elise, walking down the hall in her suit, heading towards her office, was flipping through files in her hands when her assistant approached and walked alongside her. "Do you want coffee?" her assistant, Niah, asked. "It's the middle of the goddamned day, why would I want coffee?" Elise asked, stopping and looking at her young, African American assistant; she smirked and said, "Run downtown, go to that really fancy bakery, and get cocoa, and like...a box of glazed donut holes. And get a few things for yourself. Put it on my company card, alright?" Niah smiled, nodded and headed the opposite direction just as Elise got to her office. She entered and looked up, almost screaming as she jumped backwards, hand to her chest. Sitting in the chair across from her desk was her equal in the company, Dennis Bortcham. "God dammit Dennis, you scared the shit out of me," Elise said. "Sorry!" Dennis said, grinning, turning around and around in the chair excitedly, "but it's worth it, you're gonna love what I brought you today." "I hope so, we haven't had anything good in ages," Elise said, seating herself behind the desk and beginning to look through the pile quickly, "pfffft...rejected twice already and I wish they'd stop sending me stuff, this is smut, this is smut, this is decently written smut and I'll take it home for private reading," she said, shifting one folder to the side and making Dennis laugh as she continued, "god, it just seems like I cannot catch a break." "People ain't writin' anymore, it's a dead artform," Dennis said. "The bookstores would tend to disagree," Elise said. "The ones full of books nobody will read?" Dennis asked. "If nobody's writing and nobody's reading, what the hell is everyone doing with their time?" Elise asked, and Dennis shrugged. "I don't know, drugs?" he responded. "Not a bad guess actually," Elise said, "I need to get some drugs." "Well, I'll see what else comes in, but you're gettin' a little picky. You're gonna have to just choose something eventually, otherwise your literary magazine won't have any literature." As Dennis stood up from the chair and headed towards the door, Elise snapped her fingers repeatedly at him, causing him to stop and turn to face her again. She was looking down at a file clutched in her hands, open, reading it quickly. "Yeah?" he asked. "...Dennis," she said, starting to grin, "find me everything you can on Boris Wachowski." |
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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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