By Jenny Orosel
“Tell me a story, Gampa.”
The old man reaches over for the construction paper and a crayon. “I’ve got a better idea, kiddo. Let’s write our own story, okay? Now…what should our story be about?”
The little girl considers this for a while. “Gerbils.”
He begins to write. “Okay, gerbils. What are the gerbils doing?”
“Um…they’re in a spaceship!”
“Good! That’ll be a great story!”
****************
“Hey, Grampa! Check this out! I got two stories in the school magazine!”
“Good job, kiddo! Which ones?”
“There’s that essay I wrote about the drive in, and the story based on that horrible blind date I had last year. Remember that?”
“Oh, sure. Did I ever tell you about my bad blind date?”
She pretended like she hadn’t heard this story a gazillion times before.
“We were at a scary movie. I think it was ‘The Wolfman’, but I can’t remember. We were sharing a popcorn tub. This was back in the day where they gave you your popcorn in real cardboard, not this paper crap they do nowadays. So I tore a little hole in the bottom and stuck my hand through. Well, she goes to reach for the popcorn, and gets my wiggling fingers. She jumped up and ran from the theatre screaming. I never did see her again….”
*****************
The ceiling was made up of those white tiles with the little holes I used to count in eighth grade history. The walls-faded creamery butter yellow. Tan tiles with off white and brown flecks made up the floor. In my memory all these colors blend together in a soupy, oatmeal bland meant to squelch emotion, one extreme or another. There was this unnaturally clean smell to the place, so unnaturally, impossibly clean. I knew just what smell they were scrubbing away; it hung back in the air, tapping you on the shoulder now and then just to remind you that it was still there.
Edna was playing the piano in the front lobby. Edna was always at the piano. The moment she stepped away, Edna was gone, back to Planet Alzheimer. What she left behind was only an empty shell. That day, she was playing “Bicycle Built For Two,” adding a little beauty before flying away.
“If you want a shit so bad, take it your own damn self!”
Maury’s voice was booming down the hall. As we walked past his room I saw the nurse standing in the doorway of his bathroom, looking as exasperated (as she always does in Maury’s presence). Ninety-four, Maury had been a cameraman for D.W. Griffith, and had a mouth like some Quentin Tarantino character. He liked to call himself “The Original Texas Bad Boy” (never mind the fact he was a New Jersey Jew). Most importantly, Maury was my Grampa’s best friend at the old folk’s home. As Grampa began speaking less, it seemed the two grew closer. Maury complained about life, the universe and everything, and Grampa nodded along. Some times when I would visit, Maury would hold my hand and his eyes would mist up. I never met his family.
Even before getting to Grampa’s room I could already hear commotion. Some of the nurses’ children were standing in the doorway.
“Fuck you fucking motherfucker!” The kids giggled.
My grandmother’s voice was begging, “Milt, please, wouldn’t you rather watch ‘The Sound of Music’?”
“No! I want to watch ‘Repo Man’!” When I stepped into the room, I heard a few more “fuck”s coming from the television set. Three other children were seated bedside. They were trying to look around my grandmother (who had strategically placed herself in front of the TV screen). The kids loved hanging out in his room-not only did Grampa have one of the few VCRs in the home, but had an extensive collection of horror, action and comedy flicks. When the movies were over, the kids would be transfixed by the stories Grampa told of his days writing gags for cartoons in the 30s and 40s (“Mr. Milton, did you really know Tom and Jerry?”)
“Heeeeeey…I’ve got an idea,” I said, trying to keep the peace. “I brought by one of your favorites, Grampa.” I handed him the videocassette box. He held it close to his eyes, and tried to smile.
“Did I ever tell you about one of the times I saw ‘Phantom of the Opera’?” (of course not, Grampa) “Lets see, it came out in 1926, so I must have been about fourteen. Fourteen, yep, that’s right. I went with my friend Joe to the theatre. We’d already seen it four or five times by then. I asked Joe, ‘Joe, how come you’re wearing a trench coat? It’s July!’ You have to remember, kiddo, this was 1926-weren’t air conditioners back then. Joe says to me, “Don’t worry about it.” So I didn’t. Well, do you know that scene where the Phantom leaps down on the audience? We were seated on the front row of the movie house’s balcony-they had those back then. Joe stands up, goes right to the edge and as soon as Lon Chaney leaps, Joe pulls a live chicken out of his coat and throws it onto the audience below. How he kept that chicken quiet through the movie I never did know…”
We only made it a few minutes past the opening credits, and it was time for him to go. Tuesday night was bingo night, and maybe this time he would win a banana…
“And so it goes,
And so it goes,
And so will you soon,
I suppose”
--Billy Joel
Time passes, and life goes on for some of the lucky ones. Grampa’s luck was running out. More strokes came scuttling in, trampling his speech and what was left of his motor skills. When he couldn’t hold his pen any longer (Grampa had still been writing jokes, poems, letters, up until then. A little slower, true, but he had still been writing). We tried bringing in an electric word processor. Those strokes must have tripped another cord somewhere, because I know the jumble of letters that appeared on screen was not what had started out in his head. It got to the point where a good day for him consisted of a new John Woo flick, or if he was really, really lucky it would be the young Latin gal’s turn to change his diaper. Otherwise, he was left to play inside his own brain. When a mind like that has only itself to feed on, whole new universes are created. And what a world Grampa had made for himself.
“Ou see da news?” (no, Grampa, I missed the news today) “I can’d belie’e whad da pwesidend is doig now!” (what did the president do, Grampa?) “He’s sellig bags of his own poop to lowah da deficid! Fifdy bucgs eech…”
He made the decision himself. Decided it was time, and started shutting himself down. No more stories. No more flirting with Guadalupe. He’d only acknowledge us during the commercial breaks of “Love Connection”. Maury would still wheel himself in to talk to Grampa. That’s what it came down to-it wasn’t a talking with because Grampa rarely responded.
That Saturday I came to visit was not one of his better days. I think he asked me how my book was coming along, but by the time I realized what he was asking, the commercial was over, Richard Dawson was asking someone about “making whoopee” and Grampa was gone. Time passed, and when the show ended, I gave up. As I leaned over to kiss him goodnight, Grampa grabbed my arm. He looked directly into my eyes and said, “I need a favor” Whether it was the clarity of his voice, or just the sound of his voice at all, I was in shock.
“Sure, Grampa. Name it.”
“I need you do diliver a rose-a red rose-do Groucho in roob 20. Dell hib I can’d work for hib anybore, bud I’ll see hib soon. Roob 20. Probise be.”
“I promise, Grampa, I promise.”
Before I could realize what I was saying, Grampa was back in his black hole.
“Multifoliate rose
of death’s twilight kingdom
the hope only
of empty men.”
--T.S. Eliot.
I told Mom about it. She wondered if maybe he’d worked for Groucho Marx in his early days of writing. My grandmother said no. Nobody knew the significance of the red rose, of room 20. In fact, there was no room 20 in the old folk’s home-they all had three digits. I scoured the internet for hours, hoping for a clue. My family tried to explain it away as another one of Grampa’s hallucinations. But the way he said it…his eyes…I knew it wasn’t only me wanting something to be there. I found a web link that said, “Where to find Groucho now”. When I clicked on it, there was a picture and description of his memorial site. It was a simple bronze plaque that said, “Groucho Marx, 1890-1977” with a small Star of David in the center.
My breathing stopped. In a bud vase hanging next to the plaque was a red rose.
Nowhere in the text was a rose mentioned, or a room, just an address of Eden Memorial Park at the top of Sepulveda Boulevard. I passed by it every day on my way home from work.
Monday came, and I could hardly concentrate on my job. I tried to reason everything away as another product of Grampa’s tortured brain. I told myself that as I left work and drove home. I even kept repeating it as I pulled into the cemetery.
It was exactly where the website described. Main mausoleum, center plaque. And, yes, there were already two red roses alongside. I counted. Row twenty. I sat down on the concrete bench provided for mourners. “I came here to tell you,” I whispered, “that Grampa can’t work for you anymore, but he wanted me to let you know he’ll see you soon.” Before I left, I wandered the grounds. God help me for this, but I found a fresh flower arrangement sitting by a grave. I made sure no one could see me. It was a big bouquet. I’m sure no one missed the single red rose I took. But I had to keep my promise.
Wednesday I got to the old folk’s home as soon as I could. Nothing tapped my shoulder. Instead, it held me gingerly and guided me to Grampa’s door. “I did it.”
He looked up at me, confused.
“I brought Groucho his rose and gave him your message.”
Grampa nodded, smiled, and went back to sleep. I kissed his round, bald forehead before I left.
The next Tuesday Grampa won. Closed his eyes, and they never opened again. We had him cremated, his ashes scattered at sea. No funeral, no grave. Grampa always hated tombstones and besides, they really are just for the living.
“Say ‘Goodnight’, Gracie.”
--Burns and Allen
Time passes. Months go by. I’m slowly working my way to being the writer my Grampa had always hoped I’d be. Life, as it does, has been getting in the way. I’m confused by my loves, my life, my laundry. I’ve gotten to the point where I have no idea if I’m going up, down or sideways. Worst of all, my words have left me too. I’ve got to go away somewhere. Just for a tiny while. I’ve got to find my stories.
Today is Monday.
Even though I haven’t been back there since, I remember the way-it’s real simple. This time I buy a rose along from the corner store. I’ve always felt a little guilty over the lifted flower that day. I’m bringing a notebook with me as well…just in case.
There’s already three real ones and one silk rose in place when I get there. I put mine in there, too, and take a seat on the bench in the back corner. It’s quiet. Chilly, too. But there’s enough light to see the paper.
Am I waiting a minute or an hour? What is it I’m waiting for? I don’t know.
At some point, the man comes shuffling in. In the shadows, I can barely make him out, but I know it’s an old man by his posture and the slight drag to his left side. I am trying to stay perfectly still so he can’t see me. He makes his way over to the plaque and reaches up.
There must be a cloud passing by because what little light there was is now gone.
When it comes back the man is bending down before me. I can’t move. This time a part of me wants to but there is a wiser part that says no.
As he leaves, a tiny ray of sunlight makes its way through the door. For a flash, I can recognize the bald head and mischievous grin. As he leaves, I see the pencil tucked neatly behind his ear.
I look down at the roses he left at my feet. I smile, then welcome the story.
-end-
© 2003 Jenny Orosel