Since my wife passed several years back, I haven't been concerned as to what day of the month it is, or even what day of the week. Those things don't matter. Why should they? I pay bills when they come in and shop for groceries when supplies get low. I wash my clothes and clean the house every four or five days and do dishes after every meal. I'll admit to paying a man to mow the lawn, but not because I'm not able. I just don’t like mowing a damn yard.
I don't worry much about minor details. Oh, I know the neighborhood's changing, but don't they always? Sure, it's a little different this time. A developer is purchasing homes to tear down and replace with today's boring, prefab monstrosities. He's stopped by several times, making ridiculous offers for my property. I tell him, “I'm not interested” and send him on his way. Last time, he made some derogatory comments about how my stubbornness was going to be the end of me. Didn't think much about it figuring he was only pissed off and blowing off steam.
About a week later, here comes two young ladies hustling around the corner of the house like they were on some sort of mission. Both carried briefcases-the narrow leather ones that run a couple hundred dollars in the office supply stores. Hell, the way they dressed, I figured they were selling insurance. I had to chuckle when they hit the soft soil of the garden and their high heels sunk deep. Gotta give them credit, they fought hard to maintain their “professional” image while struggling to pull free and keep their balance.
They called themselves “investigators from the state” and only wanted answers to a received complaint. I took them to the picnic table on the back porch to sit down out of the sun. Their “talk” ended up being more like a third-degree questioning scene from one of those cops and robbers movies. Whole thing wasted thirty minutes of my time when I could've been gardening.
About a month later, I was doing my daily “weeding” through the mail when I came upon a notice from the county court. It demanded my presence at a hearing “concerning my welfare” and provided the date and time. Nothing else.
I was somewhat put off by the county court demanding anything from me, but it got my curiosity going. As long as my taxes were paid, and I didn't cause anyone trouble, the courts had no business ordering me to appear anywhere.
I was baffled. In my seventy-two years of living in the county, I never appeared in court. Somehow, I'd slid through my civil obligation of serving jury duty and had stayed well under the radar. But I blew that when I plum forgot about the court date.
A couple of weeks later, here comes another one of those letters. This one had “Second Hearing” stamped in red ink at the top of the front page. Since I knew red ink was the government's way of saying, “You better do this”, I kept my eyes on the calendar and circled the date, so I wouldn't forget.
The court date arrived, and I put on a suit and tie for the first time since old man Johnson's funeral early last year. Not many people there, just the two women who'd asked me the stupid questions, some girl typing, the judge, and myself. We sat, not saying a word, as the judge repeatedly checked his wristwatch. After a bit, I stood up and politely asked, “If I could ask the court, what are we waiting for?”
“We're waiting for your attorney to arrive. You did hire one, didn't you?”
“Sir, I did not. I have no idea what this is all about and didn't know I'd need one.”
That obviously wasn’t the answer the judge wanted to hear. Visibly upset, he cocked his head towards the two ladies sitting at the table to my left and asked if they'd notified me of the subject the proceedings were to cover. Of course, they lied and said they’d sent me a letter. The judge got even more frustrated when they couldn’t present him with a copy.
I should have got up and left right then and there. Can't say I wasn't tempted. I asked the judge if I needed a lawyer to find out why I'd been asked to court since no one wanted to let me know. Resentful of the foul up, he told the ladies to inform me of the circumstances. It was only then I discovered this was to be my second “competency” hearing. If I failed to prove myself a competent adult, the state could declare me incompetent and take over as my legal guardian.
So, I had to prove I could handle the daily duties of the household, not cause any harm to myself or others, and handle my finances without fault. If I couldn’t, the court could liquidate everything I owned and have me incarcerated in an assisted care facility for the rest of my life!
As the proceedings continued, I discovered the Senior Services Protection Agency was like a headhunter. They made money on everyone they could get the court to declare incompetent. The state got a share, too, declaring the liquidation a sale and taxed the profits. Everyone wanted me to be incompetent to scarf up on the cash.
What I wanted to know was who turned my name into them to begin with. Oh, you should have seen the ladies doing all they could to keep it a secret. Finally, the judge ordered them to disclose the culprit’s identity. You guessed it—the developer!
I was pissed! He only wanted my property, so he had turned in a false report on me. The agency and state wanted my money. I fought with every argument I knew, thinking they had to let me go.
The judge then addressed me. “The court has little patience with those that scoff at its importance. You have demonstrated a complete disregard for the court by missing the first hearing, and further insult it by being unprepared for the second. That fact alone reflects incompetence and an inability to reason. The court has decided you are unable to handle your own affairs and require assistance. I order you to be confined to an assisted living facility. Ladies, please take your ward to his new living quarters.”
“You bastard, you're in this scam with the rest,” I exploded. “No one has proved one damn thing. You are the incompetent asshole. How much money are you getting out of this? Everyone else is grabbing their share of my money so you must be filling up your wallet, too. How much, judge, how much?”
Didn’t do any good, but I got it off my chest. It felt damn good.
* * * * *
Not much blood to clean up—a small puddle in front of the sink and a few stray drops that had escaped the plastic bags heading for the steps was all. Ajax cleanser and bleach cut through the sticky mess, making it easier to wipe up. Once dried, the rags and paper towels would be burned. Careful scrubbing ensured the kitchen floor would pass any inspection.
As darkness set in, rubber gloves were pulled on before parking the extra car in the driveway blocks away in the abandoned strip mall. Holding an open umbrella not only provided protection from the rain but acted as a shield against video cameras along the way home. One couldn’t be too careful. The killing had started years ago in a far-off country. The passion in taking a life was beyond excitement. It was a beloved addiction.
* * * * *
I remember little of my entrance to the assisted living facility. What stood out the most was the solemn expression on the faces of those confined inside. No smiles, just the hopelessness of waiting to die.
Later, when mingling with the patients, I found a common thread. Many had been railroaded like me. Naive that such evil existed in the world, we had fallen victim to such a scam. I couldn't believe that I had once gone to war to protect the country that was now stealing my money and my life. Yet, the proof was there.
Unknown to most, our stay was planned to be a short one. There was much money to be made with the restaurant philosophy in place—get them in and out quickly to make room for others. If you’re lucky, they’ll leave you a big tip!
They did their best to ensure our situation left little room for happiness. Depression was common. Heavily medicated, patients succumbed to the idea that there was no reason to continue living. Of course, the facility provided nothing for one to enjoy. Meals, composed of minimal servings, were served cold. Pajamas or night clothes were common dress. A walk in the warm sunshine was out of the question. The simple pleasures of life were far removed, as was our dignity.
I’d been there a month when I first noticed the changes. One afte
rnoon, as I prepared to shower, I happened to see myself in the mirror. I'd grown pale, almost gray in skin color from lack of sunshine and nutrition. My muscles were smaller and getting flabby from no exercise. But, it was my facial expression that hit me the hardest. It was the face of a person waiting to die.
I made a commitment. I would no longer take their medications. I'd put the pills in my mouth, but at first chance, spit them out. I would force myself to exercise if only a few sit-ups and push-ups a night when the hallway lights turned to red. And, I would pace the floor to build up my endurance. Plus, I could exhibit weariness during the day by doing these things at night. That would help maintain my look of being medicated. Somehow, I'd escape this prison and find a way to enjoy life as before.
* * * * *
She had been such a fool. So common is the inexperience of youth that breeds false confidence of one’s skills—but underestimates others. A mentality that states, “This is a stupid old person. I can get over on them.”
She had deluded herself into thinking the sales pitch she'd been given to use could be improved by making up a sad tale to accompany it. Alas, she was only a poor, little creature, hundreds of miles from home, selling magazines to win a fabulous trip and support herself. A wide array of genre-based magazines had been spread atop the kitchen table as coffee was prepared. She sat, planning how to spend all the money. The coffee, fresh from the pot, being poured upon her bare neck and chest had not been predicted. Neither had the knife entering her chest.
* * * * *
Winter ignored all requests and overstayed its welcome by scoffing at spring and delivering a record-breaking snow that hung around until the second week of March. I continued my medicated performance during this time, somewhat wary of being caught, but confident that the attention the nurses provided patients was anything but diligent.
In fact, the night nurse for our section was one of the least concerned people. Overhearing the conversations of her co-workers, her lack of attentiveness and rough handling of the patients was unacceptable, but never challenged. The day nurses joked about “Killer Bertha” having been a professional lady wrestler before getting injured in a match. Those discussions ceased when the wooly mammoth arrived on duty. I believe she still longed for those nights in the ring and expressed her misery by body slamming patients.
We were confined two to a room. As stated before, a short stay was almost guaranteed by a lack of exercise, unnecessary medications, and depression. Roommates usually didn’t last long.
After exercising most of the night, I awoke early one morning to find Killer Bertha helping the system provide a vacancy. Her fat ass stared at me as she bent over my roommate. His thrashing about and attempts to fight off a pillow being held tightly against his face were proving fruitless. I had to do something to save him.
Grabbing a pen from my bedside table, I charged forward, hoping to push her ass off balance. Waddling atop my roommate, she rolled over to face her attacker. I jabbed the pen deep in her throat when she turned to rise. It was difficult to see the blood gush out under the red night lights, but I could feel it soaking my hand. Not wanting her around to debate my story, I rotated the pen to enlarge the hole to ensure her speedy demise.
Still, she fought back. Weakened, she struggled to grab hold of my arms to push me off. Panicking, she screamed out. I grabbed a pillow and held it against her face. It was the one she had used on my roommate. Her gasps for air became shallow and her muffled screaming stopped. All resistance stopped.
I removed the pillow and gazed at her face. For a moment, I experienced the pleasure of elation that flows through the victor when the battle is won. I shifted my gaze to see if my roommate could share in the moment of success. His unblinking eyes provided the answer.
During police questioning later that morning, I concocted a story about how I'd awakened to find the nurse bleeding with a pen in her neck. Having no idea how it had got there, my only concern was to save her. That, of course, was how all the blood had gotten all over me. The officer rolled his eyes in doubt, but after a week, they ruled the event a strange and mysterious accident. Besides, I was already in a jail, so to speak. Why change locations?
My actions had drawn unwanted attention. It was noticed my health wasn't failing as fast as most of the occupants. I had survived longer than any other inmate. And, in fact, exercising was building my health and body back up. I was displaying muscles only found in those much younger. I recognized my time there was limited. One night, I might be the one to wake with a pillow being held against my face.
Still hanging in the closet was the suit I'd worn during my arrival here, along with my shirt and shoes. They'd taken my belt as if they were worried I would possibly hang myself. Interesting, they'd put a pillow over your face and kill you but didn't want you to commit suicide. It might draw them unwanted attention.
It was the beginning of April and the days were warming up. Dew had taken the place of frost on the windows of the night shift's cars in the mornings. No longer did the sounds of ice scrapers shake me from my slumber. On sunny days, a nurse showed up and unlocked the windows, allowing a little fresh air inside. It smelled of Heaven, a place I didn't want to go to for a while.
The new night nurse in our section was as attentive as Killer Bertha had been. She stayed at her station all night, watching television on the computer. I'd wandered about one evening while she was watching an old movie. I stood behind her until the ending credits. She didn't even know I was there.
Lying in bed, it hit me. If she was watching television, she wasn’t watching the security monitors! My plan was now ready to put into action.
I waited until a stormy evening and well after the red lights had replaced the white. I shed my clothes and turned on the shower, knowing that the water would start the pipes clanking and draw the nurse’s attention. Within minutes, she arrived.
“What in the hell are you doing? Are you trying to wake everybody up? Don't you know what time of night it is?” Her voice exposed her disgust and her hands exposed my naked state as they pushed back the curtain. “You need to get out of there now. Can you do it on your own or do I have to help you?”
“I thought it was almost morning,” I responded, acting feeble as if my dementia was acting up. “Could you help me, so I don't slip and fall?”
“Here,” she said while tossing me a towel. “Dry off first. I don't want to get wet.”
When I'd finished drying off, she grabbed me under my arms and made a weak attempt at supporting me as I hugged on to her waist and stepped out with the towel still in hand. I placed the towel on top of the toilet cover and she tossed a fresh gown at me. She showed her impatience, tapping her toe against the floor, as I slowly slipped on the gown.
“Now, can you get back to bed on your own or do I have to help you with that, too?”
Acknowledging I could manage, she stormed out of the bathroom, angered at my disruption to her late-night television viewing. I lifted the towel atop the toilet, picked up the set of keys that I'd removed from her belt loop, and rushed to get dressed. Setting a desk chair by the wall, I found the key to the window lock. On the chair and out the window I climbed.
It was a grand experience, feeling the rain hit my face and my feet sink into the dirt of the flower bed. But, it was one I couldn't spare time to enjoy. Taking a chance, I held out the keychain under the outside lighting and found a key fob to a car. At the end of the parking lot, lights on a Toyota Prius flashed. Within seconds I was driving out onto the highway.
Behind the wheel, I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. I realized that the nurse could find her keys missing at any time and go back to my room and discover my escape. She would first call the supervisor and they would debate about calling the police. She'd then check and find her car missing. That's when the police would get a call.
I took the back roads I remembered and drove the twenty miles to the closest city. Parking the car in front of a college sorority house, I loc
ated a few dollars in change in the console, and left the car with the keys inside. If I was lucky, someone would see the keys and steal the car.
I walked a good ways, not knowing where I was, and found a sleeping place under a railroad trestle for the night. I can't remember what I did upon awakening, but by mid-morning I found myself walking along a highway traveling away from the city.
I'd walked a couple of hours and was tired, stumbling once or twice, before finding myself being picked up by an elderly gent named Jim. Riding down the road in his red pick-up, we talked as if we'd known each other for years. I did have to come up with a story about having been robbed by some college kids the night before and trying to head to my home in Kentucky on my own since the police didn't seem to care. Jim took pity upon my sad tale, handed me the fifty-six dollars he had in his wallet, and invited me to his home for a bite to eat.
I was skeptical and hesitated accepting. Oh, Jim seemed all right, but when was the last time anyone invited a hitchhiker to their home to eat? After the court fiasco, I'd told myself to never to be naive. I needed to know more.
Jim told me he lived alone on his farm. Seems most of his friends had died over the last few years and it was a lonely life. His only son lived hours away in Chicago. Jim bragged about how well he'd done by landing a high paying job at a law firm there. The son had money handling problems that had come to light as of late, though. In fact, he'd tried to convince his father to sell the farm and move into an assisted living facility. They'd butted heads and hung up mad at each other. It was the last time they'd talked.
“You know, since then, I've thought a lot about doing it,” Jim revealed. “I'm not just getting old, I am old. Too old to plow fields and take care of raising cattle. The farm's too much for me anymore. I thought about hiring workers, but then you gotta pay them and buy insurance to protect yourself if they get injured and sue you. Ain' hardly worth it. I even had one of those appraisals done to see what I could get for it.”
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