"Where is grandma?"
"Oh... she's off getting her sponge bath. She really loves her sponge bath. It's the high point of her day, she tells me. She loves her sponge bath like a duck loves floating in a pond." That made me chuckle. Good ol' grandpa. He always had these little sayings, comparing people to happy animals and shit like that. He got a real kick out of saying those little sayings. He was really inventive too. It's true. "I imagine she'll be back shortly."
I found a stool sitting next to some monitoring equipment and pulled it next to his bed. I sat down and patted him on the leg. His leg was as skinny as could be. It was like patting a bare bone.
"I was pretty surprised to learn that you two were here. Why did you sell your house and move here?"
"Well, my boy, your grandparents are old if you didn't know. It was getting pretty hard to take care of ourselves with our arthritis and our bad hips and our shakes and whatnot. Getting old is a tough business."
"But why move here? It seems so depressing?"
"Depressing? Ha! They do everything here for us, bring us food, wipe my ass, change our clothes. It's fantastic!"
"I see."
"We needed some taking care of. We didn't want to burden nobody. We just want to be taken care of and die with some dignity."
"Die with dignity?"
"Simon, my boy, everyone dies. That's just the way it is. You should know that." Well, of course I knew that. Everyone knows that. It's just a hard thing to admit to yourself when someone you love says a goddamn thing like that. That's a pretty miserable thought. It's true.
"Grandpa, can I ask you a question?"
"Of course, my boy. Shoot."
"Why does life have to be so hard?"
"Hard? Life isn't hard. Life is a piece of cake. That's it."
"I don't understand."
"Everybody has ups and downs. There's always bumps in the road. But the road keeps going until the end and when you look back, none of those bumps matter. They're just bumps."
"I see." I did kind of get what he was saying but I guess it's hard to see the philosophy in it when I had huge bumps in my road. I had bumps the size of goddamn mountains. It's true.
"Boy, all I can tell you is to enjoy the things you do, enjoy time with people you love, don't spend any time doing things that make you unhappy, because that's all there is. You can sit there and make yourself unhappy. But there is no point in doing that."
"Thanks grandpa."
"And remember what I told you. Brush your teeth. That's the best advice I can give you. The food here is God-awful but at least I can chew it all by myself. There's nothing worse than not being able to chew your own food."
He turned his head to the TV and watched the golf tournament. The smile returned to his face, that big happy smile. He seemed content, even living in this goddamn place. It's true.
"I think I'll go check on grandma."
"You do that, boy. I'm going to watch this Tiger Woods choke. He's playing like a dog turd on a sidewalk. Worthless"
"OK, grandpa."
I walked out of the room to look for a nurse or someone to tell me where my grandma was. At the other end of the hallway was a desk with a different chubby nurse sitting behind it. She was also reading a goddamn gossip magazine, her feet propped up on the end of the desk, sitting there without a care in the world. She also had a name tag on her pink blouse. It said, "Bertha."
"Can I help you?" she asked, annoyed. Why was everyone in this place annoyed? It was starting to get on my nerves.
"Hi. I'm looking for my grandmother. My grandfather said she's getting a sponge bath."
"Sponge baths. My favorite part of my day," she said, sarcastically. "What is her name?"
"Her name is Mrs. Paulson."
"Did you say Mrs. Paulson?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mrs. Paulson ain't taking no sponge bath unless dead people get sponge baths around here."
"Excuse me?"
"Mrs. Paulson died a few weeks ago. She's buried at the military cemetery. Didn't you know that?"
"No, I didn't know that." I didn't know whether to cry or punch Bertha in the fucking face. She had just dropped some information on me that I wasn't prepared to hear. In fact, I was in absolute shock. This trip was turning out to be one big goddamn nightmare. It's true. "How did she die?"
"In her sleep, I think. I don't know for sure. You want me to find out for you?"
"Uh, no thank you."
"I can find out for you, if you want."
I just walked away. I didn't want her to find out anything for me. In fact, I wanted Bertha to take a big flying leap off of a tall building for all I cared. I walked back to my grandfather's room and looked in. He was still happy, a big smile stretched across his face, his thumbs twiddling, his hopes of Tiger Woods choking evident as he watched. I decided right then and there that I needed some time to myself so I left. I walked down the hallway toward the elevator, Big Bertha calling to me about finding out stuff. I ignored her and got in the elevator and went down to the first floor.
I walked past all the old people slumping in their wheel chairs. I walked past Myrtle and her goddamn gossip magazine. I walked out the front door and found Clint the Caddy sitting in the parking lot. I got in and covered my face with my hands. Tears poured from my eyes, snot poured from my nose, and I sat there alone and cried like a baby. I cried and cried and cried like a goddamn baby. I cried for what must have been 30 minutes. It was the hardest cry of my entire life. It's true.
Piece of cake, my ass.
Then I drove away.
22.
Death. What a pile of shit. I mean, no matter what you do with your life you're going to just end up in the ground or cremated or stuck in a mausoleum or some shit like that. I guess that's why I've always wanted to be a writer because at least a writer's work can live forever. It's true. Look at Plato or Shakespeare or Dante or Twain. Those bastards lived a long time ago yet their work still influences people today. Even recently deceased writers like Hemingway and Miller and Bukowski and Vonnegut are influencing people as we speak even though those dead bastards are pushing up daisies, as Johnny Cash would say. See, singers too are immortal although I can't sing for shit. I'll stick with writing, thank you very much.
Anyway, I thought about what my grandfather said and it did make sense to me. I should be enjoying life and not making myself miserable because of it. I should be writing and spending time with my kids. I should get in contact with good ol' Jason and spend time with that messy bastard although he's probably divorced by now. At least we could be miserable divorcees together, right? And Snaggle. That goddamn nut juggler can be so annoying but he did seem to have some good qualities too. Maybe we could be friends when I got back to Austin. Maybe. And Gina. I was really starting to miss Gina. In our short time together, that punk rock goth girl with shit stuck in her face and hair exploding toward the sky turned out to be a beautiful, thoughtful, young woman. Who knew when we saw her at the convenience store in Waco, tempting fate by hitchhiking, that she would turn out like that? I had no idea. It's true.
I toyed with the idea of visiting the military cemetery and seeing where my grandmother was buried but I quickly decided against that. I was going to take my grandfather's advice seriously and only do the things that made me happy. Sitting in some dirty old military cemetery staring at my grandmother's tombstone lined up next to thousands of other dead soldiers and their dead spouses didn't sound like something that would make me very happy. So that idea was out the window! No more unhappiness for me. I was going to enjoy the things I did, enjoy time with the people I loved, and not spend any time doing things that made me unhappy. My new mantra. It's true. So basically that meant getting the hell out of Oklahoma and getting back to Austin, Texas, my home, the place that made me happy. That was going to be a LONG drive. For a brief moment, I thought it sure would be nice if I could use a transporter like in the sci-fi TV show Star Trek, what, so I could be zapped instantaneously back to
Austin without having to drive for seven goddamn hours. Now THAT would have been nice, zipping across Texas as particles like Captain Kirk and Spock getting zipped down to some strange planet instantaneously. It's true. But there was no such thing as a transporter. All I had was Clint the Caddy and I had to make due. Clint was a pretty nice ride though, even though he wasn't a transporter. It wouldn't be THAT bad.
It was getting late and I didn't want to drive all that way back to Austin in the dark so I decided right then and there that I would stay one more night. One more night in Craplahoma? Sheesh. Why did it have to be so goddamn late? I would stay one more night, get a good night's rest, get up, have a massive southern breakfast with eggs and biscuits and bacon and pancakes and coffee, then drive home to find my children. That sounded like a goddamn splendid idea. It's true.
As I drove down I-35, the only places to stay the night were these cheap ass motels, places that looked like they were infested with bed bugs and fleas and ticks and lice, rooms that probably smelled like cheap sex and body odor and cigarettes and bleach, and only coffee served for breakfast with no food in sight. The last thing I wanted to do was to stay in some miserable motel on the last night in Craplahoma. It sounded like a goddamn nightmare to me. But after only a few minutes on the highway, something appeared on the horizon, a place that beaconed in the darkening sky, beams of light shooting towards the moon, a neon glow filling the air: The Riverwind Casino. It appeared like an oasis in the middle of some goddamn desert and it called to me like a pool of cold water calls to a dehydrated traveler. And boy, was I feeling emotionally dehydrated. I was pretty sure the casino had a hotel, not a motel, but a fancy hotel next to it or near it or behind it. I was absolutely sure of it. It's true.
***
I pulled Clint the Caddy off the highway and turned toward The Riverwind Casino and wouldn't you know it? There was a massive hotel right next to that massive goddamn casino. Those Indians must really be sticking it to the white man with their fancy casino and fancy hotel and fancy tax breaks and fancy amnesty from goddamn everything else us poor bastards have to endure from our government. Those goddamn Indians really had it made. It's true. The rest of us poor bastards had to pay income tax and sales tax and abide by laws and shit like that. What a rub. I once heard my grandmother tell me that I had some Cherokee Indian in me. She claimed that my great grandmother was half Cherokee so that would make me... hmm, let's see. That would make me 1/32 Cherokee Indian. Do you think they would let me join their Indian gambling racket and stick it to the man? I didn't think so either. Fuck.
I drove past The Riverwind Casino and pulled into the parking lot for The Riverwind Hotel. It was a fancy goddamn place and rose into the sky five or six stories and was the same friggin' pastel colors that the casino was painted. It was the casino's goddamn ugly twin. It's true. The parking lot was full and there were all kinds of drunk gamblers stumbling around this way and that, some looking happy and some looking stripped of their pride. I bet they lost all of their savings. I bet they were scalped by those sneaky Indians. It's true.
I parked Clint in the check-in lane at the front of the hotel and went inside. The hotel's lobby was massive, lined with marble on the floor and walls, sparkly chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, goddamn slot machines everywhere the eye could see. It was like I was already in the casino. I could hear the sound of coins dropping into imaginary metal catchers, clink clink clink! And cigarette smoke was everywhere. It hung in the air like a nicotine fog. It was enough to get you high from contact alone. It's true.
The reservation desk was empty except for a few clerks standing behind it. They all looked somewhat Indian except for this one kid who looked like he was straight out of a western movie. He had long, straight black hair pulled back in a twisted braid and the striking, angular features of a Native American and some beaded bracelets on his wrists and some turquoise and silver rings on his fingers, quite a few of them. I was expecting his name tag to say Sitting Bull or Screeching Hawk or Fighting something or another but it said, "Phil." Stereotypes are such bullshit but everyone is guilty of them every once and a while. I was guilty. It's true. I approached Phil.
"Good evening, sir. Are you staying with us this evening?" Phil asked. He had the whitest teeth of anybody I had ever seen. It was amazing. They sparkled like goddamn pearls.
"Yes. I don't have a reservation though. Do you have any rooms available?"
"You are lucky this evening. We do have a room available. Would you like it?"
"Yes, I would. How many beds does it have?"
"How many guests do you have?" he asked. He sure was being kind of snoopy. What did he care how many guests I had? Why was everyone in the goddamn State of Craplahoma asking me how many guests I had?! I tried to remain calm.
"Just me."
"The room we have available has a single king-sized bed. Will that be OK?" he asked.
"Sure." I wondered if Phil knew Little Foot or Little Wing or whatever the fuck his name was, the kid that worked at the burger joint at the outlet mall. Little something or other was a Chickasaw Indian and this casino was owned by the Chickasaw Nation and it only made sense that good ol' Phil here was probably a Chickasaw Indian too. I just had to ask. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Do you know a kid named Little... What was his name? Little Wing! Do you know a kid named Little Wing?"
"I don't think so," he said, typing some things into his computer.
"Are you sure? He's a Chickasaw Indian too, like you."
"Well, sir. Where are you from?"
"I'm from Austin, Texas."
"OK, sir. Then that would be like me asking if you knew a guy named Steve in Austin."
"I see."
"The Chickasaw Nation is quite large."
"OK." Well, the bastard didn't have to be SO rude about it. I mean, I was just curious that's all. The Chickasaw Indians must not have a goddamn sense of humor. It's true. Little Wing didn't have a sense of humor either, the little bastard. Sheesh. "I'm sorry. I was just curious."
"Can I see your ID?" I showed him my driver's license and he continued to type at his computer, unfazed by my question or anything else. He must have had his job down pat. He was typing up a storm. "OK, Mr. Simon Burchwood. We take credit cards or cash. How will you be paying?" I slid him my credit card and paid for my room and he finished typing whatever he was typing and he slid me my room key. Then he gave me a strange look. "Your name sounds really familiar? I know your name from somewhere," he said.
BINGO! He must have read my book or read a review about my book or maybe read an interview with me on a book blogger's web site or in the local newspaper or something like that. It had been a while since someone had asked me about my goddamn book. There were times that I really thought that book was a goddamn disastrous failure but maybe I did have some fans somewhere, even as far away as the Chickasaw Nation all the way in Craplahoma. Crazy! I had some butterflies in my stomach, I was that excited. It was a fantastic feeling, for once.
"Well, maybe you've read my book. It's called THE RISE AND FALL OF A TITAN."
"No, I don't think that's it. I don't read books."
"You don't read ANY books?"
"No, books are boring. I thought maybe you were a radio personality or a news anchorman. Maybe not. Your name still sounds familiar."
"No, sorry."
"Well, Mr. Burchwood. Have a fantastic stay at our hotel and good luck! As a token of our appreciation, here's a player's card with $10 of credits, redeemable at the casino or here in our lobby."
"OK. Thanks."
Books are boring? What the fuck was this world coming to? It was a goddamn nightmare, I tell you. It's true. I had briefly considered a career in radio or television but I realized pretty quick back then that I had a terrible speaking voice. My speaking voice is the absolute worst. It's all scratchy and pitchy and not very manly. I knew I should stick with writing, even if nobody in the world seemed to read anymore. Being a writer was
a goddamn dying breed. It's true.
***
After I gave the valet my keys to Clint the Caddy, I walked back in through the lobby and the maze of slot machines. There were all types of white folks sitting there, sliding their slot machine credits away, some of them playing two or three machines at one time. It was a crazy sight to see. The amount of money going down the gambling toilet was staggering. Those Indians really had it figured out, the lucky bastards. It's true.
I found my way out of the money pit and stepped into an elevator at the other side of the lobby. My room number was 325. What was up with that number? It was following me everywhere in the last week. Strange, very strange indeed. I went up to the third floor and looked for my room. I found it halfway down the hall.
Inside, my room was as sparse as could be. I guess the Indians spent all of their money on the casino and went cheap with the rooms. Cheap bastards! I was expecting some grand affair but it wasn't any fancier than the motel room I got with Snaggle and Gina. Gina. Oh, Gina. I couldn't stop thinking about Gina. I wondered what she was doing at that moment. Was she with her boyfriend? Was she unpacking the backpack with the mysterious contents? Was she thinking about me? I doubted she was thinking about me. Who would think about me? Nobody, I tell you. Nobody. I unpacked my bag and made myself at home.
I sat on the bed and turned on the TV. It was one of those old crappy tube TVs, not a new fancy shmancy flat-panel TV like you would expect in such a fancy shmancy hotel. I flipped through the channels and found a station that explained how to play the various games in the casino, Black Jack, Poker, 21, Roulette, Craps, even how to play the slot machines, if you can believe that crap. Who needs instructions on how to play the slot machines? You'd have to be a pretty dumb bastard to NOT know how to play those retarded machines. All you do is push the button and lose all of your money. It's that easy. It's true.
As I was unpacking my things, pulling my clothes and toiletries out, I noticed my cell phone indicator light flashing. I must have missed some calls or received a text and didn't know it. Maybe Jessica was texting me to ask why I was in Dallas at her fucking parents' house. Or maybe it was my kiddos sneaking their mother's cell phone into their room to send me a text message. Good ol' Sammie boy does that every once in a while, that cutie pie. He's a sneaky little bastard sometimes. It's true. But when I went through the call log and the text messages, most of them from creditors or telemarketers or other people wanting money from me, I saw a number with an Oklahoma area code. It was a text message. It simply said, "Hi. What are you doing? Gina."
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 19