by Larry Buhl
The essays were pretty good, but not brilliant. Good essays were not enough for Caltech. And admission into Caltech would make up the chain of FoFas and the case managers-of-the-month. It would make up for my biological grandmother and her Jesus fetish. It would make up for my BiMo, her undiagnosed mental illness, every man who dumped her, and everything that had gone wrong in her life. Caltech was supposed to fix everything.
At 7:02 I deleted the whole bee essay. I chose to use the adrenalin rush to create a masterpiece in three hours. Here’s some advice when applying to a highly selective college. Don’t do what I did.
By 7:45 I had written a new opening paragraph.
I read a fascinating news story that suggests mayonnaise is not the reason so many people are sickened by potato salad at picnics. It may be the onions. Sliced onions are bacteria magnets. Within hours, raw onions have attracted every nearby airborne pathogen. My point is, scientists should always question assumptions. Now, about me.
At 7:50 I looked up “successful college essays” on Google, with the intent to lightly borrow from one of them. I saw no examples worthy of the greatest scientific university in the nation.
At 8:30 I smacked my forehead with my biology II book.
At 8:50 I composed a short letter explaining why I could not submit my essay along with the application.
Dear Admissions Committee,
It is impossible to complete the essays on time due to the chemotherapy I am undergoing. You may be asking, why, if Tyler is capable of typing this letter, is he not capable of typing out an essay? Good question.
At 9:05 I began to rewrite my original essay from memory. I finished at 9:25, and proofread until 9:55. I attached it to my application at 9:56 and pressed send. I was calm for one minute. My fate was sealed. I changed into my work scrubs.
Some say they feel a sense of elation after meeting an important deadline. That’s not what I experienced. I felt a cluster of emotions that I could not identify. But I was pretty sure none was positive.
I found a fifty-dollar bill on the refrigerator, held with a cartoon cactus magnet. There was a note on the white board, in Carl’s handwriting. Money is from Mrs. Kim. Didn’t want to disturb you. Took Eddie trick or treating. Had fun!
Then, a note in Janet’s writing. I think we’re a good influence on Eddie!! Check messages!
I pulled out the phone from my Box o’ Crap. I turned it on and it tinkle-tinkled to life and then beeped. Two voice mail messages were from Sun. I surmised that she wanted me not to tutor Eddie, but take him trick-or-treating. One was from Carl, saying he had given Sun my cell number.
I had received $50 for nothing. I could live with that.
But something was wrong. Eddie’s mother paid to have someone take him trick-or-treating. Not even his nanny/housekeeper could be bothered to take him. Did real parents do that kind of thing? I couldn’t process this, because I was brain dead. But it didn’t seem right.
I was starving and it was too late for a real dinner. I was out of Honey Bunches of Oats, so I settled for a packet of Carl’s organic instant hot muesli. I was still staring at the note about trick-or-treating when I realized the microwave had been beeping for a long time. I had fallen asleep standing up.
I took my not-quite-so-hot-anymore oatmeal out and stirred it. Seconds later the oatmeal was splattered against the stainless steel refrigerator. I stared at the glop long enough to question why I had just thrown it. Then I cleaned the refrigerator and the floor before leaving for Colonial Gardens.
THIRTEEN
To: All Staff
Re: Tabitha
If you hear cooing sounds coming from the commons, be aware that it is our newest addition to Colonial Gardens: Tabitha, a ten pound baby seal. Have we reversed our pet policy? Not exactly! Some residents may want to pet her. By all means, let them! Tabitha is loving and gentle, but she will fuss if you touch her eyelashes. You’ll be surprised to learn she’s not real. This animatronic seal is a gift from the Herbert Kling family. But don’t tell Tabitha she isn’t alive!
Cecelia Platt
**
On the second night at Colonial Gardens, Milagro Sanchez did not ask me to read from the Bible or any other book. She insisted on showing me photos from her own Box o’ Crap, an ancient pink makeup case covered with little mirrored diamonds and crusted with dirt. The first photograph was of a small boy sitting on a horse. There was a woman in a red sleeveless dress next to him. I inquired whether the photo was of her and her son, even though the woman didn’t look anything like Milagro. She pointed to me.
In my short time at Colonial Gardens, several residents had mistaken me for other people. Mr. Tate thought I was a kid he beat up in grade school. Mrs. Ambrose was certain that I was her grandson. Mrs. Chernyk was convinced I was coming to evict her from her house.
“That’s not a picture of me,” I said. But Milagro didn’t think I was the boy in the photo. She wanted me to have the photo. I understood this when her roommate, Edna, snarled, “take the picture ya dumb flapjack.”
I put the photo back in her box and replaced the box on the nightstand. “You need your rest, because…” I was going to add something she had to do the next day. But there was likely nothing she had to do the next day.
I took my last break in the outdoor courtyard. The tattooed guy I met the first night in the rest room was sitting on a bench, half lit by a dim security light. I saw a tiny orange glow in front of his face.
“Hey, my man,” he said.
I looked closer. He was taking a drag off a pipe, which was definitely not filled with tobacco. He held the smoke in his lungs and introduced himself as “Kel.” He volunteered a lot of information before I said so much as “hello.” I learned he had been in trouble with the law and might go back to school to study pharmacy. Even if he didn’t go back to school, he would not be a janitor in a nursing home for long. He said all of that before exhaling, which indicated to me that he was somewhat of a pro at pot smoking.
In an attempt to find some common ground I informed him about my infamous sex and drugs campaign speech at school.
Kel held out the pipe. I leaned back a bit and told him I couldn’t smoke because I needed to stay awake. There was another reason, which I didn’t tell him. I had never smoked pot before. I know, shocking.
“Got it,” he said. “If you need a little sumthin-sumthin to help keep you going, you know where I’m at.”
“Where are you at?”
“All around,” he said, making a rolling motion with his hand.
The rest of the shift was a blur, including shower time. I was about to clock out when I heard an animal squawk coming from the end of the corridor. I rushed to the source of the sound, nearly doing a summersault over an empty wheelchair. In room D119, Mrs. Hotchkiss appeared to be accosted by an enormous fuzzy turd. After closer inspection, it was clear that the turd was the animatronic baby seal, Tabitha. The robot-seal made another sound, this time a more contented wwwwAAAAAAAAAA. Its head turned and eyelashes fluttered.
Mrs. Hotchkiss informed me that Tabitha wanted me to pet her. My shift had been over for five minutes and I didn’t feel like bonding with a fur robot. But Mrs. Hotchkiss insisted. I approached the thing tentatively. I reached out just as Tabitha’s head moved toward me, causing me to accidentally jab my finger in its eye. The thing made a mewing sound and jerked away.
“You’ve hurt Tabitha,” the woman said.
I informed her that the seal wasn’t real. This made her angry. “I know she isn’t real,” she snapped. She continued petting it and apologizing for the “rude and angry young man.”
I looked over at her roommate for moral support. But she was gazing forward at the soundless television, mouth agape, at a commercial for a pasta maker.
On the third night, Milagro Sanchez’s light was flashing as I arrived at my station. When I reached her room, she was already holding the pink box on her lap. She offered me a photo of a large family at a wedding. I asked her if that was
her wedding. As usual, she didn’t answer.
She handed me another picture. This one was a girl with crooked teeth standing behind a cake with seven candles. The girl wore a Hello Kitty shirt. Milagro made a Catholic cross gesture with her hand, kissed the photo and handed it to me. This time, instead of putting the photos back in her box, I placed them in the breast pocket of my scrubs.
Later, I explained the situation to Ruth and Darla. I asked them what I was supposed to do with Milagro’s photos. Ruth took a closer look at the wedding photo, squinted and cocked her head. There was something wrong. Not only did nobody look especially Hispanic, there was a Star of David on the wall. “She’s giving you pictures of someone else’s family,” Ruth said. Darla said that wasn’t surprising, because Milagro had advancing dementia. They offered advice. Ask questions about the people in the pictures. That would stimulate Milagro’s mind, even if she couldn’t answer.
The lounge appeared to be empty on my last break. On the TV was an infomercial on how to profit through real estate, hosted by two brothers who were also midgets. I’m not making this up. I flopped down on the leatherette sofa with soft pfffft—that was the sound of the sofa, not me—and closed my eyes. I didn’t even look for the remote to mute the midgets. That’s how tired I was. My last thought was a book report I once wrote on Hans Christian Andersen. He feared being buried alive and he kept a note by his bedside. I am only sleeping, do not bury me.
I awoke when something fell in my lap. Kel stood over me. He had given me a bag of yellow pills.
“I feel your pain, dude,” he said. “These oughta help.”
“Speed?” Darla’s voice came from the vicinity of a recliner facing the wall.
“Yellow jackets,” he said. “The real stuff with Ephedra. They don’t sell it over the counter anymore. The new stuff is all caffeine.”
“If they don’t sell it anymore then it can’t be legal. It’s speed and speed is a drrrrr-ug!” She was now peeking from behind the recliner.
“You smoked out with me.”
“That’s different. Pot is organic. Did you get Tyler stoned?”
On the word stoned, Mrs. Platt entered, as if on cue. Kel grabbed his mop and bolted. Darla hoisted her pregnant body out of the chair and waddled out. I was left holding the bag, literally. There was no way I could quickly stuff the pills in my pocket without looking suspicious. I considered tossing them onto the sofa and pretending I hadn’t even seen them.
Mrs. Platt collapsed on the sofa. It protested with a squeaky puff that was nearly indistinguishable from the sound of her sigh. She stared blankly at the midget brother infomercial. This allowed me to make a quick getaway. I took the bag of pills that I hadn’t asked for.
After four days on the night shift, I still had not informed Carl or Janet about my work schedule. My sin of omission became salient in the morning, during a brief interregnum between my shift and school. I found them sitting at the breakfast nook with two cell phones, a notepad, a box of tissue, and Janet’s sister, Fiona, between them. Janet’s typically well-coiffed hair was askew and her eyes were slightly puffy. For a moment all of the air seemed to be sucked out of the room. I know that’s impossible—although I once observed a science fair experiment that sucked all the oxygen out of a box—but that’s how it seemed.
I was in trouble. I was anxious. I made a list of grocery items in my head, starting with antacids.
Janet stood. “Tell us the truth. We deserve it. Are you in a gang?”
“A gang?” Carl said. “Janet, that’s just silly.”
Throat lozenges, toilet tissues, Honey Bunches of Oats, soy milk…
Janet stood. “Where have you been at night?”
They were looking at me. “I work at a nursing home,” I said, meekly.
“There,” Fiona said. “Have I offered enough support? Can I go home and sleep?”
“Thanks for telling us.” Janet directed this to me, in a tone that indicated she wasn’t thankful. She sent her cigarette flying into the sink.
“You probably should have told us,” Carl said, in a gentler tone.
“That accounts for nights,” Janet said. “Where are you after school?”
“Nursing class.”
Janet made some puffing sounds that indicated she was appalled. “When do you sleep?”
“Weekends.”
“I used to live like that,” Fiona said. “Except I slept during the week and stayed up all weekend.”
“You were a groupie,” Janet snapped. “I don’t think that’s a good role model for him.”
“I was a music publicist,” Fiona said, as if she’d had this conversation a hundred times.
Janet pointed at me. “You have to quit.”
“We can’t make him quit,” Carl said.
“And you rode your bike. At night. When I asked you not to. How many nights have you been gone? Do you have any concern for anyone else? You skulk around here, write notes and never answer your phone. What are we supposed to think?”
Bananas, saline solution, tissues…
“He’s almost an adult,” Fiona said.
Janet folded her arms tight against her torso. “But he’s not an adult. We’re responsible.”
“I told you,” Fiona said. “You can’t make up for the past.”
Janet spun on Fiona. “When you’ve raised a kid, then come back and tell me how to do it.”
“Oh, lovely,” Fiona said. “So glad I rushed over here at the butt crack of dawn for a verbal spanking.”
“You didn’t raise me,” I said to Janet. Nobody heard me because I said it softly, and because a three-person argument had already started. I was going to be late for school, so I backed out of the kitchen and let them continue.
After I finished my morning business, Fiona was gone and Carl and Janet were waiting at the front door. My brain couldn’t sensor my mouth as quickly as it usually did. “I need this job!” I ran out the door, past the lawn sprinklers and the For Sale by Owner signs. It was the first time I had talked back to a FoPa, with the exception of the time I told the preacher that all religion was bunk, and in that case I had been calmly telling the truth.
FOURTEEN
Dear Carl and Janet,
In my working life I have been propositioned, berated, screamed at, lied to, scalded, cheated, proselytized, and demoralized. At Colonial Gardens, the only negative experience was being urinated on, and that’s because many residents on my wing are incontinent. The important point is, Colonial Gardens is by far the best place I’ve ever worked. The cost of tuition, room, board, and books at Caltech is nearly $50,000 a year. Even if I receive the maximum financial aid through loans and grants, I will still need to cough up nearly ten grand for just the first year. My dream has been, for years, to attend Caltech. I will need to keep this job in order to accomplish it.
Sincerely,
Tyler
I sent the letter in a series of text messages to Janet’s cell phone. They couldn’t deny me the chance to earn income. They were supposed to make my life easier, not harder.
I thought about what they might do to me and how I should respond. I thought about this in every class, except for three times. Two times were during Creative Soul, when Zoe did an interpretive dance in a very revealing top, and when she did a face-buzz vocal warm-up that involved humming and shaking her fist, which caused other parts of her to shake.
The other time I didn’t think about Carl and Janet was after German class, when I was ambushed by Jann-Otto and Annette-Barbel. The confrontation had the makings of a bloodless coup. They gravely made the case that I had fallen down on my duties. It was true. As the leader of German club, I hadn’t scheduled a meeting since the kick-off. I hadn’t planned to convene any more.
“If you don’t care about the club, then you should at least care about the German program,” Annette-Barbel said. She breathlessly informed me of budget cutbacks that would likely lead to the elimination of all underperforming programs.
I tol
d them I would schedule a meeting in a few weeks.
“We figured you would say that, so we worked everything out,” Jann-Otto said. He handed me a sheet of paper with a list of bullet points. How to Save German. Under the headline was the first item. Increase enrollment. They were a verbal tag team, rattling off the agenda for carrying out their plan. There would be a party, with an Oktoberfest theme. Each of us would invite 50 students who were not already taking German. Jann-Otto would be delegating most of the responsibilities, in turn for the titles of social chair and co-chancellor. “I already put it on my application to Stanford,” he said.
I told them it was fine. I had already put German Club chancellor on my application. Whatever they wanted to do now would be irrelevant.
I was checking my messages at lunch in the courtyard when I heard a girl’s voice behind me. “Very un-cool, what you did to your parents.” It sounded like Rachel. Because I didn’t have any parents, I assumed the comment was not for me. I didn’t turn around.
“Not talking to me either,” she said.
I turned. Rachel stood with her hands on her hips. I dropped my pickle. It rolled under a nearby bench. Some jock kicked it under the next bench.
“Your mother called me this morning. She was wondering where you were.”
