by James Newman
Of course, Larry is determined to get the last word.
“I’m just saying.” He moves back toward the door. “If he does try anything, I will not hesitate to take his old ass out.”
“Duly noted,” says Micah, “Now shut the fuck up.”
LARRY LAETTNER, 36 (BEFORE)
I still can’t believe they had the nerve to fire me. I gave those losers ten years of my life, worked overtime when they asked me to. Double shifts, holidays and weekends, covering so other folks could take their vacation time or just lay out of work altogether.
That’s not the worst part, though. It would have been bad enough if they had just let me go. But their reasons for firing me… that shit’s gonna stain my permanent record, man.
I’ll be lucky if I ever get a job in this field again. It’ll be a goddamn miracle if I get hired on at some other raisin ranch pumping out their fucking septic tanks.
They canned me for “elder abuse”.
Ain’t that rich?
After all I had done for them. I gave that place my life.
Here’s what I don’t get. Tell me if this makes any sense to you: I started working at that place not long after my twenty-fifth birthday. Had my CNA certification at the time. After a couple years, I decided I wanted to go further. Maybe I could even run the joint one day. So I took some classes, got my CNA II certification. Management said they admired my dedication. They wanted to pay for more schooling. So I worked toward getting my Practical Nursing License, on their dime. Next step: Registered Nurse. It was a short jump from there to D.O.N. All I had to do was take the classes, my employers would pay my way. A full ride. Can’t beat a deal like that.
But then… hold up. Slam on the brakes. As of yesterday morning, they decided to renege on their promises. Took it all back, as if it had never been anything but a cruel prank to begin with. Like they’d forgotten about the time (mine) and money (theirs) we had invested in this.
Fucking assholes. They’re lucky I don’t burn that place to the ground.
I had just finished another twelve-hour shift, eight p.m. to eight a.m. On my way out the door, the boss called me into his office.
And the next thing I know, I’m unemployed. Like some nigger headed for the welfare line.
The motherfucker canned me. There might even be criminal charges forthcoming, I’m told. “We’ll have to wait and see about that,” said the pencil-necked geek, not even having the balls to look me in the eye as he said it, “after I’ve had a chance to discuss this matter with my bosses.”
Motherfucker. I guess he wanted me to get down on my knees and beg for mercy.
It’s all that Rachel cunt’s fault. If she had just looked the other way, kept her trap shut, this never would have happened.
Okay. I can be honest here. I’m a man, and a man tells the truth.
I never really hurt the old geezers. At least, that wasn’t my intention.
I just did what I had to do to keep them in line.
Everybody does it. They tell you otherwise, they’re fucking liars. Even that tattletale bitch has done it once or twice, I’d bet a million dollars. She’d just never admit it.
See, the wrinkled old shitheads in places like this, they can be frustrating as hell. Ask anybody who’s ever worked in a rest home. Ask anybody who’s ever spent any amount of time around ’em. They’ll get on your last nerve, man. And they know exactly what they’re doing. They loooove to push you to your limit, make things as difficult as possible for you when you’re just trying to do your job, and then they start whining about it to anybody who’ll listen when you throw some of that attitude back in their ugly faces. My fellow care-givers call ’em “ornery”, but that always sounded a little too cute for my tastes. Like it’s some kinda personality trait that’s worth a laugh, but ultimately it’s harmless.
I don’t find it cute. At all. Some people might put up with that bullshit. Not me.
They oughta appreciate what we do for them. Think about where they’d be if they didn’t have folks like me looking after their best interests. They’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. Or, at best, living back home with families who don’t give a fuck about ’em, consider ’em nothing more than a big burden, while they sleep in their own piss and shit, thinking it’s 1962.
I compare ’em to misbehaved children. And everybody knows what you gotta do to keep spoiled little brats in line.
Gotta show ’em who’s boss. Remind ’em who’s in control.
Otherwise, they’ll walk all over you.
I never really hurt them, for Chrissake. That’s the injustice of it all.
A little pinch here, a gentle slap there. A twist of an earlobe or a nipple when they really needed to be shown the error of their ways.
It was never anything more than that. And I would hardly call that abuse. Hell, half of ’em are so batshit crazy you could do whatever you wanted to ’em; they wouldn’t remember it five minutes later.
It’s complete bullshit. I’m the victim here. Nobody sees that but me.
Did I mention it’s all her fault? The fucking ass-kisser. It’s probably how she got named “Employee of the Month” three times last year, pulling shit like this. And I’d heard rumors they were gonna offer her a big promotion soon.
It all started yesterday morning. I was making my six o’ clock rounds, passing out meds to the patients who required them. Don’t know what she was doing there in the first place, since she was supposed to be over on E Wing minding her own damn business.
She walked in on me just as I was leaning over old Mr. Edmondson. It was my job to make sure each of our residents received their meds every morning; Mr. Edmondson’s had been crushed up in a bowl of applesauce.
Mr. Edmondson had been admitted to the facility just a week or so before, and he kept complaining about his room. Refused to eat a bite of his breakfast until we moved him to a room with a window.
I leaned over him, informed him that he would eat or by God I would make him eat. Told him I didn’t understand why he was so insistent about a room with a view, since E Wing had the view of the golf course on the other side of the highway but the only thing we could offer on W was a cemetery in the distance (maybe he wanted that, I asked him, so he could sit there and ponder what he had to look forward to in the near future?).
“You ain’t got no right to tell me what to do,” he spat. “You look like a skinny little faggot to me.”
“Is that so?”
“Woulda whooped your ass back in the day, no contest. Faggot!”
I grabbed the spoon on the tray beside his bed. Scooped up a glob of applesauce.
With my free hand, I pinched the old bastard’s nostrils shut.
Only took a few seconds for him to open wide. Before long, he was swallowing that applesauce like he had never tasted anything so delicious.
It was hilarious.
“That’s what I thought.” I laughed, tossed the spoon back onto the tray. “Mmm-mmm, good!”
He started sobbing. Blubbering like a retard.
I gave him a flick on the forehead with my middle finger. “Won’t take you long to learn not to fuck with me, old man. Consider this lesson number one.”
I turned to leave.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Edmondson, bright and early!”
I banged my knee against the food cart when I saw the silhouette in the doorway.
It was that little hottie Rachel. She stood there with her arms crossed, nodding in this slow, sanctimonious way as if to say I knew it.
I gave a nervous chuckle. “Rachel. Hey. How… uh… how long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” she replied.
I glanced back over my shoulder at Mr. Edmondson.
“It’d probably be best for both of us, Rachel, if you just keep your mouth shut. You didn’t see anything.”
“Unfortunately,” she said, “I did.”
She whirled on her heels, left the room without another word.
I didn’
t chase after her. Didn’t want to make a scene.
Turns out she didn’t keep her mouth shut. Took her less than an hour, in fact, to blab about what she had witnessed. Must have met the boss at the door the second he walked in.
That brown-nosing bitch got me fired. She’d kept her cocksucker shut, I’d still have a job.
That’s why I came back this morning.
****
I couldn’t let it go. I’ve always been like that. You fuck me over, I will fuck you back twice as hard.
I had to make Rachel pay for what she had done to me.
It was a few minutes shy of seven a.m. when I knelt down beside the bitch’s new Accord, my pocketknife in hand.
I sliced her tires. Every one of ’em. Cut ’em deep, just like she had ruined me.
That’d show her.
But for the second time that week, she caught me red-handed.
I heard a little gasp behind me, looked up from my work on the final tire, to find her standing there.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said.
For whatever reason, it turned out she was leaving work early that day.
“Guess I’m busted.”
Her face scrunched up like she was going to cry.
“You didn’t have to say anything,” I told her as I stood. “Why did you tell?”
Behind us, her punctured tires made pitiful whining noises. Her Honda hunkered down on its rims like a dying animal finally giving up the ghost.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Larry?” she said with a sniffle.
“What are you gonna do about it? Security camera on this side of the lot’s been on the fritz for months. That makes it your word against mine, Rachel.”
I had almost forgotten: to make sure that would be the case, I needed to retrieve my pocketknife from her driver-side front tire. I bent, preparing to pull it out.
Rachel suddenly ran toward me, slapped me across my left cheek.
“Bitch!” I lunged for her.
She ran, back toward the building.
Halfway to her destination, she tripped. The contents of her purse spilled out across the asphalt: her keys, a tin of breath mints, her cell-phone, several tampons… and a bright-red can of pepper spray.
“No!” My heart skipped a beat. I scrambled for the pepper spray as it clinked against the curb.
As she was already on the ground, Rachel reached it first. She rolled to face me, pushed down on the button.
A stream of pure agony squirted into my face.
My eyes felt as if they were being clawed out of my skull by invisible talons, my sinuses like they had been lit on fire.
“Fucking bitch!” I roared.
I could still see, but just barely. I watched Rachel’s shape run for the closest entrance to the building, the side door of W Wing.
“Somebody help me!” she cried.
I followed close behind her, staggering like a man who has had too much to drink.
She fumbled for the key-card clipped to the breast pocket of her Scooby-Doo scrubs.
But then… she paused as something caught her attention off to our right.
“Mr. Trescott?” she said. “What are you doing out here?”
Through burning tears and chemical snot, I saw one of Rachel’s patients from E Wing rounding the corner of the building. Six-thirty in the morning, and the old fart was wandering around out here like he’d decided to make his escape.
The geezer was crying.
“Mr. Trescott, what’s wrong?” Rachel looked back and forth from me to her patient, from her patient to me. “Larry, don’t come any closer. Mr. Trescott, let’s get you back to your room.”
The old man stared at her, his bottom lip quivering. Tears glistened on his cheeks in the pinkish morning sunlight. He wore only blue pajama bottoms, no shirt or shoes. His wrinkled gray tits sagged almost to his stomach; the faded U.S. NAVY tattoo above his left nipple resembled a nasty blue-black bruise beneath his skin.
“Mr. Trescott, come with me. You shouldn’t be wandering around out here all alone.”
I took several steps toward Rachel, unsure of my next move. I didn’t really want to hurt her, contrary to what she obviously thought. I wasn’t a fucking criminal. Yet, she had slapped me. She had pepper-sprayed me.
“Larry, stay back! I mean it!”
She held her key-card up to the reader. The reader beeped, the little light changing from yellow to green. She jerked the door open, held it ajar with her butt, extended one hand toward Mr. Trescott.
“Mr. Trescott, please. Come inside now. Let’s go….”
I squeezed my eyes shut, as tightly as possible, trying to blink away the pain.
Footsteps, whispering through the dewy morning grass. Loud sobbing and wet, rasping breaths. Growing louder, closer.
Rachel screamed.
When I opened my eyes again, the old man was on top of her.
RACHEL WHETMORE, 20 (BEFORE)
Mr. Trescott was old, but far from weak. My knees buckled, and I fell backwards beneath his weight into a row of azalea bushes at the edge of the walk.
“Mr. Trescott!” I screamed. “What are you doing?”
We rolled out of the bushes, onto the sidewalk. The concrete scraped at my palms, my elbows. The old man’s breath burned hot on my face. I could smell the scrambled eggs he had eaten for breakfast. He had been normal then, mere minutes ago. I had spoken to him in his room, wished him a good day, and he wished me the same. Other than sounding a little depressed (understandable, as his wife had passed away last month), I hadn’t noticed anything wrong with him.
Now he wept with such soul-wrenching despair I might have cried with him if not for the fact that his hands were wrapped around my throat.
I couldn’t breathe. I kicked at Mr. Trescott, slapped at him. I could feel his penis through his pajamas, poking into my stomach. It was hard.
His hands squeezed tighter around my throat… tighter….
The pepper spray! Stupid—how had I forgotten it so quickly? After using it on Larry, I had dropped it into my breast pocket. If I was lucky, there might be a squirt or two left in the can (was the stuff reusable? I had no idea).
I fumbled for it. Couldn’t get it out. Barely had any strength left at all….
“Mr.… Trescott… p-please….” And suddenly I was free. I could breathe! The old man’s weight lifted off of me.
“Get the fuck off her,” I heard someone say.
I coughed as sweet oxygen flooded my brain.
I looked up to see Larry’s hand in my face. An offer to help me stand. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it.
I allowed him to help me up. Rubbed at my throat with my free hand.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” Larry exclaimed. “He acts like he’s gone crazy!”
“I don’t—”
But before we had a chance to discuss it, Mr. Trescott was on his feet again too.
He tackled Larry below the knees.
All the while, the old man’s sobs echoed across the parking lot.
Larry punched him, bloodying Mr. Trescott’s nose.
I staggered toward them, tried to pull Mr. Trescott off of Larry. But there was nothing for me to grab onto, as he was only wearing his pajama bottoms.
“Mr. Trescott, please!” I cried.
Larry kicked him in the balls.
The old man shrieked, rolled off of Larry and onto the sidewalk.
“Get inside!” Larry shouted my way. “Go!”
My mind swirled with fear, confusion, and disorientation (what just happened? What’s wrong with Mr. Trescott? Why did Larry save me, as much as he hates my guts? Do I let him inside the building? He doesn’t work here anymore! He hurt our residents, vandalized my car… but then he SAVED me! What do I DO?!). Everything was happening too fast. My limbs were numb. I could still feel phantom hands wrapped around my throat. A dull ache throbbed at the base of my skull.
“I… you—”
“Go!” Larry shouted again. “Get inside!”
I remembered my cell-phone, spilled across the parking lot with the other contents of my purse. It was too far to reach. Mr. Trescott was on his feet again, and even as he held his injured crotch through his pajamas he limped across the lawn, quickly closing the distance between us. As if nothing else mattered but getting his hands around my throat again.
I stumbled for the door. Held up my key-card. The reader beeped.
I pulled open the door. Waited for Larry to join me. I don’t know why I chose to allow him inside. I suppose because he had saved me. I felt I owed him one. Just one.
Or… perhaps I sensed that something much worse than our own discord lay in wait for us. An evil that had already spread its tentacles across our lives, we just didn’t know the extent of it yet. Mr. Trescott’s psychotic behavior was only the beginning.
The old man ran at Larry again. Larry kicked him in the stomach. Mr. Trescott hit the ground with a grunt.
“Go!” Larry collided with me, pushing me through the doorway.
The door slammed shut behind us.
Once we were safe inside, Larry bent over, his hands on his knees. “Jesus Christ. What was that?”
“I don’t know,” I wept. “I don’t understand what’s going on. What’s wrong with Mr. Trescott? Why would he—”
“You tell me,” Larry said. “He’s one of yours. No history of dementia? Agitation/aggression? Violent outbursts?”
“Nothing like that. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always been the sweetest thing. So kind, so gentle.”
“Yeah, well… not so much anymore.”
We turned to see Mr. Trescott — one of my favorite patients, a man who I had never heard utter the smallest complaint —pounding furiously at the door. All the while, he never stopped sobbing. His fists smeared blood, spit, and tears across the glass as if, since he could not get to us, the old man now cursed Larry and me from afar with arcane symbols drawn with his own bodily fluids.
After a few more seconds, his face was obscured entirely.
IV.
“What’s the situation with the cell-phones?” asks Micah. “Has anybody tried theirs lately?”
