Five Bucks - fiction

This a fictional piece which is like the movie "La Ronde" in its circular path. Another interesting approach to try.

“Five bucks”

The alarm buzzed on at 5:45 in the dank still dark room, stale with smells of cigarettes, old beer and piles of yesterday’s clothes. The dog stirred when he rolled to slap the radio quiet. His head throbbed from the night with the guys at that new place, “Bandits”, Two college football games and a dozen beers had sent his body into revolt and the four hours sleep hadn’t been enough for the repair. Somewhere through the haze he flashed back to a few images: Larry stuffing his wallet with bills from his perfect picks and that looker of a waitress who had not just a body but a mouth. She told some stupid joke about a monkey and a giraffe that blew the guys away. Her name was Kay or Kristy or something like that. He had gotten her phone number and written it somewhere. Just then he couldn’t remember where. By now the damn digital read 6:04 and he had to be downtown at 6:45 to meet Larry to head out to that apartment complex and the job they had just booked.

He pushed “Drifter” off the bed, pulled himself into yesterday’s clothes, picked his wallet, his keys and then a wad of loose bills off the bureau. One of the crumpled bills, a fiver, had “K 695-0684” written in his handwriting. What a break; maybe he’d call her later.

He’d gotten “Drifter” at the pound four years ago after he split from Sally. A moth eaten golden with a loyal, easy going temperament, they became a team. He took him each day to whatever site and everybody knew “Drifter”. They made it to the pick-up with Drifter in the passenger seat, eyes scanning the road, the passing cars, clearly the most alert of the two of them.

First stop, Dunkin Doughnuts for black coffee and a couple of doughnuts. He stood in line, got out enough words for the order, slapped some bills on the counter and made it back to the pick-up. It was only then he realized he’d used that damn five with the phone number. “Damn”, he thought, “but I know she’ll be at Bandit’s. No sweat.”

The girl at the counter dropped the bills into the register and watched him walk out. She sized him up as cute, good job, nice dog and thought: “Why can’t I find someone like that.” Since high school she’d had one lousy job after another. This was such a slow morning so far, she was bored and just wanted out of there. “Yes, Ma’am, What can I get for you?” It was that nurse who worked at the nursing home and came in every morning before her shift. Nice person, but that seemed like an even more depressing job than this one. She gave her her order, took her twenty and gave her the guy’s five and more change and a polite “Have a nice day.”

“Oh yeah, you too” said the nurse, but her mind was on the day ahead and the day behind. It had been a tough week, one of the long term patients had died, a new admission had dementia and was a real handful and one of her ward patients had taken a turn for the worse which had left her weak and depressed. Though she’d been an LPN for ten years it still was an emotional coaster ride. She couldn’t help but get attached. Single, with the type of family background you’d see on the Jerry Springer show and a series of unstable relationships (she always seemed to pick losers) so her patients were her family.

Today she had Lydia on her mind. Lydia had been on her ward for four and a half years, weak and in her eighties, with her only living relative her sister who was five states away in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. She had bonded with her, heard her stories from her flapper period, her married years, of her travels and her losses. She wondered what she could do for her and thought that a present might work. She parked her car at the card shop, walked in and cruised the aisles waiting for inspiration. There it was in the shape of a small plaster rabbit with floppy ears, a silly grin and “Have a nice day” written on a heart shaped card hanging around its neck. “Perfect”, she thought so and pulled a five and a ten out of her purse for the sales clerk. She had it wrapped in colored tissue and bought one of those gift bags with daisys on it to add to it. “That ought to bring a smile” was her thought.

It was slow in the shop but the early hours of the day were always quiet. The sales clerk sort of liked it that way as it gave her time to straighten things up and dust a bit for she was the type that liked order. Things out of place made her uneasy. In her home everything had its place and she had taught her husband how it was to be. The smaller magazines on top of the bigger ones, edges parallel, lower left corners aligned, then placed in the center of the left side of the coffee table. On the right on a doily, a small fine china plate of non-pareilles. There was comfort in this. The store door bell jingled as a teen came in and started looking around. The clerk was irritated at having been interrupted at what was sure to be a small sale and continued arranging the bills in the register by denomination, president’s face up, heads to the right.

The young girl was looking for a birthday present for her younger sister. Their Mom was a working Mom and didn’t always remember important dates. Through the years she had learned to fill in for her, to keep the calendar and bring up gentle reminders. This was a sort of extra responsibility that she really didn’t mind as it generally made things easier and her Mom didn’t seem to mind or even notice. When she found a little Scottish doll with a tartan skirt and flowers in her hair it just felt like the right choice. She picked it up and looked at all sides of it, took it over to the clerk and put it on the counter with a twenty dollar bill saying that this was to be a birthday present. She had come here as the store offered gift wrapping for free. The clerk made a face but neatly cut and folded the paper to just cover the doll and tied a perfect bows with each loop the same and the ribbon ends cut at forty five degrees. In the change was a five dollar bill which she decided to put in her drawer at home to start saving for a blue top she had seen at the Gap.

Later that day, the mother was putting away laundry and saw a fiver that had fallen on the floor by her daughter’s bureau and wondered how that had gotten there. Was it hers or her daughters? If it was her daughters, what was she being so secretive about? She thought back to her teen years and damn, but she had given her parent’s fits. It had been a wild part of her life and she sure didn’t want her daughter to go down that path. She was around most days, but worked the cocktail hour and nights for the tips. Things were tight raising two teen daughters alone without alimony. She hadn’t been able to get a cent out of that bastard, but that was another sad story. But what’s with this. They always talked over what clothes she bought and she knew just what her allowance was. “I don’t know and I’m not taking any chances.” She said to herself as she put the five bucks in her pocket and left for work.

At work she eyed the tables to see if the regulars were there, “Yeah, the usual.” But she wondered about that new guy who had been in last night. “Bet he doesn’t realize I’ve got two grown kids.” She walked over to the bar to buy a pack of Kents. When she pulled out the five she noticed the “K 695-0684”. “That son of a bitch”, were the words that came to her. She had seen him write it and thought he might call, but she had been through that before. This was less than 24 hours and he sure had blown this one. Pissed, she took the bill back, paid with another and kept it as a reminder. She went back to working the tables and the tips were going good tonight.

It was around seven when he got to Bandits. It had been a long day and they had had a lot of heavy stuff to do. Drifter looked beat so he rolled down the window and let him stretch out in the pick-up. He was planning to have a drink and then head home to the showers.

She saw him take a seat at the bar and pretended not to notice, but her peripheral vision was good enough to see he was scoping her. “OK, what’s next?” she thought. Was she pissed or was she interested? She knew she was holding a wild card in her hand. How would she play it? She liked that feeling of excitement, challenge. This could lead to fun or disaster. It would be a good ride either way, she was ready.

This was a great deal of fun to write as I wove in some local locations, but all the people were totally make up.

Pacemaker

This a medical description of the effect of a pacemaker on my health as an apology to my writing group for not making the next meeting. An informational piece:

Pacemaker -

Sorry, I can’t make the group meeting this Thursday as last Thursday I got a pacemaker implanted and they won’t let me drive for a while.

They tucked the pacemaker, about the size of half a yoyo, under my skin under my left collarbone. A wire (yes, this is a one wire unit; there are two and three wire units as well) was run through a vein into the right atrium of my heart, through the tricuspid valve into the right ventricle. The end of the wire was threaded and so it was rotated to screw in into the muscle wall of the heart. The 3.5 volt battery in the pacemaker sends a signal through the wire to pulse the heart every second. That produces a heart rate of 60 beats a minute. As I had a slow heart rate (44 bpm average – called bradycardia) stepping it up to 60 bpm makes a huge difference. Imagine 50% more oxygenated blood circulating through joints, intestines, muscles, the brain and think what that would mean in energy. You go into the operation feeling one way and come out at a totally different level. It is like an instant cure.

In the afternoon after the operation the representative from St. Jude (one of the four suppliers of pacemakers) came with his PC to check the unit out. A long wire led from the PC to a sponge rubber covered receptor he put over the place where the pacemaker was implanted. Then he could monitor the unit and even change the programming. “I am going to change your heart rate now.” He said. As incorrect cardiac pacing was the cause for my heart stopping in an earlier operation this was a little disturbing, but I just felt it roll and then he restored it. He measured the amount of voltage necessary to make my heart beat. My heart having been at 44 bpm for so long needed the full 3.5 volts which means that the battery like of the unit will be about 6 years. They would then have to remove the unit and change the battery. This level will be checked in three months and if the voltage needed could be reduced the battery life could be as much as 10 years. This reprogramming can even be done by placing a phone over the pacemaker and with signals sent remotely from the doctor’s office.

You can’t lift your left arm above the shoulder for 8 weeks or risk the wire separating from the muscle wall or the pacemaker. It takes time for the body to envelope it. You can’t drive for a week.

This unit is also a “rate adaptive” unit which means that it can sense one’s movement and kick up the rate as needed to as high as 120 bpm. As prior to the operation my peak rate possible during exercise was 70, this is an awesome difference.

So sorry I can’t make the meeting, but I can climb stairs, take walks as I want, do repair work all without taking breaks to deep breath to recover energy. See you next meeting.

That is it for medical stuff for a while..it was such a momentus change that it was worth adding.

"The Resting Place" - Fiction

This is a fictional piece that I wrote on euthanasia. It was fun to do the research on pianos as I had never realized there were so many.  

The Resting Place –

He remembered that it was in Tokyo that it became clear. He had performed Liszt’s “Grand Galop Chromatique”, which he considered one of Liszt’s more technical pieces and sat on the stool as the applause grew from the audience. The emperor had come to the Opera City Concert Hall to hear him play and they had brought in a Bosendorfer piano just for him. He had performed here many times and had many people who loved his interpretation. But he felt something was different as he reached for his crutches and stood to acknowledge the applause. He took three bows then moved to the wings. His wife was waiting and when he looked in her eyes he could tell that she knew. It had been six years since he learned that he had diabetes, but now it was clear that they both knew it was affecting his performance.

They had met years ago when he was playing piano in an Inn for his college tuition. He remembered when this girl had put her rum and coke on the upright and leaned there listening. What he saw was dark brown shoulder length hair, blue eyes, clear skin, a pale blue sleeveless sheath, long legs and high black heels. When he finished the song she leaned down and kissed him right on the mouth. He had this straw boater with a hat band that read, “Kiss me if you like Cole Porter songs”. This was the first time it had worked. He decided to take a break and moved over on the bench to make room for her. She sat, back to the piano facing him with their hips warm and touching and said her name was Sarah. They talked till the calls from the crowd lured him back to playing. He had done a gig for her sorority and she had come up weekends. In August they were married.

He moved on to the conservatory and started touring. Figuring their life on a poor musician’s earnings they decided against children. He gained a reputation and she was with him as he toured Madrid, Paris, London, Berlin, Milan, Moscow, Cairo, Cape Town, New Delhi, Beijing, Tokyo, Lima, Buenos Aires and around the US. It had been a good life as he played for enthusiasts, princes and politicians. But it had not been good for his health. Treated as a celebrity there had been cocktail parties, galas, fetes, elegant dinners, good wines, and stays in fans houses where they were pampered and stuffed; it had all been difficult to resist. His habits turned gluttonous and sybaritic and over time he added seventy pounds. They stayed late at post concert parties and had little time or desire for exercise.

He began to notice advancing fatigue, a strong thirst, and then more serious was some blurred vision. It had taken some time before he got help and learned about Type 2 Diabetes and been told he had to change his habits. There would be blood sugar tests, blood pressure and cholesterol monitoring, many smaller meals per day, even warnings against pedicures and a recommendation not to go barefoot. He fought the control and the need to change his lifestyle. He bought a meter, but hated pricking his finger as his hands were so vital. A callus developed under his big toe, but he didn’t really feel it so ignored it. Later he would remember they had said to take special care of his feet; to check them daily and to use a mirror to scan the bottoms and your hands to feel for hot or cold spots, bumps or dry skin. He hadn’t had the time for that so the callus blister grew and festered. At a regular check up they found the infection, but it was too late and the only solution was amputation. They warned him that people with diabetes and peripheral vascular disease were at major risk, but he had defied the odds and stayed alive. They gave him medicine to treat his diabetes whose side effects were later found to affect vision. He had dropped it as he noticed his vision fading.

On the concert tour, years before the Tokyo concert, the evenings had been busy but the days open so they started to walk the back streets and bazaars looking for people’s art. The walls of their Fifth Avenue apartment filled with pieces their friends loved, so Sarah started “Alignments” in a small gallery in Soho. It had been a huge success with her openings each fall being the must for the glitterati. She added fabrics; beautifully colored African pieces, soft tweed from Ireland, brilliant silks from India, subtle designs from Japan, rough weavings from Peru. They expanded twice and as his concert career slowed made dedicated buying trip to dozens of countries. This shared project with comfortably combined individual tastes had brought them discovery, excitement, fun, and renewed and strengthened love.

After they had been married for thirty five year Sarah was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He had lain besides her comforting her in her pain until Hospice had come to take her through the final hours and he had stood by helplessly. It had devastated him, he missed their morning planning sessions, their brushes as they passed during the day, their nightly review before sleeping and her soft skin, warmth and measured breathing when he woke during the night. They had grown so close. He then had sold the business, cleaned out the warehouses and moved to a smaller apartment with just a few of the pieces to remember her by. For five years he had battled loneliness, the problems of the loss of his foot and most of his eyesight from advancing diabetes. There was an emptiness he could not fill. It left him depressed and confused as to what to do with the rest of his life.

He had been surfing the internet looking for answers when he found “The Resting Place” and it seemed to be just what he was looking for. It was in the Berkshires which brought back good memories of classes he had taught at Tanglewood for a couple of summers. He called and talked with their “Procedures Office” and arranged for a cottage with a concert grand piano.

There were so many truly great pianos that he had found in concert halls all over the world; Steinways, Baldwins, Bosendorfers, Yamahas, Kawais, Grotrains, Becksteins; each with its own particular power, tone and feel. But when playing Liszt in Berlin on the Bosendorfer he knew that he had found the piano to match his technique. The “Imperial” with its full 97 key keyboard and rich tone was pure and solid and his fingers just seemed to glide on the keys with perfect harmony. It was the highest quality concert grand, but would they supply one for his cottage? Imperials new were over $175,000 (an American Glass artist had one specially built for $1.2 million) and the rental was for more than $1,000 per day. But they worked it out; one was sent there and brought in through the double doors of the small living room in the cottage. Playing it again would be perfection; just what he wanted to do one more time in his life.

Now he had come there to stay. When he saw the piano he ran his hands lovingly over it, lifting the lid and testing the sound. It was just what he had remembered. He wanted to play Liszt once again, but knew his hands were not up to “Grand Galop Chromatique”, the “Three Funeral Odes” were too somber, but he thought he could do pieces of “Sonata in B Major”. He considered it Liszt’s supreme masterwork for the piano although it is said that Brahms fell asleep while listening to a performance.

He heard them coming down the narrow stairs of the cottage. He pushed the wheel chair to the concert grand ready to play. His eyes were not good enough to read new music, but he had a hundred scores in his mind. Though he sensed more than saw that they had entered the room he began to play the sonata. He knew they would just stand patiently waiting. The music swelled and bounced off the walls to surround him. Immersed he kept on to the final coda and only then sat back contented.

“How are you today, Sam?” They always used the personal rather than the more formal Mr. Fisher”.

“Fine.”

“Do you find yourself ready now?”

This was what he had come here for. It had been a full week of preparation. He had talked to his few remaining relatives and friends. The accountant had transferred the $100,000 service fee; the lawyer had completed all the necessary documents. He had met with their psychology and religious counselors. Every step had been reviewed and his desires had been fully respected. It would happen here in the cottage with only two members of the staff present. Notifications were ready for the press with specific contact names and numbers listed for each. Logically, all was in place, but still he hesitated in front of the piano. Should he play one more piece? Should he go outside one more time to breathe the fresh country air? Should there be one more phone call? He decided “No”, but yet he did not move and they waited for his word.

Then he answered, “Yes.”

He felt hands on his wheelchair, gently turning it toward the bedroom. Now they would follow the steps in what they called, “The Completion Phase”. He had thought that to be a little inhuman, but had searched for a better name and nothing came to mind. They had put so much thought into all the rest, perhaps even they had to push down the emotions at they participated, thus forcing this sort of scientific description.

They lifted him and placed him softly on the bed. Soon it would be over. Images floated in his head of those who would receive the news, how they would react, was there really life after death? He had long ago discarded that idea for an “ashes to ashes” approach, but still found himself wondering. He wasn’t exactly nervous, but his mind was not yet settled. He took in two deep breaths in the thought that that would lead to the mood he wished to achieve. There was no hurry; they were just standing by ready with the needle for the anesthetic to put him to sleep and then a second to end his life as he knew it.

Again, two deep breaths and without looking up he said: “Proceed.”

I had once met with friends to throw around an idea of what an euthanasia clinic would have to be like so this is some of what we came up with. I have him here at the last moments without any relatives or friends as this is such an intensely personal decision, taking great strength. Would love your comments.