Category: Fiction Factor

Wednesdays were always a big day at the Waterfall Ridge Senior Activity Center – especially for Hiram Eckridge. The octogenarian had been a resident in the independent living wing of the facility for more than 10 years, and stayed active by walking two miles a day every day – rain or shine.

And while he eschewed “Bingo Monday,” “Monopoly Tuesday,” “Charades Thursday,” and “Movie Friday,” he lived for “Arts and Crafts Wednesdays.”

The activity center’s bright yellow walls were often adorned with artwork from the residents, ranging from pictures that were little more than colors haphazardly smeared onto construction paper to some excellent charcoal drawings and solid paint-by-numbers renderings.

As for Hiram, well, his efforts were more about details than style. And each Wednesday – for as long as anyone could remember – he spent all 90 of the allotted minutes at the center showing off his blueprints.

The roll of plastic paper he carried under his arm was taken to a table in the far corner of the center, a work area that had become “his” over time with no objections from the other residents. At first, he appeared to be drawing random lines, numbers and circles, but each Wednesday he’d add another wrinkle, in addition to the ones he had toiled over in his free time.

Nowadays, his drawing appeared to be an elaborate maze.

“So, Mr. Eckridge … how’s it coming along?” asked Mazie, the Ridge’s young activity director.

Hiram smiled, carefully spread his blueprint over the table, and then pulled a mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket.

“Mazie my friend, I do believe it’s coming along just fine,” he said. “Just so many formulas involved. Plus, the math is tough … and my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was because my math professor days are long gone. Don’t know why I started doing this, but now I can’t stop.”

Any time someone would ask him what kind of plans he was drawing up, he always gave them the same story: they were instructions on how to design an escape pod.

“Once it’s finished,” he’d say, “I’m gonna hand it over to a friend of mine and she knows some people who’ll use the blueprint to build the escape pod. Think of it kinda like Noah’s Ark, if Noah’s Ark had been a rocket ship. See, this planet is about used up, and once it is, people are gonna need to get off of it – and get off of it fast. Not sure where they’ll go, though … I suppose somebody else will need to figure that out.”

Most of the Waterfall Ridge staff would smile and nod when Hiram talked about his project, not bothering to take any of it seriously. But they didn’t discourage it, either. He was an 86-year-old man with an active imagination, and they had no desire to quell his creativity. In fact, one of the local news stations had done a feel-good piece on him a few months back as part of their “Quite A Character” series.

It was a different story among some of the residents, though. While there were those who ignored him completely and thought of him as a “silly old man,” at least one was intensely interested in his work.

Mira Dudley claimed to be a retired aerospace engineer and was another active senior who spent her Arts and Crafts Wednesdays doing abstract paintings of what Hiram liked to call “alien monsters” – tall, lanky fuchsia-hued creatures with heads shaped somewhat like an anvil. While Hiram would often break from his blueprint to eye her artistry, she would glance over his calculations and ask serious questions.

“Let’s see … ‘Lift (L) = Weight (W)’ … I know that one,” she’d say. “That’s the formula for flight. And Δv = u * ln(m0 / mf) … well, everybody knows that’s the Tsiolkovsky rocket equation. You’re on the right track, Hiram.”

As winter segued into spring, Hiram finished his blueprint. And on a mid-April Wednesday, he excitedly called Mira over to look at the final product.

“This is it … I’ve double-checked and triple-checked everything,” he said. “Shoot, I must’ve gone through 50 refills for my pencil. I think I might have figured it out … I feel it in my bones. What do you think?”

Mira carefully looked over the blueprint, occasionally squinting to make sure the numbers she saw were correct.

They were.

“You did it, Hiram,” she said. “This will work. This ship will sail, I guarantee it. Tell you what … Friday night while the others are watching the movie, meet me by the pond near the assisted living wing.”

Hiram carefully rolled up the blueprints and handed them to Mira.

“See you then,” he said. “Hope you can bring along the people who’ll be able to build it. I won’t live to see it done, but at least maybe they can describe it for me.”

A full moon illuminated the clear Friday sky, and Hiram could hear the other seniors laughing at a screening of “The In-Laws” as he walked past the activity center and made his way to the pond.

Mira was waiting and waved him over.

“Hiram,” she said. “I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

Hiram gasped as several figures emerged from the shadows – all of them resembling the “alien monsters” Mira had painted during Arts and Crafts Wednesday.

“We came here a long time ago, Hiram,” she said. “Some of us, like me, were able to adopt a human form to blend in. But while we had the intelligence to build a craft that got us here, we never could reverse engineer it. Our math and your math are sometimes at odds. But you figured it out.”

Hiram was startled by a rhythmic humming sound, and looked to up see a large black craft hovering overhead.

“Is that my escape pod?” Hiram asked.

“It is, indeed. And now we can help you escape – as long as you don’t mind escaping to our solar system.”

Hiram had seen the end of earth’s days coming, and wanted to give people hope. He assumed such a ship would never be constructed during his lifetime, but if he could provide other humans a chance at survival – especially children – he would die a happy man.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to take somebody else’s spot. I’m an old man and like the third rock from the sun, my time’s almost up. Just please, if you can, get as many people out of here as you …”

Before he could finish his sentence, hundreds of similar craft littered the sky. Mira took his hand.

“There are more than you see here – they’re all across the globe – and there’s room for anyone who wants to go,” she said. “But you made all this possible, Hiram – there’s no way I’d leave you behind.

“And as for being an old man, trust me – you have a whole new life ahead of you.”

“Alas for those that never sing, but die with all their music in them.”

As a public defender, Dave Pearson thought about Oliver Wendell Holmes more than most people – although no one, really, thought about Oliver Wendell Holmes much anymore. Still, the former Supreme Court justice was Dave’s idol, and that quote was one that stuck with the hard-luck lawyer.

As Dave grew older his world grew darker, and he feared there would come a day when he simply couldn’t claw his way back to the light … couldn’t find the music.

Sometimes, it seemed like that day was dangerously close.

Dave suffered from depression, and likened it to a pack of demons that had taken up permanent residence in his head.

As a kid and young adult, he was able to beat them back with a broom – buoyed, perhaps, by the optimism that sometimes comes with youth.

But now those bastards were kicking him in the groin day in and day out.

Often the feeling of hopelessness and helplessness were so deep and profound he’d just lock himself in the bathroom, pretending he’d stowed away in an escape pod hurtling toward the sun. Eventually he’d snap out of his funk, but not without a new scar.

He’d never sought therapy because he wasn’t much on one-on-one confessions, couldn’t really explain what he was feeling, and didn’t think anyone could help, anyway.

And why take pills for depression when he could self-medicate? Beer and liquor were readily available over the counter. Hell, you could even have it delivered to your door.

And he did. Often.

He wasn’t out of bed yet on this particular morning when he started thinking about how soon after work he’d begin throwing back cocktails.

“Pity, party of one,” he’d say, pouring himself another drink.

But before the darkness of his thoughts could consume him, Sparky hopped on the bed.

Dave had no idea how old the orange cat was, only that it showed up at his garden home door late one night, meowing frantically. He leaned down to pet him and got a small shock due to static electricity, hence the name “Sparky.”

He assumed he must belong to a neighbor, but no one claimed him – maybe because he had runny eyes and a bald spot just above his left eye. Soon, however, Dave was inviting him inside, and within a week he’d purchased a litter box and cat food.

Now, the cat was his – or maybe he was the cat’s. Either way, they had each other.

After taking a long stretch, Sparky looked at Dave intently, crawled on his chest and started making biscuits.

“Buddy, that hurts a little,” he said as the cat’s claws kneaded rhythmically and furiously. “You’re gonna draw blood.”

Sparky looked at Dave, and it was though the kitty understood. He stopped pressing, laid down, and nuzzled his head on Dave’s neck.

“You’re a sweet little guy, aren’t you? Lemme get up and check your food bowl.”

Dave hoisted himself on the side of the bed, slipped on his Crocs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. Sparky – high-tailed and purring – followed close behind.

The cat’s bowl had plenty of food in it but Dave nevertheless topped it off, and Sparky quickly went to work on the fresh kibble. Dave flipped the switch on his coffee maker, looked at Sparky and smiled.

Funny how simply staring at a cat was a day brightener. And knowing Sparky depended on him made him feel less alone – made the world seem a bit more tolerable.

The demons weren’t gone, of course, but they weren’t overwhelming, either. They’d be back in full force, but not today – not right now.

And that was good enough for a cold Wednesday.

Dave walked over to Sparky, gently scratched his cheek, and started singing the silly song he’d made up about the feline:

An old orange cat came up to my door

Gave him some food but he still wanted more

Now he lives with a lonely old fool

But we’re best friends, and that’s kinda cool.

Dave shook his head and chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all.

And it made him happy that he was in tune with Oliver Wendell Holmes – at least for the time being.

The early Christmas morning crowd at Hotcakes Casa was a lively one.

Two tables were pushed together to accommodate a family of eight – all clad in light blue and silver snowman-themed pajamas. The mother and father were tired but smiling, while stepladder children (and a young cousin or two thrown in) combined for a joyous cacophony.

One table was occupied by boisterous industry workers who had ended their shift; another two featured couples who – based on their hand-holding and doe-eyed gazes – appeared to still be in the honeymoon phase of their relationship; and the bar was packed by regulars who started every day with a cup of Joe at “The Casa.”

Finally, the bell above the door jingled and a heavyset, olive-skinned man in a bright red Santa suit walked in and sat down at a corner table. He pulled off his stocking cap and glanced over the menu.

“Good morning, Santa,” said Bonita, pouring piping hot coffee into the thick white mug already placed on the table. “Merry Christmas.”

Santa looked at her name tag and smiled.

“Merry Christmas, and good morning, Bonita,” he said. “Looks like you guys are busy.”

“Always. It’s a good busy, though. Helps the time go by faster.”

Bonita – short and thin with a broad face framed by a braided ponytail – was in her mid-thirties and still had a hint of an accent from her native Mexico.

“So … was I good to you this year?” Santa asked.

Bonita chuckled.

“I don’t know yet. My shift doesn’t end until 11 a.m. and that’s when we’ll celebrate. Well, three of us will celebrate. My husband’s in the service and I won’t see him until he’s home on leave sometime next year. Right now, it’s just me and my son and mother-in-law at the apartment. My kid wanted one of those dinosaur gadgets and I managed to get him that, but I had to guess on a couple of other surprises. Between going to night school and this, I tend to miss a lot of the details. Anyway, what I can get for you?”

Santa ordered potatoes – sprinkled, throttled and enveloped – and a slice of apple pie. As was always the case at Hotcakes Casa, the order was served up quickly.

“There you go, Santa,” Bonita. “Come to think of it, all your work was done on Christmas Eve, right? You’re probably tired of being called Santa.”

He let out a hearty “ho, ho, ho.”

“I figured I owed you at least one jolly ol’ elf laugh,” he said. “The name’s Barry Nicholas. You can call me that, or you can call me Santa. I don’t mind.”

Santa wolfed down his food, slurped his last bit of coffee and put an envelope on the table. He then went to the register where Bonita was waiting for him.

“Bonita, I hope you and Caesar have a very, merry Christmas,” he said. “I left a little something for you on the table that might help you with your school fees. Oh, and Rod? Don’t be surprised if Rod is waiting for you when you get home. I had a talk with his commanding officer and he decided to let him spend the holidays with his family.”

Bonita’s eyes widened.

“I … I don’t remember telling you the name of my kid. Or my husband’s,” she said.

“You didn’t,” Santa said as he headed for the door. “I’m St. Nicholas … it’s my job to know these things. Merry Christmas!”