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OLD VOICE 2: I am filled with life!

  (A woman screams.)

  OLD VOICE 1: Someone's in the office!

  OLD VOICE 2: Eat her!

  (Screams. Static. Message ends.)

  PART ONE

  THE HOME

  JANICE ALTAIR

  I celebrated my 80th birthday by getting drunk. Is that pathetic? It felt pathetic. I wasn't even a drinker. And yet, all those drunks were right! The alcohol killed my worries. My brain was numb. I smiled. I was relaxed. I gagged down my beer and slammed it down on the little glass table between me and the TV. On the screen was a newsman rattling on about some crime that happened in downtown Honolulu. Something about an old lady that held up a Japanese tourist at gunpoint. I shook my head.

  “These Japanese tourists keep Hawaii on its feet! First earthquakes, now THIS?”

  I got another beer.

  That higher part of me argued against it. I was a health instructor, dammit. Well...before I retired. And it wasn't even my choice. Fred (my son), made me leave the one thing I was passionate about. All because of that night at the gym, at YEStrition. All because I broke my hip on the treadmill. All because I broke my hip on the treadmill and flew off and landed on a 101-year-old woman and put her in a coma. What the heck is a 101-year-old grannie doing at a health joint anyway? SHE'S the one that should stay at home – that should be left in her son's ratty apartment all alone – that should be getting stupid drunk – that should be worried about her son – that should be wishing his new girlfriend dead. My son, dating a stripper!

  Oh. I'm sorry.

  Dancer.

  Let's move on to happier thoughts. My hip was fine. I assumed the beer helped. Jesus, never mind the pills, doc, just give me more beer.

  I was fine. A-Okay. So why did I have to stay there at Fred's? There in his ratty apartment? Take me home. Take me home to my cats, to my fish, to my late night wrestling shows, to my TV dinners, to my morning jogs around the neighborhood. He didn't want me in his place anyway. He was just pretending to care about me. I could hear it in his voice. Whenever I asked for something – or told him to do something – he always came off sounding annoyed. I ain't no fool. He was only taking care of me because if he didn't, what would everyone think of him? What would God think of him? Maybe he'd toss Fred over his shoulder, send his body screaming right down to Hell, and maybe that scared the bejesus out of Fred. Yes! I understood it then. Praise the lord! It was all clear as crystal. That's why I was there – to cure Fred's damn guilt. Never mind about how I felt. Selfish prick! (I drank another beer) Always about him. Even then, he got me thinking about HIM. Amazing. How did he do it? I was impressed.

  A rat zipped under the TV. Little bastard...thought he could just come in there and not pay rent. So I got Fred's nunchucks from off the wall and chased after the fiend – just ran after it with my wobble-run, swinging the nunchucks all willy-nilly. I broke a few pictures on the walls, glass going everywhere, some in my hair. I saw the rat-bastard on the kitchen table, smiling at me, GRINNING at me. He said:

  “I don't want you here! You don't belong here. Get out of here!”

  And I swear it was Fred's voice I heard. Even the way his voice goes up a little in pitch when he got mad. “Get out of here.”

  I screamed and threw the nunchucks at the rat. Bull's eye! I hit it! The rat did a back-flip right onto the stove, right where I was frying some Spam. The rat was on fire – a ball of flame that ran this way and that. I grabbed a broom and chased after it, trying to whack it. The rat gave out an ear-piercing cry and ran under the curtains. They went up in flames. The rat ran to the couch. THAT went up in flames. The whole damn place was going up in flames! The fire alarm was silent.

  The place was filling up with smoke right quick, and all I kept thinking about was killing that rat. I had my hand over my mouth, coughing into it, looking for the little, dirty, disrespectful rat. And I saw it. Out from the black smoke, I saw its yellow, downright glowing eyes...those two little balls of light, melting through the smoke. The rat screamed. I screamed. We ran toward each other. It jumped on my chest and ran all up me and went for my neck. I grabbed it and pulled, but it had its teeth in my blouse. There was screaming outside. Fred was trying to get in. The door kicked open.

  “My apartment!” he cried, stepping back from the smoke.

  I ripped the rat free and threw it at him.

  It landed on Fred's face, holding on for dear life. Fred went around and around in circles, screaming like a little girl. His lady friend tore at her hair, confused and crying....

  I remember thinking, Good.

  After this part, you'll hear my son yack to you about how much I hate all his girlfriends. Better I tell you now. It's true. I hate them all. I hate them because they're younger than me, and they're more attractive than me. I'm jealous. I want my looks back. There must be some kind of magic potion or something that I can take. Reminds me of that movie with that actor, what's his name? John McClane? Maybe if I exercise more, drink more water, eat less junk, eat more broccoli, WHAT?

  Sometimes I wipe away the moisture from the bathroom mirror and forget who I'm looking at. Is that me? Can't be. I don't look like that. That wrinkled, droopy, OLD face isn't mine. How can this be? Is this some kind of joke? Is this God's idea of a JOKE? I feel like I'm in a car that doesn't wanna go faster. I feel like I'm in a prison of flesh and bone. I have to get out. OUT.

  The rat jumped off of Fred's face and ran down his GF's dress. (That's how these kids say girlfriend nowadays. “GF”.) Fred tore her dress off to get at the rat. His GF gave me a horrified look and fainted right on top of the rat, killing it. The poor fiend went like a water balloon. Guts were everywhere.

  I have to admit, later on when the cops arrived, I found myself chuckling.

  A cop tried questioning me, but I puked onto his lap.

  The next morning, I was hungover like a horse.

  FRED ALTAIR

  Mom burned my place down and didn't even say she was sorry. We were minutes from the home, and I couldn't wait to put her away. She was in the back, not saying a word. Sometimes she laughed. Just a few more minutes and she'd be out of my life for good. No more problems. I could live my life. I could make love to the woman I loved in my own home. Of course, I'd have to get a new place, but that was fine. I already had a new one picked out, in Waikiki, close to the beach. If my mom didn't burn the other place down, I wouldn't have that new one. I should've thanked my mom, really. I looked at her through the rear-view mirror. She was staring at me. No smiles.

  I had to look away quick. I shivered a little. Gadzooks. I could feel her eyes pushing laser beams into the back of my head. It's funny. She gave no struggle when I told her that I was placing her in a home. She actually didn't even look at me. And so what? Am I supposed to feel bad? This is for her own good. For her own protection. Clair (that's my sister) and I can't take care of her. She's too much for me. Do I have to remind you that she burned my apartment down? That she drove my girlfriend to tears on so many occasions? That I couldn't have sex in my own home because my mom lived with me? I got no privacy; it was annoying. One time, right in the middle of sex, the bedroom door opened and my mom fell to the ground. She said, stuttering, “I'm just looking for some towels. Got any towels? Oh, never you mind. I'll go look in the bathroom. You two just go on and...pray or whatever you were going. It looked like she was praying.”

  Then she left. She didn't even bother to close the door.

  I still believe she was listening to us. And WHY? Why, I ask, would anyone listen to her own son make love? Or maybe she really was just looking for towels, I don't know. My mind plays tricks on me sometimes. Sometimes when I'm on the field, I throw the football at one person but end up really throwing it into the crowd. I almost hit a baby one time. Good thing that bird was in the way. Coach Olotto sent me to Dr. Leeway, and he said that I got hit too many times in the head and that I should sit down more often and drink more water. Long story short, the old noodle's getting soft. But
so what? I'm making a lot of money playing in the game I love.

  My girlfriend said that if I didn't put my mom in a home, then it was over. She'd walk out on me. My life was falling apart. My head going to the dumps I can handle, but my heart? NO. I had to do something. I had to pull my life together. Get my mind together. The first step was to get rid of my mom.

  When we got to the home and I went around to open the door for my mom, she was already outside. I guess she wanted to show that she was still strong – maybe prove that I was wrong in thinking she was helpless. I remember saying to myself, “So close now. Freedom. Freedom!” Mom looked at the place. It was called Aloha Elderly Homes #6. Compared to numbers one through five, #6 was the cheapest and farthest. I had struck gold, Jerry, gold. And the place...the place looked like a refurbished high school, and it came complete with a playground. Some of the elderly folk were on the swings and in the sandpit. No one laughed. They all stared at me. Frozen. Eyes sad. Lost.

  I told my mom, “See? They even have swings here. You like to swing. I think.”

  She said nothing; just stared up at the home – at the nurses helping little old ladies down hallways. Come to think of it, I think that particular elderly home was really once a high school way back in the eighteen hundreds, or something.

  And just then something pinched me. It felt like a centipede was crawling in my chest.

  Was I really doing the right thing?

  Was it right to just DUMP my mom into the hands of strangers because I was too weak and too selfish with my time to take care of the woman that gave birth to me? That took care of me? I felt evil, and I hated it. My girlfriend materialized in front of my eyes. She was on the swings, naked, beautiful, her breasts soft and nice.

  “If you change your mind, I'm leaving you!” She snorted and spat in my general direction. “You'll never touch these alabaster breasts again!”

  I shook my head, grabbed my mom's arm, and walked her into the home. Sitting next to the sliding glass doors was an old man on a walker. He was covered in tattoos of angels and had a black eye. Tennis balls were on the bottoms of his walker for some reason.

  “Welcome,” he said. “We do hope you enjoy your stay.”

  He smiled, and his teeth were all silver and sparkled in the sunlight. I was impressed.

  I walked my mom toward the front desk. An old woman was on the ground – just on the damn ground like she was sleeping, on her face – while a nurse rubbed the small of her back.

  “Move on. Nothing to see here,” she said to us.

  The old woman with her nose to the floor said that.

  The nurse just looked up at us. I think she was crying.

  We walked by a glass window, and in those few seconds I saw old people arm wrestling, two nurses arguing with each other, old people playing ping pong, old people eating spaghetti in a messy way, old folk looking up and watching TV, and an old woman putting a cheery male nurse in a headlock. She looked at me and licked her lips. I had to get out of there. I wanted to be with my lady. Wanted to make love to her. HAD to make love to her to clean my mind of all this weirdness. Still, that nagging voice pinched me again and again.

  I can't believe you're leaving your mother here. You're a bad son. The Devil is waiting for you.

  “Shaddap,” I mumbled. “Shaddap, shaddap.”

  I rang the bell on the desk.

  I spent twenty years of my life under the hawk-like gaze of that woman. I was sick of her criticisms, of her judging my taste in women, of scaring them off just because they were dancers. I dated who I wanted, when I wanted, and I didn't care what anyone said, my mom or whoever. If I got mouth-bumps, or warts in my sensitive areas, fine. It was MY call. MY life. Right? I thought everyone felt the way I did. Everyone wants to live their life their way. I believed in freedom. I was a Goddamn hero! I spoke for the people! I was making a stand. I was doing what I thought everyone in the world was too afraid to do – that felt too guilty to do. If mom or pop tries to make a slave out of you, try to live through you, then do whatever you can to get them out of your way...out of your life...so you can live, dammit, LIVE. Is that so wrong?

  The nurse was sexy. She had on gold, scorpion earrings, and a gold hoop ran through her nose. I pointed to it as pleasantly as possible.

  “They let you wear that stuff here?”

  “Yes. I wear these for religious reasons. In my homeland, Iowa, this is done to please our god. Like you Catholics and your various bibles.”

  Only she said it like “cat licks”.

  Something about her grabbed me the right way. She spoke with a kind of attitude. I liked that, and the front of my pants was curious. The old woman on the ground shot up and screamed. She was looking up at the ceiling and her hands were shaking, held up high above her. Her nurse was rubbing her back and whispering sweet-somethings into her ear. The old woman calmed down and closed her eyes, and went back to the ground. This time, she was on her back, and smiling.

  The nurse behind the desk snapped her fingers at my head and got my attention.

  “Don't let her bother you. She's like that when her bowels are uncertain.” Then she looked at me, confused. “Is she all right?”

  I looked at my mom.

  She was crying.

  I signed the papers and left her there. A part of me died inside, but the man in me pushed those weak feelings aside. I did the right thing. I was free! And all I could think about was making so much love to my lady. As I walked toward my car, a saw a nurse lead a crowd of old people across the street.

  They moved so slow. Many of them looked like they were gonna tip over if touched too hard.

  They reminded me of those dead things in horror movies.

  They reminded me of zombies.

  JANICE

  My room was dark. Tree branch shadows went up and down on the walls. So this is it, then, I thought. This is now my life. I wanted to cry again. I didn't care how stupid it made me feel. Odd sounds were all around me: Feet shuffling outside my door, snoring that turned into choking, weeping women, vomiting sounds, someone counting backwards, a distant cat being stepped on, a weatherman on TV, piano music, pills dropping to the floor, hands rubbing on balloons, splashing sounds, skating sounds...and sometimes I'd get a whiff of something bad. I forced myself not to think. No no no: The loneliness was getting to me again. Fight it; fight it. I don't need anyone anymore; I've trained myself to enjoy my own company. Sanglan popped into my head; he was leaning on his cane; he was all smiles. In my mind, I reached out for him. He waved...and vanished. The crying came easy then. I tried to make the best of it. Hey, at least I didn't have to cook anymore. In the home, I had the chance to just be lazy and have people feed me and bathe me. What the hell? Just give up all together. Just go with it, Janice. Just give up and get ready to die.

  No no no.

  I couldn't do that.

  I could take care of my own damn self. 80 or whatever, I didn't FEEL old. My body was still vibrating. All those years of being a health guru paid off, and it felt dead wrong to just...to just get lazy and piss away all that work. So I got up and did pushups in the dark, and situps, and jumping jacks, and shadowboxing. After I worked up a good sweat, sleep was easy. I dreamed that I was on a mountaintop, eating some sort of frozen treat. Eagles were all around me. Some sat on my shoulder. I felt...free.

  Alive.

  In the morning, I did the same exercises again.

  There was a terrible crash outside of glass shattering. I swung the door open and looked down the hallway. A male nurse was wrestling with an old man.

  “I'm okay! I'm okay!” shrieked the old man.

  The nurse brought up a noose.

  “Then what is this? Huh? At it again, eh, Coontang? I should report you.”

  The old man was on his knees.

  “Please don't. They'll take me away! Put me in the loony bin! Do you know what they do to old people there? I've seen movies, man. Movies. Don't let them take me away. I like it here.”

 
The nurse stuffed the rope into his pocket.

  “I'm keeping this. Now don't let me see you acting a fool again. Right?”

  “Yes, right, right. I promise.”

  The nurse grinned and walked away. Coontang put his hands to the floor and began to weep. As if sensing me, he looked over his shoulder...and growled. I ran back into my room and slammed the door. He saw me. Was he sane? Was this a home for old people or a mental house? The stereotype was that the older you got, the crazier you got...the more you lost your grip on reality...your mind. Was it true? I began to worry. I shook my head and leaned against the door. No no no. I knew I was sane. I was healthy – physically & mentally. You needed to tend to both, see? That was the trick.

  A knock on the door.

  I didn't want to open it.

  Another knock.

  It was Coontang, I knew it, out to get me – angry at me because I saw him crying. He was ashamed. He felt less of a man, and now he wanted to reclaim his manliness by beating up an old woman. And then he would go all out. Sure. Why not? After committing sick murder, why stop there? I imagined him running all through the home, waving rusty, bloody butcher knives in the air and cutting off faces. He'd run outside to meet 50 police cars, lights all circling blue and red, and fall to his knees in disbelief at what he had just done – at all the faces he cut off and stuffed in his pockets. As the cops stick their guns in his face, he'd whisper how unfair life had been to his dreams, to his body.

  I opened the door.

  Coontang smiled and extended his hand for a shake.

  “Jackson Coontang,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  He had wiped the tears away from his cheeks. But his eyes were still swimming.

  JACKSON COONTANG

  That was a great morning. I showed Janice around the home. More people were up and about than usual. In fact, the place was absolutely buzzing with activity. It reminded me of a zoo, and someone let out all the snakes. I held Janice's hand as we walked, and I was delighted that she held back. I felt a connection with her. She was quiet and never interrupted...always listening. Being around her calmed my noisy brain. Being around her made the home tolerable.