Thursday 17 October 2024

The Story of a Man by Barry Garelick, green tea

Daniels father was Robert but everyone called him Bob. Daniel had heard many stories from his father as he was growing up; some about World War Two, some about fleeing the pogroms in Russia, some about growing up poor in Brooklyn. When he was fourteen, Daniels grandfather died, and then there followed stories about his grandfather, told by the many friends and relatives who populated their house for the first week or so after the funeral. From the stories he heard, his grandfather had been a saint apparently, and though Daniel knew him to be friendly, he didnt really know his grandfather that well. He felt he had missed out on something.

A few days after the funeral, Daniel was presented with one more story; unlike the others, this one had no words. Come on in the bedroom; I want to show you something, Bob said and emptied onto his bed the contents of a blue woolen bag on which the Star of David was sewn. A variety of objects lay on the bed: A well-worn sepia photograph of Daniels grandparents with Bob and his sister, a Hebrew prayer book, his grandfathers identification and other papers from Russia, a yarmulke, and a prayer shawl.

The two of them looked at the objects in silence. Daniel knew his father was waiting for him to say something. The impatience and belligerence that is often part and parcel of adolescence suddenly and unexpectedly emerged and Daniel heard himself saying: ‘It’s just a bunch of papers and things. So what? He immediately regretted his disrespect.

Bob glared at Daniel and said ‘It’s the story of a man!’ and walked out of the room. Nothing further was ever said about the event, though Daniel thought about it as he grew older, often wondering why his father did not show more anger than he did.

Bob had a bad temper at times, particularly when he was drinking, though he had not been drinking that day. Bobs drinking was sporadic, which he used as evidence that he wasnt an alcoholic when the subject would occasionally be raised. ‘If I were an alcoholic Id be drinking all the time. But I dont have to drink and I can control it,’ he would say to Daniels mother who, though skeptical, went along with the theory. When he was drinking, Daniel tried to avoid him as best one could in their small house.

Over the years, Daniel learned to disappear within himself as necessary to avoid confrontations with Bob; for the most part he was successful in this. Some were unavoidable, however, such as his decision to not go into Bobs art business. In the early seventies after graduating from college, he moved out from Detroit to San Francisco. ‘You do not have my blessing!’ Bob had said, but as was typical of him, accepted Daniels decision and told the world how proud he was of Daniel when he became a reporter for a newspaper there.

His parents would visit Daniel occasionally. Sometimes it was just Bob, when he would stop in San Francisco on his way to and back from Japan on art-buying trips for his gallery. On one particular solo visit, Bob had returned from what was to be his last visit to Japan. Daniel was to meet him in the hotel where he always stayed, a few blocks from Union Square. ‘The hotel brings me luck,’ he would often say.  He called Daniel in the mid-afternoon when he arrived from the airport. ‘We’ll have dinner and talk; I want to know what my wonderful son is doing.

 

Daniel stood before the door of his room, and took a deep breath. He would have liked to walk away, but knew he couldnt or wouldnt. He knocked on the door; a muffled ‘Yeah, Im coming,’ could be heard. When the door opened Bob spread out his arms and hugged Daniel. ‘My beautiful son,’ he said.

‘Come in, come in; here, sit over here, lets talk, its so good to see you.’ He motioned to a chair by the small table by the window where a bottle of almost empty Cutty Sark sat like a still life. Bob sat down in a chair next to the table. ‘So tell me what you are up to.’

It was a simple question. With anyone else Daniel could have answered by talking about how he had just interviewed people at the Salvation Army Officer Training Centre for an article he was writing for the San Francisco Examiner where he worked as a reporter. But that would have been asking for trouble given Bobs disdain for religion and his belief that if there were a god, then he wouldnt have let six million Jews die in concentration camps. ‘Were born alone and we die alone,’ he had told Daniel over the years. ‘No one is going to look after you.’

But instead Daniel answered as neutrally as he could ‘Im doing all right.’ Daniel had learned to navigate his fathers drunken states. He had learned to stay away from topics that would provoke him into anger which were many. He sometimes wondered if there was a time when his father didnt drink so much and what had triggered it, or if in fact there was a trigger at all. As he had done for many years, he disappeared into himself, and became a muse.

            ‘Are you lonely, Daniel?’

            ‘No, Im not lonely.’

‘You have friends?’

‘I have some.’

‘Good. It’s good to have friends.’ Bob filled his empty glass and looked at it.

In fact, Daniel had very few friends and was, in fact, lonely. But Daniels social life wasnt a subject he wanted to get into. Thankfully, there were no more questions about that. Instead Bob talked about his trip to Tokyo, how exciting the city was, how big it was, how Daniel would love it. ‘Its better than New York!’

New York! The mere mention of the city where Bob grew up led him to recount how he could have been in charge of an art gallery there, but he turned it down. ‘Too much back stabbing. There were others who wanted the job, and they were ruthless. So I was better off staying in Detroit, in my own gallery.’ He looked at Daniel. ‘Your life would have been a lot different if we had moved there.’ It probably would have, Daniel thought. He was twelve when the possibility of a move came up. He didnt really know whether he would have been better off, or how his life would have been different. It was an alternate pathway he didnt dwell on.

Tokyo! He talked about how nice the people were, but its become westernized ad the businessmen are like businessmen everywhere. ‘You cant trust anyone. Everyone wants something from you no matter what country youre in. Its becoming commercial like every place in the world; no matter where you go its starting to look the same, he said, the same restaurant chains, clothing styles, hair styles, music. Everyone looks so young,’ he said. He talked about a restaurant he went to called The Volga. ‘An imitation Russian café’ he said, and not only an imitation, but around the corner from Tokyo Tower which is an imitation of the Eiffel Tower of Paris. He hated the café, with its balalaika orchestra of all Japanese musicians. ‘Terrible! And they all looked sad and bored and utterly lifeless,’ he said with a sigh.

The art was expensive there, he said; the art business is dominated by people who dont give a shit about art, he went on. Theyve priced themselves out of the market, he said; it wasnt like this when he first went a few years ago. ‘This is my last time to Japan,’ he said and took another gulp of scotch. He then told Daniel what he had been telling him for years: he was getting old. And bitter. ‘The art world is big business now. I had one of the first galleries in Detroit. Now Im just some small guy with an art gallery that no one will remember. What the hell have I accomplished in life?’ he asked.

            As was his habit, Daniel tried to buoy his fathers sagging spirits. ‘You’re not that old; youre only fifty-nine. Youre probably doing better than you think.’  He knew he was being patronizing but Bob found such advice coming from a twenty-three year old endearing; so much so, that he laughed out loud and exclaimed ‘Oh Daniel, youre so beautiful. The moment of humor and adoration passed quickly, however, and Bob was back to his drunken reverie.

Youve always been naïve, Daniel. Im some immigrant with a high school education who worked his way into the art business. I know what people are thinking in their pitiful condescending ways. The big shots, the elites, the intellectuals. They look at me like Im some know-nothing. They talk in their special ways; they weigh their words, they dont say fully what they mean, but people who are part of that group know whats being said. As if I cant read between the lines. Status seekers; they buy art to impress and act like they know so much about it. Believe me, what Ive forgotten about art, theyre still learning. He paused and looked at Daniel. ‘Youre not saying very much. So what do you think about what I just said? What do you think about your father? Im talking to you man-to-man; as an adult. I want to know what you think.’

Daniel knew the moment would come. So he would tell him what he thought. ‘Youre just feeling sorry for yourself. Do you think Grandpa felt sorry for himself?’ The ‘feeling sorry’ comment he learned from hearing his mother say it through the years with fairly good results. The part about his grandfather was his alone.

‘My father was a simple shoemaker,’ Bob said, angrily. ‘He was part of the old world. Yes, he knew how to survive, and he got us out of Russia. But as far as how the world worked or what I was doing, he knew nothing. He wanted me to take a job in the post office when I got out of the Navy; a good-paying government job. The Navy gave me my citizenship papers when I was discharged; I was illegal up to then. Grandpa thought that was great, and all I needed was a steady good-paying job. I had other ideas.’

Fathers and sons are destined to be at odds, Daniel thought. Bob stood up and looked out the window. It had been late afternoon when Daniel had come in, but now the sun had set and the city was now a mix of lights from houses and apartment houses on hills, and in the proliferation of new high-rise office buildings downtown.

‘That was one good thing about the Navy. And the war. I became a citizen. I was part of the world. It was every immigrant boys dream to be a part of the world. In the war everyone was equal. It didnt matter what your background was on the battlefield. All that mattered was surviving. We would joke with each other. Theyd say ‘There's a bullet out there with your name on it, Bob. That's how we talked. We joked about death; to keep from being scared. We were all scared; we just didnt talk about that.’

Bob sat down again, and rubbed his forehead. He closed his eyes, and Daniel thought he was going to sleep but when he opened them again, he looked at Daniel, as if seeing him for the first time.

            I killed a man once, Bob said. ‘You didnt know that, did you?’

            ‘When?’

            ‘During the war. On Iwo Jima.’ He scowled. ‘I killed many men who were far away and I didnt see them die and it was easy to make myself forget what I was doing. But one time it was up close. The battle was almost over, and they put up the flag and took that photo that everyone knows. But there were still Japanese on the island. I was walking by myself and I saw a Japanese soldier coming towards me. He had his rifle pointed. I shot him. He fell and I ran over to him. I looked in the pockets of his flak jacket and pulled out a wallet that had photos of his wife and kids, and his identification. I took it with me. I dont know why. I had it for years.’ He looked at Daniel.

            ‘Im talking to you man to man,’ he said again. ‘I want you to know certain things about your old man.’ He ran his hand over his face. ‘I brought his wallet with me to Tokyo,’ he said.

            ‘Why?’

            ‘I wanted someone to get it back to the poor guys family. I figured the War Museum might help me. Its in Tokyo a part of Tokyo, like a suburb. Chiyoda City. I took a cab there. I said I wanted to go to Chiyoda City. The cabbie said To the war museum? and I said yes, the War Museum. I felt like he was a ghost. He didnt say anything the whole ride and when I got out and paid him, I said Are you a ghost? and he said Yes. ‘ Bob laughed and pointed at Daniel. ‘You think Im crazy, dont you?’

 ‘He may not have known English that well.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said, suddenly somber.

‘Were you drinking?’

‘No. But I think there are ghosts. There are ghosts, Daniel. I’ve talked to others who were in the war. They tell me the same thing; there are ghosts. Sometimes I hear them in my dreams.’

Daniel heard laughter in the hallway. There were three or four people, Daniel guessed. They passed by the room; when they could no longer be heard, Bob continued. 

‘It’s a big museum. I went inside and spoke to a guard and said I wanted to speak to someone. I said I had some things from a soldier who died on Iwo Jima. He went and talked to someone who came out. Mr. Hayashi. He gave me his card and I gave him mine. Thats how they do it in Japan. I told him the story and showed him the wallet. I said I wanted to get this to the mans family if that was possible. He thanked me and said they would try to locate his family and get it to them.’

‘He said he’s met many Americans through the years and hes heard similar stories. They come here to confess, to apologize. He said that he can tell they are hurting. If I hadnt killed that soldier, I would have been dead, he told me. He said hes met many Americans through the years and hes heard similar stories. They come here to confess, to apologize. He said that he can tell they are hurting. He said if I hadnt killed him, I would have been dead. War is horrible, he said and I said yes, it is. He asked what I did and I told him. He asked if I came here often to buy art. I said this would probably be the last time.’

            The sound of the cable car down below could be heard. Bob stood up and started to walk toward the window. For a brief second it looked like he was going to fall and Daniel stood up and came over to him.

            ‘Are you OK?’

            ‘Im fine. I just stumbled a little.’  He pointed to the streets below. ‘Look at all those people. Everyone going somewhere.’  Daniel nodded. There were indeed many people, he thought. He longed to be with them.

‘I was going to take you to dinner. But I’m very tired. And I had too much to drink. Im sorry Im not much for conversation.’  Daniel thought this last remark funny but didnt laugh.

Bob looked at Daniel as if he just remembered something. ‘Lets get together for breakfast tomorrow. Down at the restaurant here. My flight leaves at noon, so theres time. I want to hear what youre up to. Do you have time? Seven oclock?’

            ‘I have time.’

They hugged each other at the door; Daniel felt the familiar nap of stubble against his cheek. ‘Ill see you tomorrow,’ Daniel said.

‘It’s so good to see you, Daniel. Really good to see you.’

 It was not yet cold out; the fog had not rolled in as it usually did. Daniel decided to walk home. He knew Bob would not remember what was said that night, and would probably ask Daniel what he had talked about. Daniel would tell him as best he could. It felt as if there was an opportunity to talk about everything and anything, but he knew better.

Bob would probably ask Daniel once more if he were lonely, and he would say no. Maybe he should say yes, he thought and see what happens, though he knew he would not. Maybe he should ask Bob if he were lonely. He would probably say no. Daniel would always be a listener and his father would always be a mixture of things; things Daniel knew about him, and secrets he would never know. 

 

About the author

Barry Garelick has fiction published in Heimat, Cafe Lit, Ephemeras and Fiction on the Web. His non-fiction pieces have been published in Atlantic, and Education Next. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife. 

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Wednesday 16 October 2024

Murders in the Hospital Morgue Part 1 by Maxine Flam, espresso

Knock, Knock…’Dr. Delmonico, are you in?’ said Bill Kelby.

            Dr. Delmonico's secretary had stepped away from her desk. He stopped his tape recorder to answer the door.

            ‘Detective Kelby, nice to see you again.’

            ‘Got a minute, Doc?’ said Bill as he stood anxiously waiting to talk to the Department Psychologist.

            ‘Sure, my next appointment isn’t for a half-hour,’ he said as he glanced at his watch. ‘Have a seat.’

            ‘I had to tell you what happened at the zoo today.’

            ‘I heard through the grapevine that the stakeout worked. The suspect showed himself but unfortunately you ended up having to kill him.’

            ‘Yeah, he didn’t give me much of a choice. He came at me with a knife like what the guy did at the used car lot. I saw Joe and Marlene running behind yelling for him to stop but he didn’t. He ran toward me; his was arm up. He intended to stab me. I drew my service revolver and said, ‘Halt, Police,’ and when he didn’t stop, I shot and killed him ’

            ‘How did you feel about doing that?’

            ‘Relieved. I reacted instinctively, according to my training. I wasn’t scared anymore.’

            ‘I’m glad. The bad dreams should start to go away. Once Internal Affairs clears you, I will clear you to go back to work. I’m sure you missed Joe.’

            ‘I did but he had a beautiful partner.’

            ‘But she was a rookie, not one with years of experience. It’s different.’

            ‘I’m grateful to you, Doc. Seriously, if you hadn’t suggested I get back in the game, as you put it, I would have doubted myself, maybe forever.’

            ‘At least you don’t still think I’m nuts,’ said Dr. Delmonico.

            ‘Sorry I called you that.’

            ‘Trust me, I’ve been called worse things over my career.’

            ‘Well, I better go. Your next appointment will be here soon,’ replied Bill Kelby.

            ‘Drop in anytime. My door is always open.’

            ‘Thanks, Dr. Delmonico. I really appreciate it.’

            They both stood up with Bill extending his hand to shake Dr. Delmonico’s hand and Dr. Delmonico reciprocating.

            After Bill Kelby left the office, Dr. Delmonico pulled out Bill’s file, wrote in the notes that he met with Bill, and he was back to his old self. No more sessions were needed. He was fit for duty.

##

            ‘Thank God that patient died. Code blue…croaked of a heart attack. He was a real pain in the ass!’ said Nurse Jeanette on the day shift at Valley Hospital.

            ‘You really shouldn’t talk that way about the patients. We’re here to help them,’ replied Jack, a younger, more compassionate nurse.

            ‘Really? You think so? All they do is use the call bell all day long. I need to go to the bathroom…I’m in pain…where are my medications…I’m hungry…when is breakfast, lunch, or dinner. We aren’t some hotel, you know? Seriously, you enjoy being a servant to sick people?’

            ‘I became a nurse to help people, whatever that may be.'

‘How altruistic you are? Let me see your attitude in 20 years.’

‘If you hate being a nurse so much, why don’t you do leave the profession and do something else?

            ‘After twenty years? Seriously? I can’t go back to school and retrain. I’m 42 years old. My ship sailed. I’m stuck.’

            ‘No, it hasn’t. Better for you to do something else than be miserable. It’s better for the patients too.’

            ‘It’s too late. All I can look forward to is retirement and the hope that some of these leeches die…’ replied Jeanette.

            ‘You don’t really mean that.’

            ‘Sure I do. Oh shit, there goes another call bell. It’s the lady in 2295B wanting to go to the bathroom again and Gladys is on break.’

            ‘Let me answer it, okay?’ said Jack.

            ‘No, she’s my responsibility.’

            ‘With an attitude like yours, the response cards are going to look pretty bad when the people write down about their stay here and how they were treated.’

            ‘Ah, most people never fill them out. Why do you think I’ve been here this long? They forget. They are so happy to be out of this place and go home, they don’t bother to fill out the cards.’

            ‘Just once, you’re gonna piss off the wrong patient,’ stated Jack.

            ‘If it hasn’t happened in twenty years, the chances are it won’t happen now…. See she’s ringing again.

##

‘And just what do you want?’ said Jeanette in a harsh tone of voice to a middle-aged woman named Nancy.

‘I have to go to the bathroom.’

‘Can’t you go by yourself?’

‘I’m hooked to the IV,’ said Nancy weakly.

Under her breath Jeanette said, ‘You are such a pain in the ass.’

##

            Nancy did complain about the horrible nursing she received when she was discharged and was given some double talk by the hospital that they were short-staffed but they would speak to the nurse. Nancy was deeply hurt and emotionally upset by how she was treated by the nurse, nurses aide, and hospital administrator. She wasn’t emotionally stable, far from it. She had been seeing a counselor for depression and anxiety but this incident pushed her over the edge. Her arms were black and blue from where she was poked several times for blood and IVs. She didn’t get her medication for migraines and psychosis. She started seeing and hearing things again. When she got out of the hospital, she had trouble knowing reality from fantasy. Her nurse reminded her of the one from the movie ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’: mean and cruel. The nurse’s name in the movie was Nurse Ratched and she did horrible things to her patients on a psychiatric floor but Nancy’s nurse acted worse and told her to go to the bathroom in the bed because she was too busy to take her toilet. Nancy had enough. She decided to exact revenge.

##

            That bitch isn’t going to get away with what she did and said to me. She totally disrespected me and she’s gonna pay.

##

            After Nancy was released, she found out when and which floor Jeanette worked and snuck back into the hospital dressed as a nurse. She bought some nurses uniforms in a shop that sold all kinds of medical supplies near her house. She needed to wait for her to work a night shift when it was quieter. Then Nancy put her plan into motion. Jeanette went to lunch and was alone in the lunch room. Nancy hid on the side of the vending machine, and when Jeanette turned her back to her, Nancy hit her over the head several times with large end iron she brought from her fireplace at home. When the hall was clear, she put Jeanette in a wheelchair and took the freight elevator to the basement.

##

That’ll show her who to be mean to. There are sick people here that need help, not be ignored. She’ll never do this again to another human being.

##

            The basement elevator doors opened and Nancy wheeled the body to the morgue, and dumped the arrogant, cruel nurse on the morgue floor.

            Before leaving, she placed the bloody poker next to the body, and then she, ‘I spit on you, you bitch. Go to hell, go directly to hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200. HA. I wish wherever you are, all the people you tortured in the past 20 years are there to greet you and they treat you the way you treated them. Now there is one less incompetent, disgusting, rotten, person in the medical field.’

            Someone was coming. Nancy grabbed the body and dragged it to the corner of the morgue. Phew. Close call, no one came in. It was time to leave. Before she left, she changed into a clean uniform that she had in a bag with her and stuffed the bloody uniform in the bag.

            Nancy went back to the elevators and took it up to the first floor. It was past 1 a.m. She disposed of her gloves in the trash receptacle along with uniform. As she walked out, the guard said, ‘Are you coming back?’ Nancy looked at him and said as cool as ice, ‘I’m just going for a smoke.’

            She walked quickly to the street, got in her car, and went home.

            The body was found at 4 a.m. when Jeanette hadn’t come back from lunch and the hospital did a full-scale search.

##

            Ring, Ring, Ring,

‘Joe, get the phone it’s for you,’ said his wife sleepily as she pulled the blanket over her head.

            ‘Yeah, Joe Miller…Can’t it wait. Jesus, it’s 4:30 a.m. The body ain’t goin’ anywhere. Oh, alright. Did you call Bill? Okay, I’ll call him.’

            Ring, Ring, Ring, Ring. ‘Bill, it’s Joe,’ said his wife as she handed the phone over to her husband, turned over and went back to sleep.

            Bill took the phone from his wife’s hand. ‘Bill Kelby. What? Now? Jesus Christ, did you tell them the body will still be there later like in an hour. Yeah, yeah. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Give me half hour to get there. Yeah.’

##

            ‘So what do we have,’ said Joe Miller to the CSI tech.

            ‘A nurse was killed.’

‘No, really? You got us out of bed at 4:30 in the morning to tell us that. We were already told that!’

 Ignoring the remark, the Tech said, ‘We found evidence it was done in the breakroom where the vending machines are. An end iron from a fireplace was the murder weapon. It was lying next to the body.’

            ‘Shit, someone was really mad,’ commented Joe Miller. ‘Several blows to the head.’

            ‘So she was killed elsewhere and brought to the morgue,’ commented Bill Kelby.

            ‘Who would know how to do that? I mean, know the layout of the hospital well enough to leave a body in the morgue.’

            ‘It’s not hard to find where any place is. They pass out maps at the information booth and guard shack so anyone could have done it,’ replied the CSI Tech.

            ‘Seriously? But the person must have a badge to move freely around the hospital. I mean the morgue isn’t an area accessible to anyone.’ said Miller.

            ‘I don’t think it would be hard to forge a badge,’ said Kelby.

            ‘So the next question, why this nurse?’

            ‘I can’t say it for sure as I don’t know what kind of person she was, but it could be she was mean and took Nurse Ratched lessons.’

‘What?’ asked Miller.

‘Remember the movie, ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ that came out a few years ago?’

            ‘Yeah, with Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher. It won a bunch of awards.’

            ‘The dead nurse must have taken Nurse Ratched lessons. Maybe someone hated her so much or was treated so badly by her that someone bashed her head in,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘You think so?’

            ‘Yeah, I do. The staff didn’t have anything nice to say about her, so what do you think the patients thought about her, huh?’

            ‘Don’t tell me we have a ton of suspects,’ replied Miller.

            ‘’fraid so, partner. Let’s get some coffee and go to work.’

##

            ‘All the staff has been accounted for but a guard did see one nurse leave around 2 a.m. for a cigarette and never saw her return,’ said Miller.

            ‘Well, can he describe her?’

            ‘Not really. Dark hair, petite build.’

            ‘Terrific. Let’s run it against our list.’

##

            ‘Nothing,’ said Miller.

            ‘Then, it’s not a nurse. It’s probably a patient.’

            ‘You know how many patients have come through here in a day, a week, a month, six months?’ whined Miller.

            ‘Maybe one patient was disgruntled enough to complain and nothing was done about it, no reprimand, nada so she took matters into her own hands.’

            ‘We need to get a court order to see the patient records and review anyone complaining about Nurse Ratched starting with this week and going back six months.’

##

            I got that witch. She’ll never torture another person again. I got rid of the end iron too and threw away the nurse’s uniform. They’ll never figure it out was me. Now it’s time to do away with that bitch of a certified nurses’ assistant. A professional my ass. She was so incompetent. She refused to answer my call bell too and didn’t want to help me to the bathroom when I needed to go either. How incredibly crass and cold is that? She answered my roommate’s call bell but not mine. Well, she’ll what’s coming to her. How should I kill her? And where? Those are the questions I need to answer…

 

To be continued. 

About the author 

Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit,  BrightFlashLiteraryReview,  OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com

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