Living the Good Death

by Scott Baron

Most of those who had tickets seemed to congregate together, almost as though some invisible rope cordoned off the travelers from the homeless, though no such physical barrier was present. It didn’t seem a conscious decision on their part, but more a natural tendency of people to gather with those similar to themselves. In any case, the more permanent residents didn’t seem to mind one bit.

  Dorothy spotted an inviting bench nearby and plopped her exhausted body down on an open seat by two rather grungy teenagers. They were engrossed with a show on one of the TV sets spaced throughout the terminal to keep waiting travelers entertained 24/7.

  The picture wasn’t too great, the color and pixels long ago damaged from non-stop use, but it was entertainment. The volume wasn’t set at what one would call an obnoxiously high level, but the fact that the TV had no accessible controls to turn it down if one desired made that fact a small comfort, especially as the current program was a cheesy martial arts movie from the seventies. The teens seemed to be enjoying it, though, their bodies tensing and swaying as if they were participants in the on-screen combat.

  The protagonist—at least she thought he was, judging by his heroic stance—unleashed a flurry of blows against a group of on-screen attackers, the boys poorly mimicking the moves from their seats.

  After disarming a slew of bad guys, one of the assailants unwisely charged the hero and was rewarded with a snap-kick to the groin, immediately falling over in a heap. Both boys instinctively covered their groins and groaned in sympathy.

  “Oh man, right in the nuts!” said what appeared to be the elder of the pair with a pained laugh.

  Again? she thought at the sight of the familiar cinematic defense technique. She allowed herself a smile as she observed the lads. They really do all react the same way no matter where they are. Must be something in their Y chromosome, she mused with a small chuckle, then turned her back to the flickering light to try to catch a bit of rest, despite the constant drone from the television.

  Eventually she found a relatively comfortable position, and after the night’s exertion, her body seemed to know exactly what it needed as she fell quickly into a deep sleep.

  Morning came quickly, the bright light shining through the high windows, providing a cozy illumination to replace the artificial lights that had burned through the night.

  Daybreak brought with it the buzzing hustle and bustle of arriving and departing travelers, their voices and the clatter of luggage layering and amplifying, adding to the constant drone of the televisions running at all times.

  The sheer volume of the barrage of language, slang, insults, and banter was almost overwhelming to Dorothy, and she found it difficult to filter the chorus to just one or two voices at a time as she tried to acclimate to so many unusual means of communication.

  To her ears, the discourse of the youths seemed the most unconventional, their blurting expletive-laden nonsense and hip linguistic shorthand that apparently held a deeper meaning that anyone over the age of fifteen could not possibly fathom.

  When she finally rose from the bench, her body stiff from the night’s exertion, as well as sleeping in an odd position, she leaned slowly to one side then the other, letting out a contented sigh as she felt her muscles stretch and relax, blood flowing once more to her cramped appendages.

  Oh yes, that feels wonderful, she thought, just as her stomach started to rumble, reminding her how long it had been since her last meal. That discomfort, despite her regained freedom, took the shine off an otherwise pleasant moment.

  It was early, and thus still quite cold in the city. The morning breeze outside the bus depot was crisp, but the rising sun had begun to take the edge off the otherwise chilly air. Dorothy pulled her coat tight and stepped out into a new day.

  Reaching her arms up to the sky, she filled her lungs deeply with the brisk air, relishing the feeling of the rising sun before a slight gust of wind made her hug herself with a shudder.

  Twenty feet away, there was a bit of commotion at the curb. A traveler’s suitcase had mistakenly been left behind in someone’s rush, marking it as fair game for the first transients who happened upon it. It was splashed with red with white polka dots, a red piece of yarn tied around the handle. The cheery little case had seen far better days, though, as its lid was torn wide open.

  A pair of hefty older men and an obese middle-aged woman had pried the lock open faster than a TSA worker stealing an iPad and were busy tossing contents aside, looking for anything of value, when Dorothy approached.

  “Get away, it’s ours!” growled the large woman.

  “Yeah, back off!” concurred her equally large male companion.

  Dorothy stepped back a few paces. The clothes were being tossed aside, obviously too small for the treasure-seeking trio. Dorothy quickly gathered up what she could before the large woman turned on her and yelled for her to, “Move off, bitch!” Her tone that made it quite clear that the next warning wouldn’t be a verbal one.

  Dorothy hurried back inside to the bus depot restroom, where she finally had a moment to take inventory of what she’d managed to grab before being driven off.

  She was happy to see it wasn’t a total loss. Her haul included some tan pants that looked like they’d fit, a fairly ugly, bright-colored sweater, and, much to her pleasure, a long-sleeved black shirt, which although a bit stretched in the chest area, its previous owner having been far more “gifted” than she, was far more her style.

  Beats a lab coat and pajamas, she thought as she stripped out of her mental ward attire and dressed herself in her new wardrobe.

  A little bit on the loose side, but not bad, she thought as she looked herself over in the heavily scratched bathroom mirror. Okay, this is better. Now I’ve just got to find out how this happened. Why I’m here. How to get back. Hell, for that matter, if I can get back. She assessed herself in the mirror one more time, and was not pleased by what she saw.

  I really am human. Shit. This is not good.

  Dorothy stashed her hospital garb under a bench, and headed out into the day, hoping to find some answers now that she was free. Her mind may have been elsewhere, but come morning, the staff of Camview were most certainly thinking about her.

  Picture a museum, if you will. A very, very clean museum. Perhaps a spotless and dust-free showroom of some sort.

  That’s how many might have described Doctor Vaughan’s immaculate home at first glance. His almost obsessive drive to keep things in order showed in his personal space just as much as it did in his work environment. Everything was in its place, clean and proper. Nothing out of sorts.

  If you stopped to look at the big picture, it would be noticeable that the whole of his abode had the look of a homemaker keeping everything in perfect shape. Of course, she was gone now, but Doctor Vaughan still kept up his deceased wife’s routines.

  He’d once been lax, letting her fret over the housekeeping alone while he dealt with his work. After all, he rationalized, he had bigger things to think about. Now he lived alone, and the only sign of his former married life was a small, framed photograph of his wife on the counter near his glistening-clean coffeemaker.

  It was still early in the morning, the perfect time to slowly get up to speed for what was sure to be a busy day herding cats at Camview. Yet, despite the craziness looming over his day, Doctor Vaughan was relaxed. This was one of the rare mornings he was allowing himself to come in to work a bit later, and there was something ever so soothing about the calm morning ritual of his coffee and newspaper that made him look forward to these days.

  He knew that newspapers were rapidly going the way of the dodo, but the feel of the paper in his hand, and the simple act of filling the crossword puzzle in, with pen, of course, just felt right.

  As for brewing his own coffee, he was also fully aware that he could just as easily pick up a fresh cup of small-batch organic micro-brew artisanal coffee from one of the hip coffee shops on the way to work. He actually did just that most days when he was unable to justify a late
start and indulge his home brewing ritual, but the simple act of making a pot at home always just felt right. Like it reconnected him with a time in his life when things seemed to make sense. Like when he was more in control.

  Sometimes, on quiet mornings like these, he really missed his wife.

  He was just reflecting on his past, lost in thought while taking his first glorious sip of a Tanzanian single origin peaberry, when his phone rang. He reluctantly lowered his cup from his lips and gazed at the device with distaste.

  “Yes?” he answered with a sigh.

  The buzzing voice on the other end was the panicked harbinger of a downright shit day.

  As he listened to them speak, his knuckles whitened around the handle of his cup as his hand reflexively squeezed. Deep red flushed in his cheeks, and his brow rapidly transitioned from smooth and relaxed to tense with anger. His temple pulsed as a throbbing vein thundered beneath his skin.

  His day had gone right to hell, all right, without even bothering to pass Go or collect $200.

  “How did you imbeciles let her just WALK OUT!” he raged into the handset, enunciating the last words with such venom his employees were thanking their lucky stars they weren’t physically in front of him.

  “No, I don’t care about overtime! You get them out there, now! Yes, all of them! I don’t care if you have to put recreation on hold. Damn the other patients, this is your only priority! Get them out there NOW! She couldn’t have gotten far.” He was now pacing the kitchen, his precious coffee sloshing out of his mug, cascading onto his slippers.

  In his rage, he didn’t even notice.

  “They what? Well tell them they’ll be lucky if they still have a job!” he yelled. Vaughan took a deep breath, trying desperately to lower his heart rate and blood pressure before he had a stroke or blew out some other vital organ.

  “Oh, and do me a favor. Try to not let the rest of the patients escape before I get there,” he hissed, then slammed his phone down and hurried to get dressed.

  It was going to be one of those days, and goddamn it, heads were going to roll.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Cadillac rolled down the road, the two male occupants sitting quietly as they listened to the end of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.” In the plush interior, the road noise was reduced to near-nothing by the extensive soundproofing of the luxury sedan.

  Randy’s father turned the stereo off as the final song ended.

  “Still such a good album,” he said with a cheerful smile on his face.

  “Yeah, one of the best,” Randy agreed. “I’ll never forget when you first played it for me when I was a kid. Blew my mind.”

  “You can imagine my joy at finding my boy had good taste in music. I can’t fathom what it would have been like if you’d grown up in the house listening to disco, or bad rap.”

  “Not all rap is bad, Dad.”

  “Are you saying it gets a bad rap?”

  Randy groaned. “Oh, God, again with the dad jokes!”

  “Sam’s getting older. You need to work on yours, you know. It’s a fatherly rite of passage. I can jot a few down for you, if you want.”

  “I am so not going to be that dad.”

  “I said the same thing,” his father chuckled.

  They drove quietly for a bit, comfortable in the temporary silence, not needing to fill every second with chatter. It hadn’t been until he was a teenager, spending time at his friends’ houses, that Randy realized his was an unusual childhood. Where other households had drama and conflict, his family all really got along, for the most part, and genuinely liked one another.

  Apparently, this was not the norm.

  When his wife died, it hadn’t even been a question whether his family would step in to help any way they could. It’s just what family does.

  After the accident, Randy had relocated with his daughter to be closer to his parents. With their support, and mailing address, Samantha settled in at a good school. Eventually she started to heal after the trauma of losing her mother, the way young children do. For Randy, the process took a bit longer, and more than a few dark patches were navigated in that first year.

  “So are you really going to be ready to move her back this summer?” his father asked.

  “I think it’s time,” he said. “I’m stable, the job is going great, and I’ve got a few guest curating gigs stacking up on top of what I’ve got going on at Gary’s space. Yeah, it’s the right time. Plus, I can’t ask you to keep looking after her now that I’m so far away.”

  “She’s our granddaughter. You know we love having her with us. Plus— and pardon my French here, Son—your mom and me won’t let her go until we’re damn sure you’ve got your shit together.”

  “Yeah, I know. I swear, that’s all behind me now. I’ve been focusing on making a good home for her. It’s my number one priority. And Pop, I’ve gotta tell you, I really do appreciate everything you and Mom have done for us these last couple of years, but now that I’m back on my feet, I really need to step up and be a good dad.”

  “You are a good dad. You’ve just had to deal with things. Hitting a rough patch is perfectly normal with what you went through. We know you’ll be okay eventually, but Sam’s just a kid, and she needs stability and a safe-feeling home environment. We’re family, Randy, and we’re glad she’s with us, for as long as that may be. It’s not a burden at all.”

  “You just say that because she’s an easier kid than I was.”

  “Oh, just wait until her teen years. I bet it’s going to get a lot more interesting. I don’t envy you having a teenage daughter in this day and age!” He laughed at his poor son. “So, are you going to get behind the wheel again anytime soon? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind these drives. It’s like when you were a boy and we’d take those long trips to go skiing, but if you had a car again, you could come visit whenever you wanted.”

  “I don’t know. It still feels a bit soon.”

  “Okay, I’m not pushing or anything, it was just a thought. I’m sure she’d like to see you more often, though it is a pretty long haul for just a day or two.”

  “Skype, Dad. That’s what video chat is for.

  “Call me old-fashioned, but I still prefer face-to-face.”

  “Don’t we all? But until she moves into the new place after school’s done, video is a good compromise.”

  The car slowed as they pulled up in front of Randy’s building.

  “You sure I can’t drop you somewhere? Maybe grab an early lunch?”

  “Nah, I need a shower, and I’ve got a bit of work to get done before I head out to meet Gary. We’ve got a new artist we’re thinking of representing, and we’re going to check out his latest body of work over at his studio. Besides, you’ve still got a long drive back home. If I keep you any longer, Mom’s going to worry.”

  “All right then. Love you Son.”

  “Love you too, Pop.”

  The men embraced, then Randy stepped out of the car, took his suitcase from the trunk, and watched his father drive away. Pulling his keys from his pocket, he headed into his building.

  Several hours later, far across town, and rather near the depot on Sixth, Randy rode uncomfortably in a jam-packed bus, rethinking his decision to turn down that ride from his father. He was grateful when the bus finally pulled up to the corner and popped its doors open, spewing its human cargo onto the sidewalk.

  He spotted a familiar face waiting for him. “Hey, Gary!” he called as he jostled out of the vehicle along with the surging throng of afternoon travelers.

  “Hey, man, glad you were able to come. Thanks for meeting me all the way out here in the sticks. I know the bus kinda sucks.”

  “No worries, I’m used to it. Artists always seem to gravitate toward these outskirt areas. At least until the trust-fund babies and techie brogrammers buy out their neighborhood and fill it with overpriced gastro pubs and niche cafes selling six-dollar coffee and twelve-dollar juice.”

  “Glad to see
you’re not bitter or anything.”

  “Not at all. I love watching the cool neighborhoods turn into the homogenized spawning grounds of hipsters and trust fund babies,” Randy groused sarcastically.

  Working for a friend could be awkward for some, but when your friend also happens to run one of the hottest art galleries in the city and you get to pursue great new artists for a living, it really isn’t a bad gig at all. As for Gary, giving his buddy a job to help him get back on his feet was really a no-brainer when he came back to town. And Randy was no slouch in the art scene. Helping his friend was also helping his sales, so it was most certainly a two-way street.

  “Come on, let’s see what he’s got for us. I’m hoping to get him to commit to a three-man show later this year.”

  Randy pulled out his old blue enamel pocket watch to check the time. He flipped the case shut with a snap and slid it back into his pocket’s fabric nest.

  “Seriously, why do you still carry that thing?” Gary wondered.

  “Conversation piece.”

  “Well, at least you chose that over a monocle,” his friend said with a laugh.

  A very drunk vagrant sitting by the door had watched the sarcastic exchange, his bleary, red eyes somehow managing to focus on the pretty blue watch as it caught the sun’s rays as the two art dealers stepped past him and opened the door.

  “Pretty watch,” the bum muttered as they passed. “Shiny.”

  “Why, thank you,” Randy replied. He turned to Gary. “See? Conversation piece. Told ya so,” he said with a chuckle as they stepped through the doorway.

  Mere moments later, a ragtag young woman in stolen clothes rounded the corner, focused on her search for some answer as to how and why she was stuck in human form. She paused near the homeless drunk, deciding her course, when she overheard him muttering to himself, seemingly oblivious there was anyone nearby.

  “Pretty blue pocket watch. So shhhhhiiiny…” he slurred.

  Dorothy froze, then spun toward the man.

  It can’t be a coincidence. That’s the last thing I saw before…