Spittoon U Corner gives students the opportunity to showcase their creative writing.
9:45 AM, Monday, the heat was oppressive, clouds unmoving, the sky a toxic blue. Everything burning, heavy as planks. The trees, the roads, the laden heaps of trash, the birds breaking away in their lazy V’s; the people, with their backs turned towards the sun, ambled along, burdened with groceries, breathable garments sodden with sweat. Their faces were scrunched up, moisture collecting where the lips creased, the cheeks moved.
I walked the curbs, making my way to the bus stop. I could smell it in the air, like slip-streams fanning in deltas behind the wings of a jet-plane, the heat-devils, those distant shimmers. On the front of stores, against the hues of oncoming traffic, delirious, making one short of breath, suspicious of desert camels.
I frowned and cringed from years of traversal: The suction — chemicals overdosed to drown out the natural odors of excrement — the curlicues of smoke — spent buds on the floor — the loitering throngs of middle-aged riff-raff: I was near the public restroom! I drew in air, covered my nose, ran at a respectful trot and was out of earshot, noseshot of the place, not daring to overhear the chatter, the snoring of poor dogs clothed in shit.
Ventilating, having ceased staring, I sauntered to the lee of the bus stop, to catch my breath and to take shelter from that white hot devil in the sky. It stayed motionless, the sun, menacingly, defying us to do something, anything. I heard sighs around and behind me, older folks fanning at their sweat-laden, fatigue-leaden faces.
A tap on the shoulder, I turned around; it was an acquaintance of my parents’. A middle-aged man in a wife-beater, short trousers, fraying flip-flops, his face glossy, just like mine. Heavily-accented, he asked me about my father, how I was doing, college, the weather. Evidently, rumors and gossips had gotten out, that I had enrolled in a community college. It had been a last resort, nothing I am proud of. I nodded, nodded, acquiesced in a few affirmative words. Seconds went by in a package of sixty…interminable. He spat at me with spittle. A mosquito flying by, ready to pounce held me transfixed, the sighs of the elders.
Noticing my disinterest, or more than likely, the sign up the street advertising draught beer – everyone knew of his habits – he hastily bade me goodbye and scurried off. I cursed at his back and went looking for the schedule: 4 minutes until arrival.
A pram came up, on which I nearly tripped. The “mother” bored at me behind her shades. I gave a curt cringe, making snowed under my breath, a short perfunctory apology. She went to the other side, taking a respite under the awning, a drink of water. There was not a baby inside the pram. It was a small schnauzer, its head peeking over the lip to get a sip of drink from the loving mouth of its owner. The elders around me admonished the sight. I shrugged. 1 minute until arrival.
A huff, a puff and a rattle of something hydraulic, the bus had broken away from the stream and flowed flush with the curb. The door hissed again and a ramp was made for one of the elders. She had a wheelchair. I just noticed. I waited in queue. I scanned the QR and was let in.
The woman was blocked on the landing by the conductor who pointed at a legend beside the door, the one with a small pet and a big black cross superimposed upon the pet. She was agitated, about to make a scene. Her hands were in her bag, rummaging for something, her phone certainly, screwed up to put such injustices on record.
The driver blocked off in his little cubicle, couldn’t say a thing, was not allowed to; the passengers in the back, feeling the heat interloping, exhorted for her to get off. The woman rummaged still and would have carried on, but for a yelp from the pram left outside. Her head whipped back at an almost cartoon-ish speed.
Stepping off, cradling her charge, the woman uttered not a word as she cleared away from the bus; the door hissed to a close and there was a mild cheer from among the elders. I had merely looked on at the front, for the lady had a pretty face.
The rush of AC jacked up to maximum! 15 degrees centigrade. There was a seat in the back. I trotted there with all my worries left outside. I looked out as I trotted, curious where the woman and dog had gone. They had stayed. The woman was typing away on her phone; a small van swerved in-lane and she was gone from my sight, what a shame! No matter, I had one and a half hours to myself. I would be able to come up with something better.
The seat was cool, the leather worn but cool, the window panes I touched, scratched but cool. I inhaled, exhaled, cool airs circulating through my body. I opened flat my palms, sweat evaporating, hair drying, my clothes, my mind. I was in a slow-moving fridge. I wanted to be some of the many cheeses. Fermented, slightly acidic but not repugnant. Cheeses, cows, milk maids. I drifted off to unconscious, with alarms set to go off upon arrival. Cheeses, cows, milk mai….
Two eyes were staring at me. I had come to, discreetly wiping my face. The cabin emptied, leaving just the two of us. My head buzzed, a foggy noodle, my mouth dry. I had left the water bottle back home. Damn woman!
He was seated across from me. White shirt, stained with sweat, a new-comer? He wore shortie pants, dainty shoes. He had on a pair of pince-nez. The man was a barrel. The shirt bulged, like tarp on a whale carcass being towed ashore. Those pants, those wretched shorties barely clung to life. The seams were on the threshold of popping, the creases. The spectacles and shoes tilted his body towards some semblance of civility. The seat bowed. His asses fanned out like some flesh-eating flower. Body hair, veins. They tightened around him like poison ivies, dark patches on his white shirt.
The bus had stopped. I scurried out of the cabin, got off and spared another glance at that elephant of a man. He had closed his eyes. I dared not make any assumption and hurried off where the signs pointed.
The entrance was still a mile away from Dad’s room. Taking shelter in the lee of an on-call room near the perimeter, I readied myself, for this was a challenge and sprinted, gesticulating under the sun, sawing through like bullets in the air; I could smell hair singeing, skin burning, blackening, curling, the stench of burning flesh.
11:25 AM, I had arrived.
White walls, sterile, black stripes going across the ceilings. Flickering bar-lights, the smell of detergent, people wailing. Corridors grew like branches on a metallic tree, thronged with instruments, strange wheels spinning, bellows and weights. Windows were curtained and barred. The AC droned on, drowning the hustle outside, the heat. The reception was to the left of the landing; Dad’s room was diagonal to the reception.
I had been a long time finding the proper corridor, the proper branch, the proper room. Everything looked the same and the air choked me. Chemical, acrid. Nurses and the attending staff flitting through and across, like beautiful volumes stacked in a second-hand bookstore. The contrast was immense. I asked, they replied and I went this way and that. If there were one thing to be said about convalescence homes, it would be that they had piss-poor signage.
Room 25, where Dad was. Mom was waiting outside. She waved at me. I had gone the wrong way again. Turning around, I waved back. Your dad is not in his room; he’s on the can, she said. I wended down to the end of the corridor and waited, nose-pinched. I was almost sick. The cleansing chemicals, rancid, rank.
He came out, dressed casual, leaning on his left side, right side drooping precipitously. His right arm was crooked, right hand wilted in a tight clench. He wore blue and his pants were a shade of coffee. His right cheek sloped ever downwards, his eyes, brows, even hair. Don’t get him too emotional, Mom had told me. There they were, welling like thrown torches down an empty cave, the stunted emotions trying to get out, light shining where it had not shone in months, not since the brain haemorrhage. His eyes quivered, his lips, his Adam’s apple. An unnatural indrawn of breath.
He stood unmoving, like the world outside, diseased, not as it had once been; like the sun staring down, earth moving in its orbit. There was no menace. Ostensibly, there was nothing there. His face had grown ossified. Tears, short bursts like flash-rains washed the corners of his eyes. Sudden. That’s the word. Everything he now did was sudden, seemingly unpremeditated.
One foot before the other, as the instructor had taught, he staggered forward. Mom had told me to hold him in the crook of his busted arm. I complied. The rhythmic sobbing, the involuntary twitches all the more apparent, the closer one got. We made our way back thus. I was growing used to the droning, of the AC, of nurses talking, patients in wheelchairs slobbering.
All rooms had sliding doors. All rooms had four beds, spacious enough to hold eight occupants, four patients, four family members sleeping on the cold linoleum floor. The air smacked of ammonia, there was only one ventilation grille, just above Dad’s bed. Plastic partitions, when need be, were drawn to form some sort of privacy, though, through the glass-panel in the door, the medical staff stood watch at all times. There was a small writing bureau at the end of the room, against the only window, where the paraplegic, worst of the four, had taken up residence, bound to his wheelchair, his bed un-rumpled. Outside, a revved engine occasionally muffed its way across the sill. The snores were never interrupted. The other two had had it just a bit worse.
Dad’s bed was just next to the door, against the inner-wall stacked his personal effects, some had been taken from home. A small desk, a hamper, a little trolley below which lying concealed, was a small fridge. The instrument panel above the headboard showed empty. A stick-light had been plugged in, whisker-thin when on. The mattress was hard, harder than my ex’s. No sharp edges were unprotected.
I led Dad to the bed, sat him down, took a step back and watched. His eyes were rheumy, the sobbing had stopped. Mom had trimmed his hair fresh, sides groomed, crown bluff-high, not a mohawk, but something close. Looking at him, I wanted to cry, nearly choked. I turned away, trying to banish all thoughts.
His face was haggard, yet shaven. He was wooden, like a puppet whose strings were being reattached. Porous skin leathery like surgical gloves spread uneven. He had thinned down so as though a scimitar had done the job. The sleeves of his blue short ran rings over the blades, hanging limp. He was sick.
The underground river. The ceiling lowers, grows wet, the water rushes into darkness. The air becomes damp and icy, the passage narrows. Light is lost here, sound; the current begins to flow beneath great, impassable slabs.
“Shhhit…downn and let me jet a clother look at you.”
That had been rather laborious, working through lips half-arrested. Dad couldn’t talk now. Wheeze, he could do no more than wheeze. I complied and sat beside him. The man was empty, a balloon without air. Passive. I recalled at that moment the picture hanging in the master bedroom, of me piggybacking on Dad’s shoulders. I had been three. We were at the zoo. Mom waved a stick of cotton candy in the background. I had on a little red cap. Dad was the tallest man in the world, the strongest.
He had been in his mid-thirties. Today, turning 51, he perched, drained, nearly felled, on a metallic bed-frame in a convalescence home, more than wrecked.
That had been the purpose of my visit, to wish him a good one. June 10th, the date of his birth.
“Yoo…pat on a loot of wayyt.”
I had and I managed a smile at the remark. Mom chimed in. There was at last a short stream of murmur in the room. The lighting was not good, dimmed. Mom went and turned on the stick-light. We talked for a while more. It’s nearly lunchtime. Dad’s birthday, we were dining fine.
12:02 PM, we went out, Dad in his wheelchair. I pushed.
12:25 PM, we had arrived at the restaurant.
Green Tea, the name of the restaurant. It stood on the second floor of a mall. Faux-Chinese, with imitation wood-paneling, plastic partitions, serving staves in cheap, baggy long gowns with short sleeves. The windows were barred by rickety shelves in the shape of some mystical hieroglyph, looking out onto nothing. An open-concept kitchen. The air smelled delectable, scented by incense and the dishes floating by. There was a small fountain near the center where goldfish bopped over the finish line, as like as not. The entrance was framed by palm fronds. Vacant seats in case of overflows.
We were shown in, the place was nearly packed. Wheeling Dad around had not been easy, the trip here done up by the sun. My shirt was drenched on the back, bare arms, legs. My socks were sodden, sweat covering my eyes. We had taken a cab from the exit-lip of the home. It had not been of much help. The one-mile from within. The seeking-after this Chinese tea-house. The respite had been too short.
In a corner seat, we sat. Dad’s wheelchair had been tucked away in the dark. Menus were handed to us. The waitress, clearly part-time, was rather easy to look at. Light makeup, skin pristine, body well-formed beneath this barrel of a garment. She wore sports shoes. A shame the mandatory mask covered up half her face, a shame. Her eyes shone through.
I continued panting, shifting my eyes here and there, unable to converse, chugging water when the burning became unbearable. I’m not a strong man, not prone to muscular growth. I detest physical exertions, the act of moving about. The previous hour had been a true challenge but I had borne it head on. My head was swarming with little stars. The lighting was subdued here, to give rise to an atmosphere. They failed, yet I could almost see those little stars floating above us, against the ceiling. I should really lie down and have a rest.
Mom did the picking, reading out occasionally at Dad’s discretion. We had been to other locations of this chain before. We knew the drill. The same old stir-fries, soups, birthday pot noodles, desserts and drinks. At present, in such a state, Dad craved remembrance. Something old, something familiar, nothing new. Having given the order, my parents went on to chat. I had yet to regain the ability to speak. My face had acquired a fine sheen, reflective to any source. I sat back and listened.
Dad handed me a tissue paper to wipe down. I did. They carried on talking. Typical reminiscences about the past: Films they had seen, people they had met, the hours, the weathers, places lush with nature, things they had done when they were young. Interspersed with Dad’s sudden sob, suddenly begun, ending just so.
As I saw him now in public settings, away from the sterility of chemicals and the medical staff, he was not that off-base. He looked normal enough. Against the well-shined background of an imitation panel, his loping right side was barely perceptible, leaning on an armrest, resting his arm. Nothing alarming. The sagging shirt? He had lost weight. Slurred speech? An impediment.
It’s the eyes that gave him away, if anyone cared to look. Lifeless, wooden, swiveling, zooming like a fly in flight, never able to seize on one place and hold it there, his eyes were chronically blood-shot, from the sobbing, from the disease in his head, mind, which made a shriveled man of this once giant, over yonder standing tall, level with the sky.
He now looked so small, weak. The trade-off was to get his life back, life in the literal sense, the physiological. He would never be able to have full autonomy, never function normally as before. He would, for the rest of his life, require the assistance of others. What a fall from grace!
The dishes had started arriving. There had been an error. Some were not ours. Some didn’t meet Mom’s requests. I am vegetarian. Dad only eats halal. Sent back, both the dishes and the waitress. The receding back intrigued me. I looked on as she went. I turned back as she rounded a corner and was gone out of my sight. Beyond the entrance, overflows stirred, restive, uneasy. The group next to ours were vacating. Anon somebody should be getting the good news.
Dad had grown hesitant, like a man sitting for an exam, unable to choose the right answer. All the old and inter-connected knowledge was unchanged, but the structure that held them was dissolving. Dad balked at using chopsticks, at which dish to scoop from. He leaned on his left. He’s right-handed. Crockery of-times got flipped, smashed on the ground, grease-stains-perennial accoutrements to his clothes. His body had turned against him; the harmony the once reigned within it had disappeared.
Today being Dad’s 51st birthday, Mom had ordered him birthday pot noodles. I sat the furthest away. I could see the bowl coming over, steam wafting. The bowl was on our table. The man had gone. The soup, a typical fish-stock with a thin film of grease floating on top; The noodles, from a bag, hard as stones; the garnishes, a mixture of rape and minced shrimps. There was a yin-yang egg placed to one side. Mom began scooping for Dad. I held the bowl firm as he ate. A new group were coming up to us. They had received the good news. There was a clank as a tray was tipped over, the shouts of the staff.
Mom had finished. I had struggled through labored breaths and had some to eat. Mom was wiping Dad’s mouth. The waitress was called over. I surreptitiously glanced at her as she and Mom talked, about receipts and ways of payment. Mom went away, to the front desk. On her way, she motioned for me to fetch the wheelchair and lead Dad out. Carefully, with Mom staying ahead to clear the way, I wheeled Dad out, through the entrance, the chattering of the overflows. We went down in a cargo elevator, reached the first floor. Stepping out and down the ramp, we went once more into the fray.
1:55 PM, we had returned.
Dad was going to take a shower, Mom to help. My aunt and uncle were on their way to pick me up. The heat killed at this hour. I waited a bit, dawdling, doing what little I could to help put away the knick-knack, the miscellaneous.
At 2:10 PM sharp, I left the convalescence home. Dad had gone into the shower, Mom beside him. I closed the door on my way out. The clock clanged. The lights were out. Siesta-time for the infirm. The medical staff were taking a lounge during the lull, checking their phones, fixing their makeup. The spinning wheel contraption I had seen upon arrival hummed even in rest mode, the red-lights on. Taking a left, I went downstairs. There was the car, waiting for me. The AC was on.
Driving away, I fiended sleep, rest from the hurry. I dozed off in the passenger-seat. The radio was on low, the road flat. Ferns and late-season begonias swayed gentle in a hot breeze. Out the exit-lip, borne on the waves, we went on, homeward bound.
All the funny faces.
E. J. Shepard, born in Beijing, is an avid reader, wannabe writer and dreamer of all that’s probable. Currently attending college, he has aspirations to become a novelist and screenwriter. (P.S. He also likes stuff from the 60s).