Radio

My apologies for the lack of posts. My life has experienced a whirlwind of events and changes over the past 3 months, including delving into the world of video game development. Most notably, I had the wonderful opportunity to work for Idea Factory International, Inc. as part of their Quality Assurance/Editing team. With their blessing, I contributed to the development of the scripts for their upcoming visual novel game, Hakuoki: Edo Blossoms, which is due out in Spring 2018. It was a pleasure to work with such fun and devoted individuals on this project, and I can't wait for the world to see what we've created. In the meantime, while I carve out the next leg of my path as a writer, I thought I'd share a piece from back in my college days that was never formally published. Please enjoy.

Radio

“You like this kind of music?” Frank asked.

From across the room, I shut the drawer full of shirts I had been leafing through and turned towards him, surprised at his off-hand question. “Excuse me?”

He motioned towards the green and bronze FM radio on his bedside table, which was piping out a warm and driving overture. “The classical station. It’s good stuff.”

“Oh. I do, actually. I used to listen to it all the time.”

“Me too. I used to play trombone in a big band. We played all this stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s playing right now?”

“Oh, I dunno, Billy. It’s been a long time. It might be Stravinsky, or Wagner, or maybe Rachmaninoff.”

I chuckled and turned back to the dresser, shaking my head as I sorted out pairs of socks. “Did you want to wear the brown or argyle today?” I asked, holding up each for him to see.

Frank sat at the edge of the bed, seemingly studying his attire – a collared white button-up shirt and grey sweatpants. He didn’t seem to hear my question. Next to him, the speaker began to churn out the first movement, speckling it with static as the string section started to swell. He scratched at his silvery hair, which formed a transparent helm that ran from his widow’s peak down the back of his head. The unblinking eyes and furrowed brow suggested that something was troubling him.

“How long was I asleep for?” Frank finally asked.

“You were napping for about an hour.”

“Christ, that’s too long. I don’t even remember having breakfast.”

“Well, it’s just about lunch time. That’s why I’m here. It’s time to get up.”

“I know, I’m trying. Just a little groggy. Hey, you ever hear this type of music before?”

The flutes sounded off the last note of the leitmotif and the strings began to swell once again for the first variation.

“Yeah, I used to listen to it,” I replied.

“Same here buddy. Not sure who this is though. Maybe Stravinsky? Or Wagner? Maybe Rachmaninoff?”

“C’mon, Frank. Lunch is in ten minutes. I don’t want you to be late again.”

“Okay Billy.” He gave a great cough ah-HUM and pulled handkerchief from his breast pocket, blowing his nose loudly. From the speakers, the brass section answered him with equal gusto. “Damn these allergies. Okay, let’s go with the argyle.”

****

Where I work, they’re called “residents,” not patients. They live in a “community,” not a facility. We’re called “partners,” not caretakers. Residents are “in need of assistance,” they’re not sick or disabled or crazy.

The building is divided into three sections. The front half that faces the street is the biggest section, Assisted Living, where the independent and able-bodied residents live. The back half is called The Neighborhood, which houses those in need of minor to moderate assistance. That’s where I’m normally stationed. The entire second floor is devoted to The Terrace, where they look after those in need of constant heavy assistance. This included the mentally-impaired, whom we lovingly referred to as “the pleasantly confused.”

The way it goes is like this: those in Assisted Living fear that they may one day end up in The Terrace. Those in The Neighborhood wonder if they belong in The Terrace. Those in The Terrace don’t realize they’re in The Terrace, or anywhere else for that matter.

****

It was Wednesday. That meant that today’s post-lunch afternoon activity was an entertainment social. The act was typically either a hired professional or, on occasions such as today, one of the partners on staff. By process of elimination (i.e. I was the only one on the team with any sort of inclination for music), I was drafted to play for the residents on the upright ebony and faux-gold piano we kept against the back wall of the dining area. I performed the few songs I knew: “Fur Elise,” “Here’s that Rainy Day,” and the intro to “My Immortal.” I got the usual clapping and compliments of “You’re so talented!” when I was finished, then went to assist people back to their rooms, starting with Frank.

“Hey, that was really good!” he said as I approached. He was sitting cross-legged in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap. “You’ve got a real talent there, kid. Don’t ever lose that.”

“Thanks Frank.”

“You ever consider going professional? Like in a big band or a composer or something?”

“I did at one point in my life.”

“You mean you don’t want to anymore?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, I just can’t afford the tuition at most universities. Heck, I can’t even afford junior college right now. I’m working full-time too, so there’s not much time to practice nowadays. Maybe after a while I’ll have saved up enough to go back and finish school.”

“Well Billy, I hope that you do. You really are a talented guy. Don’t ever let that get away from you. You’ve got a lot of potential, you just gotta work hard. That’s how I got ahead in life.”

“Thanks Frank, I’ll try to remember that.”

“I remember one time, they gave me this IQ test at the college I was at. It was for all the engineering majors only. You wanna know what they told me afterwards?”

“What?”

As I asked him this, the blues of his irises seemed to shimmer slightly and retract, giving way to large pitch-covered pupils, like a set of periscope lenses had taken refuge in his sockets.

“They said my IQ was off the charts. They never saw any score so high before. Then they said they were from NASA, and wanted another engineer in their program.”

“Mmhmm,” I said, stepping around to the back of his wheelchair. Sometimes, I felt like Frank was the only one who got me. Even if he was only imagining that parts of his life when he was a trombone player or an engineer, he understood how hard I worked, both as a partner and as a student. Granted, I had given up studying the art when costs caught up to me, but Frank’s endless reminiscing kept a faint spark of that dream alive for me.

After a moment of silence, Frank asked, “Hey, what was that first song you were playing? Stravinsky? Wagner? Rachmaninoff?”

“Beethoven, actually.”

“Good stuff, man. I used to be in a band, you know,” Frank gave a great yawn that sounded like a drawn-out dog yelp. “Christ, I can’t keep my eyes open. You got any coffee?”

“Not yet, we’re still brewing it. Let’s go back to your room, you can take a nap. I’ll wake you up when it’s dinner time.”

“When I get there, I wanna wash my eyes out and get a drink of water.”

“You got it.”

From across the room, my coworker Montana was leading Paula Jenkins by the arm through the kitchen. She stopped momentarily to call out, “Hey Billy! Make it quick! We still need to make dinner rolls before the food carts get here!”

“It takes as long as it takes!” I answered.

Under her breath, I heard her mutter, “Just don’t let him take half an hour to wash his eyes…again.”

“I’ll be back in a bit,” I said, dismissing her remark.

As we approached the door to Frank’s room in the hallway, he turned his head slightly towards me. “What’s her problem?” he asked.

“Montana is just task-oriented, she doesn’t like taking too long to do any one thing.”

“Well, when she’s my age, she’ll understand that it takes a long time for people like me to do anything. You can’t rush these things.”

“That’s true. Maybe we should go back there and tell her that.”

“I have half a mind to. She reminds me of one of those cranky ol’ biddies. You know, the ones with the snobby voices and the pointed fingernails? They laugh like ‘hee-hee, hee-hee.’”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Frank’s “old biddy” impressions never ceased to make me forget how much of a drag the rest of my job was. I really did enjoy working with the residents. Frank in particular had quickly become a favorite of mine. We got along like two old drinking buddies, even though he had only been living here about 2 months. We would swap stories and complain about the management every day. It made the shifts go by a lot faster. He was like the older brother I never had. A much, much, much older brother, mind you.

****

Where I work, we use a technique called “joining the journey.” There will be times when a resident's perception of reality becomes different than our own, and they will begin to forget certain things, and even believe things that are completely fabricated. When this happens, you're not supposed to refute them or correct them. You just go along with it. You take them by the hand into Wonderland, and you ride that flying ship all the way to wherever Treasure Island is for them. It makes it that much easier to bring them back down to reality. It makes them less hostile, less agitated, less likely for them to run away or hit you or try to act on their own without your assistance.

Sometimes, however, this technique doesn't work at all. The reality becomes too overwhelming for them. Imagine their position: abandoned by their family, being ordered around by little brats in red aprons, shoveling down the same poorly-prepared food for three meals a day, surrounded by the same people, doing the same things every week. Sometimes, they get anxious. Sometimes, they get scared. And fear has a way of giving even the unable-bodied the will to move. At least, that's what I've heard.

****

I parked Frank in front of his sink, locking the brakes and keeping both hands on the back of the seat as he pushed himself up on the armrests, leaning on the edge of the sink for support. He splashed his eyes a few times, then without turning to me, he said, “Man oh man, I have not been the same since that fall. Must have been months now and I'm still not recovered.”

“It's only been about two weeks, Frank. All you need is some time to get back on your feet.”

“I landed on my spine, you know.”

“I know.”

“Don’t believe what they say, I didn't really trip. The bottom of my shoe just didn't slide across the floor like it's supposed to. It was like putting on the brakes real fast. As I fell, I told myself, 'Land on something soft.' So I landed on my butt. I think I must have landed right on my spinal column. I guess not everything it soft down there.”

All I could do was nod. I knew the story so well I could probably reenact it word for word. He told it every time we took him to the bathroom or to wash his eyes out. That was easily three to four times on a single shift. The mind really does go first when you get older.

It was a shame, if you thought about it. Frank used to do a lot of athletic activities in his youth. His favorite was riding in bike marathons on weekends. “Up and down the coast in California,” he would tell me. “From San Diego to Monterey. I was so strong.” He would often pull up the legs of his sweatpants and say, “You see how skinny those calves are? That's what happens when you exercise all the time.” Nowadays, he spoke of it as if it were a lifetime ago. “I don't know what happened to me, Billy. My legs are so shaky. That's what happens when you stop being active. Your legs muscles start to atrophy and get useless. I gotta start exercising more. You think maybe they can take me for a walk with my walker in the mornings, just down the hallway and back? At least twice a day would be best.” I had to tell him every time that I would let the morning team know. I did mention it to them a few times. At that point, whether they actually did it or not was out of my hands.

He splashed his face a couple more times before plopping back down onto his seat. I handed him a towel, and saw a familiar blank look cross his face. His eyes stopped blinking, his brow stiffened, and the bright blues of his pupils dilated just as before. I realized a while back that in moments such as these, Frank was a temporal pilgrim, unstuck in time. I could only imagine how many times he had gone to sleep an athlete and a breadwinner and awoke on his wedding day. After a brief sojourn, he came back down to earth.

“You see that dog there?” Frank pointed to three pictures taped to the cabinet doors above the sink. They were all of a large brown and white sheepdog lounging on a flight of maroon-carpeted stairs. “That's my beautiful dog. His name's Russ.”

I opened up the cabinet doors and pulled out a drinking glass. “That is a good-looking dog there, Frank,” I replied as I filled up the glass using the tap. “I wish I had one. Here you go.”

“I wonder if I'll ever see Russ again,” Frank murmured, taking the glass from my outstretched hand. His eyes glazed over and became distant again. “You know, my wife brought me here. She said I can come back home when I get better. I told her we should install a stair elevator so I can go up and down without stressing out my legs. You know what she said to that?”

“What?”

“She said, 'You know how much that will cost?' Jesus Christ, can you believe it?” Frank took a large gulp of water. “I miss my family. I miss my wife. I miss my dog.” His eyes seemed to bore into the pictures of Russ, as if somehow Russ would appear next to him if he stared long enough.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Russ had been dead for a long time already due to age, and that his wife wasn't coming back to him. She was too busy paying the bills and working full time. She didn't have time to take care of someone with Alzheimer's. Neither did their sons, who had wives and dogs of their own to tend to. I could never break it to him, but this community was the rest of his life.

The radio was still humming in the background. No one ever turned it off. Frank always worried that he would forget his favorite station if it was ever turned off. The sound of the radio was as constant as the steady decline of anyone who lived here. It was still tuned to the classical station, with the violins sounding off long runs of notes culminating in a dramatic plagal cadence. I found myself wondering who the composer was. Stravinsky? Wagner? Rachmaninoff? I wanted to ask Frank, even though I knew he wouldn't have the answer.

The pristine blue had returned to his gaze, and he downed the rest of his glass. “All right buddy, let's get me to bed.”

****

Where I work, there are no accidents, only “incidents.” They happen when residents don't call for assistance, believing that they are still capable of doing what they used to normally do on their own. Sometimes, it is unexpected, and an able-bodied resident will trip or bump into something, or swallow the wrong way and choke. Occasionally, an incident will prove fatal to the resident, and that's when you call in the family, the paramedics, and the community coordinator, just to be sure you got all your tracks covered.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, one out of three adults age 65 or older falls each year, but less than half of these people talk to their healthcare providers about it. Among adults 65 and up, falls are the leading cause of injury-related death. They are also the most common cause of nonfatal injuries and hospital admissions for trauma. It's amazing to think that any object, be it a desk, a chair, or even just the floor, becomes deadly if you approach it fast enough and at the right angle.

Where I work, residents don't die, they “expire.” Like bad milk. Or coupons. I think it’s a poor term. It makes them sound like objects, not people.

****

The night shift had just come in when it happened. I was finishing paperwork and putting away equipment while the other partners did their rounds. All of a sudden, I heard Montana frantically calling out on the radio, “All Neighborhood partners report to Room 301 immediately! This is an emergency!”

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. Room 301. Frank's room.

I was up in a flash. As I rushed down the hallway, I heard the faint symphony of winds and strings billowing out of his open door, intermingling with a chorus of tense voices speaking unintelligibly over each other. I skidded to a halt in the doorway and froze. Montana and two other partners were kneeling down next to Frank's bed, bent over a limp form on the ground. Their backs obscured most of him from view, but even from the hallway I could see the mass of blankets half-pulled off the mattress and tangled around a pair of legs stretching out past the foot of the bed. I had been the last to arrive. Was I too late?

I edged my way in and crouched down next to Montana, peering over her shoulder. Frank was on his back, rigid and motionless like a plastic doll, blood oozing out of a small wound on his temple. His eyes were still open, and had the familiar opaqueness that I had seen so many times before. I nudged Montana aside and leaned in close. “Frank? Frank, are you still there? Frank, say something. Anything. Blink if you can hear me. Frank? Frank! FRANK!”

No response. He continued to lay there in stone-faced contemplation, much as he had always done when he washed his face or listened to the radio. I staggered backwards until I felt the wall to my back, the panicked cries of the other partners growing distant. Time slowed to an adagio, like pouring cold honey out of a jar. Even from how far back I was, I could still see Frank's shale blue eyes glinting at me, hypnotizing me. It was only when the harmonious dissonance of wailing sirens reached my ears that I found the will to move again. I stood up, leaning against his dresser for support as the paramedics came in and lifted his body onto a stretcher. They wheeled him away, and a cacophony of voices and feet scampering down the hallway sounded off their departure. It was all white noise and static to me as I stood there, lost in the discordant buzz of the moment.

When the last partner had vacated Frank's room, I sank down to the floor, burying my face into my knees. The radio had fallen off the table next to Frank's bed, but it continued to play as if nothing changed. Even through its distorted sputtering I could make out the climatic swell of the Grand Coda. Cymbals crashed and brazen horns howled into the air, providing the perfect accompaniment to the growing crescendo of my anguished cries, creating a bitterly beautiful concerto that only the walls and furniture could hear.

I may not have known composers, but it was certainly a rendition that would have rocked the bones of Stravinsky. And Wagner. And yes, even Rachmaninoff.