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CHAPTER 1
Iclean rooms in a retirement home. Four years of
college, four of medical school, four more in residency, and another four
training in cardiothoracic surgery, and now I spend
my
days scrubbing toilets and mopping floors. My shift starts at eight, when the
residents are supposed to be at breakfast.
“Ben,”
Frank hollers as I push my cleaning cart down the long hallway of the skilled
nursing facility. “Start in my room today.”
Frank
is a cantankerous octogenarian. I have yet to discover his pleasant side.
“Sure,
Frank.” I wheel my cart into his dingy room. The blinds are drawn. A crumpled
potato chip bag lies open on the floor. I step over a few greasy remnants that
are ground into the carpet as I make my way between the bed and the television
stand, taking care not to bump the rickety plastic contraption supporting the
heavy 1970s-era TV.
“Just
the bathroom,” Frank says as he shuffles toward his chair. He takes an
unexpected detour toward his rolltop desk and rum- mages through a drawer. “I
just remembered. I’m gonna need your help with a little project later on.”
This
triggers a warning bell in my mind. “Not if it has anything to do with Marvin.
You know my position on that.”
Frank
and Marvin have been feuding for half a century. Proba- bly longer.
1
2
P.D. BEKENDAM
“Did
you hear what he did to my denture cream?” Frank’s voice raises an octave and
his bushy white eyebrows perform a frustrat- ed dance.
“Yeah.
Cayenne pepper and Tabasco sauce.” I suppress a grin. “Don’t you want to hear
my plan for revenge?”
“Absolutely not.” I make my way into the bathroom . . .
and
shake
my head in disgust. I gave it a thorough cleaning only two days ago. “Why
aren’t you at breakfast?”
“Nasty
scrambled eggs. Hey, I found ’em!”
Curious,
I poke my head out to see Frank sitting at the foot of his bed, a pair of
toenail clippers in hand. His knee pops as he la- boriously raises his foot and
yanks off his sock. He reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a plastic bag
full of wet soil. Using the cuticle cleaner attached to the clippers, he scoops
up some mud and crams it under his large toenail.
“What
are you doing?” I can’t help but ask.
“Dr. Kentucky is coming tomorrow.” He
grins.
Dr. Kentucky missed her calling to become a supermodel and
instead
became a podiatrist.
“You’re pathetic, Frank.”
“Can you blame me?”
I can’t. Dr.
Kentucky is nothing short of intoxicating, which is
why
I do my best to avoid her. If she even knows I exist I’d hate to imagine what
she would make of me, a thirty-eight-year-old toi- let scrubber.
“Hey,”
Frank says, “why don’t you ask her out?”
“Give it up, Frank.”
“Seriously.
You’re not that ugly and you two are probably about
the
same age. What’s holding you back?” “Drop it.”
“I’ll
put in a good word for you.”
“Do you want to scrub your toilet yourself?”
PRIME OF LIFE 3
“There’s
no need to get all riled up. I’m only trying to help.” He crams more mud under
his toenail. “In my lifetime I’ve dated more women than you’ve dreamed about.”
I
return my attention to the bathroom and remind myself that I’m here by choice.
I’ve been doing this for three years now. I make ten dollars an hour, my job is
low stress, I mostly manage myself, and nobody bothers me as long as I keep
things clean. There are other perks too. I have plenty of friends. Granted, they’re
all forty years older than I am, but they’re wonderful people—present com- pany
excluded. I’ll probably stay here until I retire. I won’t even have to move. In
the meantime, I can enjoy all-you-can-eat Jell-O in the cafeteria whenever I
want.
I
make quick work of rectifying the disaster in Frank’s commode and then smile
with satisfaction. This is what I want. A simple life. Eager to make my escape
from Frank’s company, I arrange my
assorted
cleaning supplies in their proper configuration on my cart: bottles organized
by category and sub-organized alphabeti- cally with labels facing outward,
brushes in their holsters, mop and broom securely fastened. My cart exemplifies
humankind’s ability to overcome chaos and defeat the second law of
thermodynamics. The universe may be a mess, but my cart is in perfect order.
As
I push it out of the bathroom, one of the front wheels snags on the carpet and
snaps off. My cart tilts sideways, launching a few bottles overboard.
“You
should probably fix that before you spill bleach on my floor,” Frank says. “I
don’t want any stains.”
“Look
who’s talking. You’re getting mud all over the place.”
“Don’t
worry about that. I know just the man who can clean this up.”
“Well,
I’d be happy to meet him.”
“I meant you, you numskull. I’ll register a
complaint if you don’t.” “I’ll tell Dr. Kentucky how the dirt got under your
nails.”
4
P.D. BEKENDAM
“Humph.”
“I’ll
bring the vacuum by later on. I’ll even plug it in for you. But mark my words,
Frank: I’m not cleaning that mess.”
“Humph.”
“I’ll
see you later.” I rescue my wayward bottles and carefully limp my damaged cart
out the door.
Frank
sends me a parting grunt.
My
next stop is the Professor’s room. His name is Jerry, but my private nickname
for him suits him better. From what I can gather, he holds three doctorates:
physics, literature, and psychology. Per- haps philosophy too, but I’m not
certain. Regardless, I suspect he knows everything.
I
knock.
“It’s
open.” His voice nearly fails to penetrate the wood. Nobody seems to be at
breakfast this morning. That means Frank was right. Scrambled eggs must be on
the menu. I can say with confidence that this place has the worst scrambled
eggs in the entire Western Hemisphere. The Professor once described them fairly
adequately when he said they taste like they were fished out of the garbage
disposal right before they were slopped onto the plate.
“Good
morning, Jerry.” I follow my three-wheeled cart into his room.
Despite
his brilliance, the Professor demonstrates exceedingly poor choice in attire. Today
he’s decked out in orange pants and a cherry-red polo shirt. I wonder where he
acquired his bright yellow socks. His entire wardrobe consists of neon
garments, giving him the appearance he strayed from a tropical fish tank.
“Good
morning, Doc.” He pulls his reading glasses toward the tip of his nose. With
grey hair in disarray and a moustache in need of trimming, he resembles the
classic Einsteinian image, and what makes it most authentic is that it is
completely unintentional.
I
falter for an instant and hope I don’t give him the satisfaction of noticing my
surprise at his pregnant greeting. I glance his way as he
PRIME OF LIFE 5
lounges
in his leather recliner, hardback book minus its dust jacket propped in his
lap. He smiles as if he’s solved some great mystery.
“Whatcha
reading?” I ignore his triumphant grin.
“It’s
called The Information.” He pauses. “It’s quite fascinating— this whole
subject of information. Listen to this: ‘In the long run, history is the story
of information becoming aware of itself.’ Chew on that for a while.” He stares
me straight in the eye. “Say, Doc, how long have we known each other?”
“I’m
not sure I follow.”
“Sure
you do.” He pounds his chest with his fist, mimicking the rhythm of a beating
heart.
A
sinking feeling settles in as I realize today will mark the end of the relative
peace I’ve managed to find at Heritage Gardens.
Heritage
Gardens is a cookie-cutter retirement village located near Temecula off the
I-15 between San Diego and Riverside. The sun shines 347 days out of the year
here. I like the number 347 because the first two digits add up to the third,
it is prime, and it rolls off the tongue. Other interesting but irrelevant
facts about the number 347: it is the case number assigned to the Supreme Court
ruling in Brown vs. Board of Education in 1954—the case that end- ed
segregation in public schools; it is the area code for most tele- phone numbers
in New York City; some models of the Boeing 747 have 347 seats; and Plato died
in 347 BC.
I
am annoyed by the name Heritage Gardens, as I am by most clichés. Why is it
that nine out of ten retirement communities must have the word Gardens or
Village or Springs in the name? I suppose this is better than an honest name
like Ticking Clock or Borrowed Time, but when it comes time for me to find a
place to enjoy my final days, I don’t want to be patronized. I’d rather stay in
a place called Heaven Can Wait a Little Longer While I Golf.
I
don’t golf and I’ve abandoned my belief in heaven, but I’d still prefer that
name.
6
P.D. BEKENDAM
There
are several levels of retirement at Heritage Gardens. The first is independent
living in condos and small homes. After that, the residents graduate (or get
demoted, depending on your per- spective) to the nursing facility, which is
where Frank and the Pro- fessor live. The last stop is the mortuary, where the
residents em- bark on their ultimate retirement.
In
all, there are approximately 126 residents here. Well, not ap- proximately.
Exactly. I’m hoping we add one more, because that would be prime. The
alternative would be that thirteen residents would have to die so that the
total could be 113.
I
have invested the past three years in this place, learning to love it, becoming
part of it, beginning to imagine how I could become a permanent fixture here.
But
now the Professor has somehow managed to slap me in the face with my past.
“Did
you think I wouldn’t discover you’re a doctor, Ben?” He closes his book with
finality, as if to say, Case closed. I solved the mystery. Now what’s your
move?
“I’m
not a doctor. I’m a janitor.”
“I’m
sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry. “You know I can’t let this go.”
“Please
let it rest, Jerry.” I turn to leave. I’ll clean his room an- other day.
