Chapter 1
The question was a perfectly valid one. Yes, a perfectly valid question indeed. Yet despite its rationality, I was still unable to summon the courage to respond with even a crumb of truth. Hell, I was barely ready to lie about it. But, as I said, the question itself—it really was perfectly valid.
Unrelated, but no less a factor for consideration, was Phil, the asker of said perfectly valid question, who happened to be a total stranger. As a personal rule—and one I feel more people should adopt—I never share too much with strangers. I mean, let’s face it, that’s just sound practice. And today, especially, wasn’t the time to deviate from my longstanding philosophy.
I pictured Phil sporting a mustache and a furrowed brow. Of course, I had no idea the extent of furrow on Phil’s brow or if he even had the faintest hint of whiskers staking claim across his upper lip. These were just features I took upon myself to impose on him based on the rattling sound of loose gravel in his voice. I don’t consciously attach these types of assumptions to someone’s appearance, it’s just something I’ve done since I was a kid. It’s a habit born from long family road trips; a creative way to pass the time with my younger sister. We would play a modified game of Guess Who, attributing hair and eye colour, shape of jaw and nose, and even how much excess weight might be dangling from under their chin to every voice on the radio—disc jockeys, as my Dad was wont to call them, as if compelled to verbalize the meaning of DJ.
After all, this was a time when the car radio was one of the few means to break up the monotony of the front-seat discussions of adults: taxes, mortgage rates, conservative politics. A toothless DJ with green hair and no fewer than seventeen moles on their face was preferred fodder to amortizations and debates on whether gay marriage should be permitted. It should, and it has.
As we traversed the open roads—we would have never predicted the volume of congestion the highways would amass today—my sister, who retained the creative genes in the family, could always be counted on to ascribe some of the oddest attributes to the voices we heard. Having some life experience behind me now, I’ve taken to the belief that these weren’t weird descriptions—it was just that at the time, I’d never seen anyone with a nose, eyebrow, or lip ring, for example. As an adult, these piercings and others are commonplace, nothing more than an expression of one’s self. And brave expressions at that because, let’s be honest, the world remains too judgmental for its own good. The best part of this game was when we finally had a chance to see what these people looked like; they never—not even once, not even closely—looked like they sounded coming through the speakers of Mom and Dad’s Lincoln. To the youth of today, this fun little game is probably unthinkable, not so much because they lack imagination, though having their faces connected to a screen since birth certainly suggests their creativity has been stunted in comparison, but because they can’t envision a world before music or videos being instantly available at their fingertips. And even if they remember CD players, this was before those too, at least in cars. If you were lucky, you had a tape deck, but even then, you needed cassettes to play in it. The idea of skipping to a specific song probably wasn’t even a dream at this point.
And so, on long road trips, when families still piled into the family car and drove day and night, we would listen to these strange, captivating voices crackling through the speakers. As I applied this old habit to Phil, I was reminded of just how easily we paint a picture of someone’s appearance based on little more information than how smooth or aged their voice is. As stated in Phil’s case, his voice sounded like loose change whirring in a blender. Vin Scully, he was not. I was further reminded just how unfair this is to the other person. In the grand scheme of things, who cares what they look or sound like?
Coarse voice aside, Phil’s valid question hung in the air, and I would have to address it. But just what the hell was I doing here?
In my defence, I thought I knew, or at the very least, I had a pretty good inclination, but as is the case with much of my life, I had no concrete idea what I was doing or if I’d even know when I realized I was doing it.
It was a late September afternoon, and the rain, which had followed me like a faithful four-legged stray during my drive to Silver Springs, transformed its mist into an assault of steady, thick drops pounding the roof of my car like the fists of a drunk Irishman on a pub table when trying to prove a point. These weighty, unremitting thumps became the soundtrack to one of the biggest decisions I’d made in recent memory, perhaps my life. It was more Randy Newman than Alexandre Desplat, which could account for my frayed decision-making abilities.
The bulbs encased within the exterior plastic of the sign for Silver Springs Health and Rehabilitation Centre hadn’t yet burst to life and remained a measure behind the rapid darkness descending upon its aged façade and the surrounding area. Nestled in the trees and flanked by sloping hills and serpentine rivers, Silver Springs was home to, among its physical bodies, a picturesque landscape and climate that could produce, at the drop of a dime, weather that prevented the most enthusiastic windshield wiper blades from keeping up with cascading streams and tiny exploding grenades of water.
The building itself was once an architectural marvel, and scores of photos and corresponding accolades splayed across the pages of old magazines and newspapers existed as proof—it just took some searching, which I had diligently done. The timeworn then-hotel was purchased sometime in the 1970s by a man named Billy Springs, who hailed from old oil money—didn’t they all?—and painstakingly developed it into one of the country’s most sought-after physical rehabilitation centres. That was when unfettered money flowed into the place, of course. I discovered through my research, while edging closer to the brink of making my life-altering decision, that Springs’s two adult children, who now wielded joint control over the budget, keep the place running, albeit at the bare minimum and only because a clause in their inheritance documents dictate they do so. Saying they perform the bare minimum might even be a generous stretch, given the condition of the pothole-filled parking lot my car had ambled over and now floated in.
Balconies ran along the top floor, which, unlike most traditional hotels, was only eight storeys high, and the rooms up there were the only ones boasting this feature. Again, they were a hot ticket back in the day, so said my research. The triangle peaks of the twin corner towers were adorned with green flags that flapped furiously in the prevailing storm’s wind. Everything appeared symmetrical, even if it wasn’t precisely so. The driveway that once ran to the front door valet had been repurposed into an interlocking brick walking path that kept all vehicular traffic a healthy distance away from the building.
Despite nature’s decades-long toll, what had been said about the building’s architecture and design remained true. It was still a marvel to take in, further amplified by the expanse of the natural world acting as its backdrop. The trees stood tall, protecting the castle from outsiders like a moat in reverse. The hills rolled like waves. The streams cut a path as Mother Earth, not man, dictated. Everything was lush and green for now. This would be my new home.
After stalling for as long as uncomfortably possible, I finally summoned a reasonable, even if vague, response to Phil, informing him that I was here as a volunteer. This was true, of course, but the answer’s validity barely scratched the surface of my current reasoning for sitting in a well-driven Chevy Malibu, in the midst of a late summer thunderstorm, in a near-empty parking lot, in a place most people had long forgotten about.
“Bullshit,” said Phil, reflecting what I perceived to be genuine disdain for what he sensed to be a ruse.
“Bull or otherwise, my good man, there’s no shit, I’m here to volunteer.” My good man? Who was I, George Banks? My nerves were cloaking themselves in poor repartee.
“Okay, if you’re legit, bring your court papers in, and we’ll get you signed off and on file,” huffed Phil.
“Court papers?”
“Oh Jesus. Listen, kid, I don’t have time for this. No one has willingly volunteered here in like twenty years unless court- ordered because of some dumbass white-collar crime that isn’t worth anyone’s time to actually prosecute. And even then, that ain’t exactly volunteering, is it? It’s being volun-told. You been volun-told, kid?”
Kid? Who did he think I was, Kevin McCallister? Though that would be a compliment—that kid was a ruthless genius, if not a bit whiny. Whether my mouth spoke the words or they stayed in my mind, I knew I should just relax and move forward or risk developing a case of cinematic schizophrenia.
“Well, Phil, my good man”—shit, there it was again—“you know what they say, there’s a first time for everything.” Now I was being smug. I knew I was being smug. I thought it would work. I don’t know why I thought this. It cost me.
Click.
“Phil? Phil? Hello?” Son of a bitch hung up on me.
I peered out the windshield, doing that thing where you crane your neck to get a view of the sky from the driver’s seat. It was a kind of duck-and-twist manoeuvre. It was an incredibly awkward movement and certainly not natural. The dark, heavy clouds offered no indication the rain would let up before I exited the dry comfort of my vehicle. I wallowed in my instant weather analysis. To add insult to my thus-far less-than-stellar arrival, I had no umbrella, no jacket readily available. The digital clock on the dashboard ticked—or did it flip? What does a digital clock do? It was undoubtedly reminding me that time was not on my side and that the next click I heard wouldn’t be Phil’s repeated hang-up but the sound of the doors locking for the day; no one in, no one out, unless accompanied by law enforcement or medical care professionals.
It was time.
Building up the courage, as if I was about to dip paper-cut hands into a jar of vinegar to fish out a key, I took a few deep breaths and convinced myself one last time that this was what I needed to do, where I needed to be. I opened the door and made a break for it.
Puddles exploded beneath my feet as I sprinted the hundred metres from the closest parking space in the lot to the front entrance. A covered entryway greeted me upon arrival, providing shelter from the rain. The front doors were heavy, clad with tall, thick brass handles that had long since lost their sheen, and stood as the last obstacle between me and my new friend Phil. Gathering myself under the burgundy overhang, short of breath and nearly soaked completely through, two things happened: the rain stopped, as if Mother Nature had grown bored with playing her watery joke, and I experienced a brief panic attack, the latter of which requiring me to take a seat on an iron-slatted bench and practise the breathing exercises my therapist suggested I employ when faced with the sudden shortness of breath.
It had been a while since my last attack, but they usually struck me under similar circumstances: embarking on a new situation that could significantly impact my life—or, as my therapist enjoyed pointing out, perceived consequences. Perceived because I couldn’t possibly know what an outcome would be before I had experienced it. Sometimes I hated that guy.
As the clouds dispersed and the sun broke through, a warm breeze rolled in on the absence of precipitation. It wasn’t nearly strong enough to dry my clothes, but it offered a persistent enough gust to at least assist in calming my nerves.
Vigorously shaking my head, much like a dog does tip to tail after a bath, I tried to create the impression of someone who was more or less put together. My hair had grown slightly shaggy and, having been doused with rain, was now plastered to my skull in a most unflattering manner. I didn’t need a mirror to confirm this as I ran my fingers through soaking clumps of hair, pulling them away from my scalp. I was quickly gaining an appreciation for why women loathe the wind and rain, at least as it related to their locks. I opened the front doors and made my approach, Phil’s furrowing brow—I knew it—telling me this improvised grooming endeavour had failed, at least by his standards. Let’s be honest, it failed the standards of anyone with eyesight. I knew I looked like shit. He wore no mustache but did possess a stiff upper lip that furnished his resting face with a dutiful pissed-off look.
“Why are you so wet?” asked Phil, deadpan and somewhat disgusted.
“What? Seriously?” I glanced behind me at the trail of water I had trudged in. “It has been pouring, and I do mean pouring, for the past half hour, and I had to run the length of a football field just to get to the door. What gives on the distance from the parking lot?”
Phil leaned to his right, peering around my soaked frame, and saw only sunshine.
“Looks pretty noice to me,” he said, a hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth in a sociopathic I-am-going-to-kill-you- later type of look. I was hoping he’d kill his pronunciation of the word nice. I could come to terms with my life’s demise if I could be assured of that.
“Yeah, well, it was raining when I—never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m here for the volunteer position on the third floor. Alex Chambers.”
Phil studied me. I mean, he really studied me. I felt my soul shudder as his dark, beady eyes bored into me. I felt an urge to hold my arms across the front of my body, as if I was standing there naked and trying to avoid further shame, but I summoned the inner strength to appear resilient.
“Sorry, Chief, that spot’s taken. Besides, you said you ain’t got any papers. You don’t really want to be here. In fact, I suggest you get going before someone finds out you’re here of your own free will; they might try to have you committed. We got a whole floor for that kind of thing.”
Phil chuckled to himself and patted the robust cushion of a belly that overflowed the waist of his pants, daring the buttons on his shirt to pop off like Tony Montana at the end of Scarface.
“No, no. When I talked to, uh, Susanne, I think it was, she said she was holding the position for me. I’ll have you know, she was quite taken that I was making the call of my own volition.”
Before I could finish the sentence, Phil had picked up the phone, stopped listening to me, and presumably contacted Susanne. Looking to get past this situation as quickly as he could, Phil paid me no mind. As soon as he heard Susanne’s name, he dialed. His actions betrayed his thoughts; if someone else could deal with me, let them.
“Yeah, Suz—sorry, Susanne. Got some kid here says he wants to volunteer on the third floor. Yep. Okay. Right. Thanks.”
Phil returned the receiver to its cradle, leaned back in his chair, testing the structural integrity of the seat, and released a heavy, satisfactory sigh.
“Susanne is coming, but she ain’t going to tell you anything more than I already told you. But you seem to think you know more about what’s available here than me. Not the case, buddy boy. I’ve been here fourteen years. Count ’em, fourteen.” He held up his fingers, all ten of them, but did so as if there were fourteen. “I know this place in and out: the people, the hallways, the positions—available or filled. But hey, maybe you can’t take instruction from a man, some type of reverse sexism or something, I don’t know what you millennials believe in these days. I can’t keep up.”
“Phil, you’re an interesting guy, you know that?” I said.
“Yeah, I am. I’m choice.” He pronounced choice like he did nice, drawing out the ‘oice,’ and it made me want to slap him. I mean really slap him—a nice, swift, open-handed, five-fingered handshake with his face. A grown man should not be using the dialect of a teenage douchebag.
Thankfully, Susanne was coming to square away the misunderstanding, but I was still trying to process what Phil had just told me. I thought back to Phil’s original question and realized that it held more merit than I had known ten minutes ago.
What the hell was I doing here?
