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Frank was
the subject of erotic fantasies in the nursing home where he worked. And if
he'd known that, if only he'd understood he'd revived sleeping desires in four
staunch ladies and three resentful gentlemen, he might've realized that he
wasn't as ugly as he'd
been told. He might've understood how they loved him.
But love
from sexually confused geriatrics is your favorite blue tick hound succumbing
to rabies. It can turn on you, sink its teeth in you, and drain you in the
way your mind will plague you during a nightmare in the daylight hours of
crucial sleep.
So Frank somnambulated through bleached out nights, a zombie, a solitary minion to seven cruel masters. They beat him
with bedpans and prolonged his torture with stories of the days when a
sawbuck could get you two whores and a pint of sake, and rutabaga pie was all
the rage.
They stuffed his head with a lifetime of regrets, the men they should've
mounted, the children they should've aborted. Then
there was the if only's -- "If only I defected
to North Korea when I still had the chance," and, "If only I'd gone
to the grocery store naked when I still had the body," and, "If
only I thought to gun my Buick through a crowded flea market before they took
away my drivers license, then I could die in peace."
If only Frank had known their droning complaints were cautionary tales meant
for him, urging him to live beyond the pale of window box gardens and
hospital beds. Because they loved him, and not in that sentimental, surrogate
grandchild way. They wanted him. And they wanted him to live the life they'd
so diligently suppressed. But opportunities are ephemeral. Chances vanish
into ether. You only get so many offers to preside over a pagan orgy, only so
many invitations to drink absinthe in a Turkish bathhouse. And if a tweaked
out pirate asks you if you want to see his booty, tell him yes, because he
may never ask again.
The landscape of your life can be a gorgeous design of Celtic crosses and
Japanese bondage knots, a delicate latticework of sin and salvation. It can
be a kingdom of candy and tax-free cigarettes, the power of gunning down a
soldier on his own soil, and the glory of urinating freely in your own backyard.
Or your life can be a long, lonely walk through dimly lit halls, with
intermittent fits of searing chest pain to remind you that time is indeed
passing.
"It's your choice, Frank," they would whisper before their meds
kicked in. "Seize the day."
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