Searching for the Fountain of Youth

by Curtis Picketts

  Chapter 4 – Charles Street Blues

  “Maybe there is no eye of the lord watching us, judging us. But aren’t there billions of eyes looking straight at us, judging us, asking us, 'why?’”

  Samuel would be okay. He made some minor changes to the way he took care of himself but, other than that, it was business as usual. He and Winston never spoke of the event. Not openly anyways. Winston would never know if his father had been aware of how incredibly terrified the incident had made him. Perhaps Winston was unaware of the extent of the effects also. Winston, denouncing his old beliefs for new, saintly values, hadn’t changed all that much when compared to his dreams. He did different things, he tried out some new roles, but the depth of his moral understanding remained callow; his pool of self-awareness continued to flow along the shoals of the distant oceans of enlightenment.

  Jenny was no longer by his side. She hadn't left him for any mishap or “irreconcilable difference”; she had left him because they were two extremely busy people. They failed to negotiate a way to make their schedules mesh, and they both took such intense spells of loneliness that they couldn’t get by without having someone who could be there for them. They agreed that they needed to look elsewhere. I predict that our gene pool will always transfer laziness; the demand for this quality is too strong for it to ever be excised.

  Jenny's dreams couldn't stay in Halifax with Winston anyways. A year after Samuel’s encounter with the light, she boarded a Green Peace vessel and sailed to the Arctic. For several weeks she risked her life to protest the annual seal hunt. It was a reckless thing to do, but Jenny was a career woman. After she returned, she immediately flew to Kenya to help protect African Rhinos from poachers. Winston never heard from her again, but he told himself that she had found her soul's addiction, and this warmed his heart.

  As for himself, he had decided that the best way to fight helplessness was to be helpful. He had always dreamed of a life as a doctor, ever since high-school. He was naturally gifted, and when the thought of professional sports became a delusion, he decided that he should try to compete with his mind. The prestige associated with medicine would be proof that he was a star. But now, after developing a fear of fear following his father’s incident, he had different reasons for entering into the medicine program at Dalhousie: he wanted to help. He was granted admission due to his outstanding academic record and began studying medicine in his fifth university year.

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  “Knock, knock, knock!” Winston awoke to the loud fists of Jimmy Sharp pounding on the door of his roach motel. “Winston, what’s with all the holes in the door, you install a new security system?” boomed the Boston accent of Jimmy Sharp.

  “Wah.... what’s going on Jimmy?” Winston sighed as he rolled out of bed.

  “You really are somethin', aren’t you? Why do you live in this dump man? How could you possibly get any sleep in here? I can’t believe nobody’s killed you yet to be honest. I can’t stand comin’ here to wake your ass up for clinicals every mornin'.”

  “Then why do you do it?” Winston mocked.

  “I like to keep in touch with the people. And you?”

  “The termites pay rent. Let’s get to work.”

  As they walked down the pale yellow corridors of Winston’s apartment building, they both took a deep breath. These would be the joking moments of the day; reality just wasn’t going to be funny.

  Good old Charles Street, a constant reminder to everyone to not do narcotics. The dirty linoleum floors glistened from beer stains as they exited. The floors had first been stepped foot on in 1983 by Gomez Bergeron. What a bastard he was. He had resurrected the apartment building in a fine area, but migration is inevitable, just think of geese. Bergeron led the V. He had built the apartment building in order to maintain the secrecy of his businesses. At that time, Charles Street was grossly under-populated and was an easy place to maintain one’s masquerade. It worked perfectly for his dope-dealing business. By building these apartments, Gomez had bought more than just time; he had bought a party. The building functioned as a crack hotel. He would rent apartments to customers, usually other dealers, but also to addicts who had won it big in some convenience store shootout. He would rent the apartments for days, weeks, or even months at a time. Then he would simply take orders and have someone deliver his drugs to the happy crack-addicted couple in room three. It worked beautifully.

  As Gomez’s career began to flourish, Charles Street began to grow. Migration is inevitable. More and more buildings began going up and more and more dreams were forgotten. By the early 90’s, Charles Street was one of the most dangerous streets in Halifax. The conversion had happened remarkably quickly. Winston’s present home had been the mother of absolute poverty in the neighborhood.

  Gomez no longer exists, (allegedly), and the place was a bit safer now. A record number of arrests in 2004 had helped to clean up the area and violence generally became a thing of the past. For Winston, however, reality was still difficult to swallow most of the time. As soon as he left his room, the problems of the world puked onto his face from the addicts who still lived in the area; the cops couldn’t arrest everybody; some shock-waves still lingered. Winston, the smart idiot that he was, chose to live here for understanding and for inspiration. He wanted to live with his future customers. It just so happened that this area supplied the Queen Elizabeth II Hospital with most of its patients. Winston certainly loved receiving an education, regardless of the subject matter.

  Jimmy and Winston were both in their 4th years of Dalhousie Medical School. Class time was conducted strictly in the hospital and the two were beginning to feel more like doctors every day. Things were getting real very fast, and they both loved it. Jimmy loved the feeling of power he got from saving someone’s life. Winston just couldn’t survive without the prominence it gave him. Being a doctor made him feel as though everyone looked up to him.

  As they walked down the sidewalk that clear, sunny morning, one could easily believe that they were in some sort of movie about ghetto living. The sidewalk was so full of empty life all of the time. Young girls skipped jump-ropes. Teens thugged out in the flyest of gear and leaned against rickety old houses. Adults wearing dirty, battered clothing stumbled around high on crack. Young boys were shooting hoops while old men shot up. This was what Winston saw every day. He spent every day of his reality surrounded by people who were willing to cheat, steal, and even kill to escape theirs. “You gonna go on the blow after work today there Joey-Joe-Joe?” Jimmy mused.

  “Probably not man. Just don’t think it would be a very bright idea on my part.”

  “If you don’t mind me pryin', Winston, have you ever tried drugs? I mean, you used to party like crazy and now you live here, so I just don’t see how you couldn’t have been at least tempted?”

  “Well, I guess that’s a fair question, so I should give you a fair answer. We’re friends and we work together, so you have a right to know who you’re putting all of this trust into,” Winston said as he fiddled with the collar of his lab-coat. “I’ve tried weed a couple of times, and I’ve eaten magic mushrooms once. Every time, no matter which one it was, I felt like I was schizophrenic. That’s why I’m a doctor.”

  They both chuckled as they headed towards the hospital, anxiously awaiting the drama that is so deeply intertwined with the economics of addiction. Winston and Jimmy were both doing rotations on psychiatry floor and today would be just one of many exhausting days to come.

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  “Bang!” The loud thud was followed immediately by an intense shiver of pain and fear as Winston found himself being thrown against the hard yellow bricks of his building's front entrance. What had thrown him there, what was preventing him from moving, was the gigantic, dark, out-stretched arm of Jackie Bergeron, son of Gomez. Winston had just finished rotations for the day, had stopped at the pub for a pi
nt, and was on his way home to do some instant message flirting with one of his female co-workers when this terrifying incident had stopped him. This wasn’t exactly the piece of action he was searching for at this particular moment in time.

  Jackie was a towering man, his bald head the size of a pumpkin, with a smile similar to that of a jack-o-lantern. He wore an old, blue and gray flannel shirt most days with today being no exception. With his tree trunk of an arm firmly wrapped around Winston’s throat, he said nothing and stared holes through Winston’s eyes. From this distance, Winston could be quite certain that Jackie had just finished a lovely dinner of dirty cheeseburgers, malt liquor, and wild berry cigars. Winston figured that the best approach would be to consider Jackie a wild animal, just like a lion on the plains of Kenya. He decided it would be best not to show fear. Maybe Jackie just wanted to play rather than hunt.

  “Listen Dr. Fuckhead! There’s a set of rules around here, and I make it my duty to enforce them. I’m a pretty easy-going guy, but when someone doesn’t follow the rules I get a bit edgy,” he said, still holding Winston by the throat. “Rule #1, probably the most important rule there is, was broken today. I saw this fine young piece walk into the building today and that seemed strange to me because, if she lived here, I would know her. Now don’t act all scared and crazy like you’re the only one I’ve strangled today cause believe me, there have been many others. They tell me that the girl was a friend of yours, is that true?”

  “Yeah, she’s my friend. I think you’re talking about Bethany,” Winston gasped. Many erratic thoughts were firing through his callosum at this point, both hemispheres of his brain telling him that he may need to be prepared for a beating. Lying was out of the question, he thought. Honesty wasn’t necessarily going to guarantee him an unbroken jaw either.

  “Bethany Rose is who I mean,” Jackie re-iterated. “I had a nice chat with her. Hope her presentation tomorrow goes real well, she said she was speaking about Asian kids or something.”

  “Ahh, ha, no. She’s speaking about euthanasia. It’s something completely different, honest mistake….”

  “Shut up! Rule #1, do you know it? It is as I say it is. No unannounced visitors into the building. If you wanna have someone in here, you walk in with them or you tell me they’re comin’. You got that Doc?” he said as the noose around Winston’s throat loosened. Finally, air.

  “Yeah, I got it Jackie. I’ll tell you when someone’s coming. Thanks for looking out for us,” Winston said in a wind-deprived rumble.

  “That’s what I do man,” Jackie laughed as he patted Winston on the back and then walked him into the building. Winston immediately darted up to his room, emptied his bladder, cried for ten minutes, and then called his mother. She tried her best to comfort him and reminded him to be careful. He went to sleep that night, dreaming of the days when he would have the knowledge to be able to save these people from their empty lives.

  Part 2 – Winston the Doctor

  Chapter 5 – A Tongue-Bandage Ripped Clean

  “It’s not acting, it’s called adapting.” – Samuel J. Stone

  Martha Stone, Winston’s mother, had been a nurse when she first met Samuel. At that time, she was the head nurse of psychiatry at the Prince County Hospital of Summerside, Prince Edward Island. Her workplace was also the birthplace of Winston and his younger brother Randy. She had loved being a health-care provider and her influence on Winston’s life could never be overstated. He loved her as much as anyone could love anything. That’s why he was torn to pieces when he lost her to breast cancer.

  Fifteen months and seventeen days after Winston’s run-in with Jackie Bergeron, Martha was diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer. She had both breasts surgically removed and underwent chemotherapy. Everything seemed to progress okay, but the cancer still remained and Martha felt very tired and weak all of the time. She was convinced that it was her radiation treatments that were making her feel this way and she argued with Samuel almost every night about how she wanted to end her treatment. She simply wanted to allow the cancer to progress in exchange for more energy to allow her to enjoy the days she had left. Samuel firmly disagreed, citing as his central reason that he couldn’t bare to watch her die. “You need to believe that we can beat this,” he would plead. Winston agreed with his father. They wanted the best care possible for her because, without Martha, they both felt that they could never be whole again. That’s why they were both so devastated when she left.

  On the cool, damp morning of May 17th, 2012, Samuel awoke in a lonely bed. He stumbled downstairs, wondering why Martha wasn’t in bed resting like she should be. As he entered the kitchen, he saw that her shoes and jacket were not in their usual places. Then, as he sat at the kitchen table to collect his thoughts, he saw the note.

  “I’m gone Samuel, and I won’t be back. I love you and I wish I could spend the rest of my life with you, but I’m tired of being tired. I knew that you would never be able to watch me stop my chemo, so I left. I’m going to spend the rest of my days traveling. I will call you when I arrive in Egypt. I’m going to stay there for a while and then who knows. All I know is that I only have a short time left on this Earth and I don’t want to spend it making you watch me die. I want to spend my last days living, not dying, and sometimes the two things completely depend on who is interpreting the experience. I’m sorry, I hope you understand that I had to do this so that I can die smiling instead of crying. I love you and the boys so much. Till we meet in heaven, love every minute of your life as much as I love you. Goodbye Sammy.”

  Love Martha.

  And just like that, she was gone. Like a dream in the desert or a clear sky on the ocean, she disappeared. No one saw it coming and there was nothing that could be done. Helplessness returned. Crippling, stabbing helplessness. Winston moved back in with his father for a while. He was scared that Samuel might crack in the empty house. Winston would go to work, Samuel would do the same. They would come home, eat, and then sleep. Nothing more, sometimes less. They lived in complete solitude from one another even though they only left the house to attend work. If one of them finally did forget their lives and actually speak, the other wouldn’t be listening. Non-living progressed in this fashion for several months. Winston was angry at his mother for leaving and Samuel was angry at Winston for being angry.

  There was, however, one night during the stretch of isolation that Winston would later lay particular importance upon. On a humid, hot night in August, the two spoke a few words. They were short, but they were words. Winston had come home after a long shift on psychiatry floor. He had gotten along smoothly all day with the crises of the mentally ill and had laughed more with the nurses than may have been professional. But that’s not what he had gone home thinking about. What was on his mind, and what had kept him late, was a puzzle he was stumped by. He couldn’t wrap his head around it and it caused him to think about his mother with even more confused anger. The puzzle was a man, a patient named Jerry.

  Jerry was a 65 year-old chicken farmer from Alberton, Prince Edward Island. He had also been a newspaper editor in New York, a snowmobile salesman in Winnipeg, and a dancer in Vegas. He had also met Ghandi, made love to Queen Elizabeth, and been to the moon. Jerry was a habitual liar, but often his thoughts became so cluttered that he wasn’t really lying anymore; to him, it was the honest to god truth.

  Winston and the other doctors routinely administered drugs to Jerry that would, in a sense, defog his thoughts. They would hook him up to an I.V., he would fall asleep, and then he would awake calmly 30 minutes later. When awake, Jerry would now be under the influence of the drugs. Under the influence of the drugs, he would be able to discern the truth from the confusion. If he said something, he himself would know if it was a lie or not; he now had free will over his thoughts. This was attested by lie-detector tests conducted with and without the medication. What was stumping Winston, however, was the fact that Jerry would act totally different when visited by different doctors. When Dr. Sharp woul
d go talk to drugged-up Jerry, the tests showed that he always told Dr. Sharp the truth. The opposite occurred when Winston would talk to Jerry; he would always lie. When under the influence of the drugs, Jerry perceived all of the visits as first-time encounters with the men; he had no previous prejudices towards either Dr.. So why did he act like two different persons with them? Why would someone act so differently? Why did Martha treat Samuel like Dr. Sharp., and Winston like, well, himself?

  “Dad,” he said that evening at dinner. “Why did Mom lie to me?” Samuel began choking on his potato.

  “Uhh, ughh, sorry. I’m okay. I guess I should chew my food before I try to chew the fat. Well, I guess my answer to that would be: what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Why did Mom lie to me? You seem like you’re not even surprised that she left, and I feel like she never told me the truth once in her life. It’s like the woman you knew was completely different from the mother I knew, like she never acted like herself around me.”

  “Well, that’s partly true I suppose. Let me tell you something. “ Samuel paused for several seconds, had a sip of beer, and then smacked his lips together more times than an abacus could record. Finally he set his beer glass down, looked Winston straight in the eye, and spoke.