Artwork © Robert Fleming

 

The Mighty Quinn

Quinn wished he could get up and close the blinds, but his recliner had a way of aging him to the point that he needed help, and though he was old—92—he now carried a small, nagging guilt that belonged to a capable man who had chosen to suffer. He looked for and found his grandson, Andrew, wrapped in a blanket beside the now-empty pitcher of “Florida drink.” Because the pitcher was empty, Quinn deduced his grandson was empty, and would wake up with no memory of what they had talked about or done. He looked at the cold coffee and drank it. He liked the distraction that came with a bad taste in your mouth. For one, the bright overcast sky no longer bothered him.

He used to drink a hot cup of coffee before bed and still sleep. His wife, Jess, thought he was nuts, and he reasoned that men multitasked in their sleep, like women did when they were awake. She’d ask, “What do you do in your dreams?” and he replied, “Loving every part of you.” She laughed at that one. He could be funny, he thought.

They had been married for 47 years and he wondered what she was up to. He could call and find out, but if she didn’t know, why did he have to know? She lived in a home for folks with dementia. It made Quinn wish he made more money. When he went, it always smelled like piss. He asked her where it came from, and she always asked who he was. This made him want to laugh, but he didn’t. He waited and thought maybe he wanted to cry; they felt and sounded eerily similar now, but like the laugh, it never came.

He leaned in his recliner and thought about the inevitable. The peace he did not have but expected at his age. Again, he thought he might laugh, but it didn’t happen, and though his family sent him text messages that said he was still loved and valued, he felt like a gift shop mannequin, unable to conjure any emotion not already chiseled across his face, having lost the tools and knowledge to do so. The thought depressed him, an emotion he once considered “exotic” but now had time for and blamed on his recliner, the piece of furniture his kids couldn’t bring themselves to throw away because of their father’s objection. They tossed his camera, record player, and everything else he once used for fun. It seemed to Quinn that’s all anyone wanted you to know these days. Even if they weren’t having fun, they wanted proof they did. He remembered having fun swimming in his pool with the family dog, Gus, but they tore it down when his kids sold their childhood home and moved him into a tiny townhouse with a live-in caretaker. Her name was Sam, and he thought she was nice, but he didn’t know where she was. She opened the door for Andrew and gave him a bottle of vodka, but since then, he hadn’t seen her and couldn’t get out of his recliner. He hated this leather piece of crap, and he hated the fact that the longer he sat in it, the longer he focused on his inevitable death. Like happiness and pride, people go away too. They don’t even have to die. Look at Jess.

He stroked his chin. As soon as Sam or Andrew got him out of this recliner, he needed to shave. He yelled at Andrew but was no longer loud enough to wake a drunk. He sighed and sank further into the chair. Given the opportunity, he would trade anything for another go at life. It could be better or worse than the one he lived, but he’d do it again, and have the life-affirming reassurance that comes with the good times and the bad. It’s funny to think about. He missed holding his wife after their miscarriage. He never thought he would think that, especially then, but here he was, wishing he could go back. To feel that. Where was all that peace he should have had by now, by right? The truth was different.

He supposed attitudes were like fingertips, and everyone is different. As he got older, he grew envious of his mother and the way she went. The look on her face and how beautiful she was. He thought that’s what it would be like for him, and that was as natural as death itself. To go with the grace and beauty she had, he could not fathom, but he had seen it, and he thought that’s what happened to everyone. You got old and accepted everything. Quinn was old and did not want to die. He felt that in every fiber of his being. His very existence teetered on that conviction. It was strong, but it would stop nothing. Death would find him, and he did not want to go. He raised his arm as if it was trying to take him now, but nothing was there but his terror. He missed his wife. He saw death, and it was not wine and roses for everybody. It treated everyone differently. Quinn wasn’t sure he liked it.

He remembered a boy his age on an abandoned stretcher, dead, covered in drying, jelly-like blood. His eyes were open, and all Quinn wanted to do was close them, but an officer asked him why. Quinn didn’t answer. The boy died looking, and Quinn saw those eyes every day for a while after, then every few months, and now, years. They were as real to Quinn now as the rain gently tapping his sliding glass door. He looked at the sky, at those eyes, and at his passed-out grandson. He saw his wife on their wedding day, and how happy he was to go home during the war. He watched his children learn to read and then helped his grandchildren learn how to read too. Life had been good, and still was.

A wave of energy reverberated through the memories. The recliner turned into a launch pad, and Quinn sat in the cockpit, staring at his cracked white ceiling. “Lousy kids,” he muttered, waiting to explode. He heard Houston confirm that all systems were a go. This was it, he thought. “For those who never got to grow old,” he whispered, squeezing the end of the armrest.

His arms shook. His legs jittered. Quinn got up from the recliner.

Andrew stretched his arms and yawned. He rubbed his eyes and asked, “What are you doing, grandpa?”

Quinn grabbed the boy’s car keys and put on an old fedora.

“You got any cologne, Andrew?”

“Cologne? No, why?”

“I’m going to go kiss my wife.”

 

Nick Matsas is a writer and plumber. His work has appeared in The Write Launch, Aquarium Drunkard, and Bitter Magazine. His plumbing can be found in hospitals and assisted living facilities. He was born in Chicago and lives in California.

Robert Fleming is a digital artist and visual poet from Lewes, DE. His books are White Noir, an Amazon best seller and Con-Way in 4 in 1 #4. Founding/contributing editor of Old Scratch Press and editor of Instant Noodles.