My Problem
Monday, July 20, 3:00 p.m. CDT
Arlene Whesker knocked. “Doing a wellness check, Henry,” she called out. I opened the cottage screen door. “We brought treats!”
I’d met Arlene when she cared for my mother in the Memory Unit. Detail-obsessed, professional, devoted to all who’d lost their way, she was older than the rest of the RNs, easy to remember with her twice broken nose and easy laugh.
“How are you holding up?” Darcia Wirfs asked, handing me a cup of black coffee. Like everyone stepping outside in our complex, she wore a required face covering. Hers read I can’t breathe. She was an administrative assistant in marketing, took night classes at Scott Community College, and worked the switchboard on weekends.
“Couldn’t be better,” I lied through my mask.
Every Monday and Thursday someone from the Rosewood Village marketing staff swung by the independent living cottages paired with a nurse or aide pushing a cart with carafes of coffee and lemonade, and a variety of cookies. Even in COVID-19 quarantine, the Powers-that-Be wanted happy residents in our retirement complex.
Arlene glanced into the kitchen and saw two places set at the table. “Expecting company?”
I forced a laugh. We were on lockdown because of the virus. No visitors allowed on the grounds. “Force of habit. A man sets two places every night for forty years, it’s tough to break the habit.”
“Once we get through this,” Arlene assured me, “you can invite all the company you want.” She motioned to the cookies. “The usual?” I imagined her smiling behind the surgical mask.
“Let’s go wild. Give me oatmeal raisin this time.” The usual was peanut butter cookies.
“Take two,” Darcia said, handing me a napkin. She knew how to market to old guys like me.
Once back inside I took off my facemask and walked over to the couch. I set down the black coffee and one of the oatmeal raisin cookies on the end table. “Enjoy,” I told My Old Friend Depression who’d reappeared as soon as the two women left. She reached for the cookie.
My Old Friend Depression kept quirky hours. When I woke up this morning, the bed beside me was empty. After lunch she appeared again. I’d looked up from the laptop and saw her on the couch, reading Cosmo, and drinking a Diet Mountain Dew. Sometimes she would disappear for days on end, and then show up as if she’d never left.
“You haven’t told the staff about us, have you, Henry?” She finished the cookie and eyed the one I held in my hand.
“How exactly would that work?”
My mother had moved to Rosewood Retirement Village before her Alzheimer’s diagnosis and had lived in assisted living several years before my wife Blaire and I moved here, too. We bought the cottage when Blaire turned sixty-five. She worked for two more years, retiring only after her first heart attack. The next heart attack, six months later, killed her.
“You’re embarrassed by me.”
I stood barefoot before her, dressed in cargo shorts and an ancient Walter Trout concert tee. My Old Friend Depression sat on the couch in a simple black dress and heels, impeccable makeup and my wife’s ruby necklace, the one stolen during a break-in 2005. She bore a remarkable resemblance to a student teacher I had thirty years ago, and didn’t look a day over twenty-two.
“What exactly would I tell the Village staff?” I asked. “‘I’m living with an imaginary friend.’?”
“Oh, Henry, there’s nothing imaginary about me,” she chortled. “I’m as real as any woman you’ve ever known.” She snatched the cookie from my hand, broke it in half, and gave me back the smallest piece. “And the instant you find someone else to fill the empty place at the table, I’m gone.”
How It Began
Tuesday, July 14th, 10:43 a.m. CDT
I heard a knock on my cottage door, opened it, and found My Old Friend Depression in an elf costume, smiling broadly. The short skirt and lime green tights showcased her athletic legs. She offered me a basket of goodies–crispy rice treats, Hostess Twinkies, blueberry muffins, a one-pound package of peanut M & M’s, honey mustard pretzels, Snickers bars, a family-size bag of mesquite barbeque potato chips, Pop Tarts fresh from the toaster, red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, and a Whitey’s chocolate malt with real whipped cream–all foods banned by my dietician, and guaranteed to spike my blood sugar.
“Let me in; they’re all yours.” She motioned to the basket and to her breasts bursting out of the skintight green elf bustier.
I moaned.
Depression, a state of mind, occurs when you compare reality to unrealistic expectations. I knew there was no knock at the door, no sexy elf. Pretending, wishing there was, would only feed my despair.
My aging Shi Tzu Ronnie growled.
“I’m not real, what’s your dog growling at?” My Old Friend Depression removed a bacon infused dog biscuit from the goodie basket. The growling stopped. “I have a way with animals.”
“You still can’t come in.”
“There are corn dogs,” she said seductively, “hot from the fryer and slathered in coarse ground mustard.” She pulled out a steaming clear plastic to-go box, “Bacon wrapped onion rings with a gorgonzola dipping sauce. And an ice-cold bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.”
I let in the elf.
I told her she had to sleep on the couch. Companionship was one thing, but sex was something else.
No Domestic Bliss
Wednesday, July 22, 11:45 a.m. CDT
My late wife was not a homemaker. Blaire was an innovative businesswoman and ruthless competitor. She out-earned me from day one, so I took over the domestic duties in addition to teaching English at the local high school. Housework suited my temperament, but cooking didn’t come naturally. Eventually I took evening classes at the junior college, and earned a Culinary Arts degree.
My Old Friend Depression suggested that I start cooking again, rather than relying on the Rosewood Village Snack bar or Grub Hub for my meals. She arranged two place settings at the table, fresh flowers, and endless bottles of craft beer. When I made mother’s meatloaf recipe, she confessed she was a raging carnivore
Recipes appeared on my phone. I found them taped to the refrigerator: smoked beef brisket, chicken schnitzel, corned beef and cabbage, St. Anselm’s garlic steak, beef and bacon meatballs, crispy Thai pork with cucumber salad, Carolina style buffalo wings, pork shoulder cutlets with fennel, beef bourguignon, Reuben sandwiches, BBQ ribs, steak fajitas, Beef Stroganoff, pot roast, steak tacos with cilantro-radish salsa, shepherd’s pie, chicken fried steak. Meat crammed the Frigidaire. Marinades materialized in the pantry. I discovered prime cuts of beef in the freezer behind the Popsicles.
My Old Friend Depression dressed for dinner, usually as a movie character: Reese Witherspoon’s Elle Woods from Legally Blonde, Jane Fonda in Barbarella, Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia. One night I dined with Marilyn Monroe’s Seven Year Itch persona; the next night, Betty Page from Striporama. Each night she made the same degenerate suggestions about what I could have for dessert. I resisted.
A Little Something for the Pain
Friday, July 31, 07:45 a.m. CDT
A rack showed up on the counter filled with fresh spices: Moroccan Spanish Paprika, Dillweed, Ceylon Cinnamon, Decorticated Cardamom, Chervil, Ground African Bird Pepper, and Aleppo Style Chili Flakes. Scattered among the spices were bottles of OxyContin, Vicodin, Percocet, Fentanyl, Effexor, Xanax, Ativan, Pristiq, Cymbalta, Valium, Lexapro, Paxil, Prozac, and Zoloft.
I pulled out all the anti-anxiety drugs and anti-depressants, the opioids and painkillers, and tossed them into a plastic grocery bag.
“Where are you going?” My Old Friend Depression asked.
“I’m taking them somewhere they’ll be safe.”
“Save enough,” she told me, “to help you sleep.”
When Arlene Whesker arrived for work that morning, I met her at the nurses’ station. She was wearing over-sized tortoise-shell Foster Grants and pink scrubs. She’d stuffed her unruly red hair under a sunhat which she took off as soon as she saw me.
“Henry! What a pleasant surprise.”
Arlene was in her early sixties, energetic, upbeat, and purpose-driven. She’d worked at Rosewood Village for two decades, first in the assisted living and nursing wings, and more recently in the memory care unit, which is where I met her. She’d watched over my mother’s painfully slow demise and got to know Blaire and me through our frequent visits. She’d been supportive when we decided to move into an independent living cottage, and had provided emotional support and medical advice to Blaire after her first heart attack.
“Since your mother passed, the only time I get to see you is when I do the cookie runs with Darcia.” She caught herself, as if she might be overstepping a line. “But then, there really isn’t any reason for you to visit the memory unit….”
“I miss the conversations we had while trying to get Mother to eat.”
“Everyone enjoyed when you and Blaire helped with Bingo.”
That was true. Had my life become so narrow that I’d forgotten the pleasure of being around others?
“You, know, we still do Bingo Mondays at 2:00,” Arlene noted. “We can always use help.” When I didn’t leap at the offer, she added, “You could call the numbers.”
Blaire never let me call the numbers. I was the Prize Guy.
“Deal.” There was an awkward silence. “I have a problem.”
“How can I help?”
“Is there some place private…?” She motioned to the table in the nurses’ break room. “I need to dispose of something.”
Once seated I put the bag on the table. “I found these this morning.”
Arlene reached into the bag and removed the pill bottles, each clearly labeled, but all lacking key details: patient, pharmacy, contact information, bar code.
“Oh, my,” she said. “These are a problem.”
“And dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“Where did you get them?”
“I found them in the cottage.” I was not, technically, lying. “After her first heart attack, Blaire struggled with anxiety and depression.” Also true.
“These are as illegal as hell.”
“Blaire was a determined and resourceful person.” My final prevarication.
Arlene touched my hand. “I’ll take care of it.” Her face flushed.
I felt guilty about the lie, but I marked the next bingo date on my calendar. It would be nice to see her again.
That night, I found a Glock 43 on my nightstand. It was a lightweight, single stack, 9mm pistol, a popular choice for women, easy to conceal. Not my style, but I could understand the attraction.
The Glock appeared nightly for the next eight days, always disappearing by morning. The ninth evening, I grabbed the 9mm and locked it in the portable safe. I suspect it would still be there if I wanted it. Suicide by firearm is successful in 83% of attempts.
Surrender to My Basest Instincts
Sunday, August 2, 08:08 a.m. CDT
When I entered the kitchen for my morning coffee, I found the breakfast table set. There were hot pork sausage patties, butter and maple syrup. My Old Friend Depression stood at the stove making pancakes. She looked exactly like my 8th grade English teacher Mrs. Botts: mid-forties, tall, leggy, voluptuous. “I’ve let my hair down. I hope you don’t mind.” I hadn’t noticed her hair. In 8th grade it had usually been in a bun. Now it draped across her bare shoulders.
Mrs. Botts turned back to the stove and flipped the pancakes. When she turned back, she caught me staring. She wore an orange lace teddy, thigh highs, and stilettos. “Is there a problem?”
“I haven’t had sex with anyone except my wife for the last forty years.”
“I thought after breakfast we could take care of that.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“Check with your mighty sword.” I was painfully erect. She motioned for me to join her at the stove. I shook my head.
“If you surrender, I’ll make everything better.”
“What about the pancakes?”
“They’ll keep.”
Sex was as good as I imagined, and for the next three weeks, it dominated my waking hours.
Between sexual encounters we’d binge watch police and detective shows. One day she appeared as Detective Abigail Baker from Blue Bloods. The next day she became Assistant District Attorney Erin Reagan, Frank Reagan’s only daughter or Officer Eddie Janko-Reagan the young blonde policewoman who was Jamie Reagan’s partner from Season 4 until they were married. Some days she mixed things up, appearing as Natalie Teeger, Monk’s assistant for several years.
When I was too exhausted for sex, we played Scrabble.
She cheated.
In the middle of a game, she’d vanish, then reappear to play a word like ZOMBIFY (26 points), MEZQUIT (27 points), or JUKEBOX (27 points). Most nights I still beat her. I’ve got a BA in Literature and an MFA in Creative Nonfiction. Those degrees should be worth something.
My Old Friend Depression was also a skilled mixologist, and the bar was always open. She’d craft bacon and egg martinis for breakfast, Wasabi martinis with sushi at lunch, a chocolate truffle martini for a nightcap. When in a cocktail mood, she looked a lot like “Lil” Lovell, the raunchy bar owner in Coyote Ugly. She drank with me, but never got drunk. I would lose myself in an alcoholic fog. That was the way Arlene found me one afternoon.
Rock Bottom
Monday, August 24, 08:08 a.m. CDT
It was Monday. Arlene Wexler and Darcia Wirfs were doing wellness checks. Of course, I didn’t know it was Monday. My days were spent in the company of My Old Friend Depression, to the exclusion of the outside world. Emails, text messages, and unanswered voice mail filled my devices. With her encouragement I began drinking the moment I woke up, stopping only when I blacked out. Cooking, binge watching crime shows, Scrabble, and increasingly dark sex games, gave way to an endless alcoholic stupor.
There was a knock. Both the front door and the screen door were locked. Several days of newspapers and mail had built up.
“Wellness Check.” I found out later they were serving two scoops of ice cream with either hot fudge or marshmallow cream. Cool Whip and crushed peanuts optional. I heard nothing.
Arlene and Darcia saw the newspapers, and the bulging mailbox. They heard my Shi Tzu Ronnie whining to get out. They banged louder. Finally they cut a slit in the screen door to unhook it and used a master key to open the front door.
Arlene told me all this later over black coffee on my patio. Darcia assumed I was dead.
Arlene knew better. “No, just stinking drunk.” Her ex-husband had been an alcoholic. She shook me.
I reluctantly revived. I saw her flaming red hair, surgical mask, and blazing eyes.
“You, Henry, are a stupid, stupid man.”
While Darcia took out the dog, Arlene helped me out of the chair, and dragged me to the bathroom. She held my head while I emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet; then she washed my face.
By the time we returned to the kitchen, Darcia had cleared away the dirty dishes, glassware, and empty bottles and placed at mug of coffee on the table.
“Darcia and I have to finish our wellness checks,” Arlene said firmly. “The ice cream is melting. I’ll come back when we’re done, if you promise to air out this place. It stinks.” She lowered her voice. “It’s time to change that.”
She was right, of course.
By the time Arlene returned I’d showered and shaved. The dishwasher was running; the dog had been fed; and I’d found a clean shirt in the back of my closet. (My Old Friend Depression didn’t do laundry.)
Arlene and I sat in lawn chairs under the oaks in front of the cottage. Ronnie curled up under her chair, grateful to have been rescued. She was still in scrubs but had let her hair down and substituted Teva sandals for her orthopedic nursing shoes. That’s when I noticed, for the first time, her beautiful feet.
“I think I’m an alcoholic,” I confessed.
“You’re not. You’re trying to drink yourself to death.” She sighed. “There’s a difference, but that won’t matter if you kill yourself.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Then something has to change.”
Later that evening, long after Arlene left, I sat in my La-Z-Boy, combing out my Ronnie’s coat after giving him a bath. I thought about the conversation. I heard a voice.
“Did you have a nice visit with your friend?”
My Old Friend Depression was jealous.
I turned and saw my late wife Blaire standing barefoot in the kitchen wearing the diaphanous red teddy she bought for our honeymoon at Niagara Falls. The teddy, torn in the heat of our righteous passion, never made the trip home.
Her image shimmered.
Blaire held out an icy pint of Sam Adams Octoberfest. She struck a pose, her breasts bursting from the teddy–
Except the breasts thrusting out of the teddy, the ones beckoning me, weren’t Blaire’s. They were nice. But they weren’t the ones I’d loved over the years.
“Come, Darling,” she beckoned.
I lowered the footrest and Ronnie jumped off. I stood.
In the kitchen she’d set two place settings. “I thought we could microwave some mac and cheese. After supper I’ll fix cocktails.” She struck a pose. “You know what’s for dessert….” It was my late wife’s face and voice, but the body was that of My Old Friend Depression. “What’s wrong?”
“Your breasts are too large.”
“That hasn’t been a problem.”
I looked at the beer in her hand and the cocktail shaker on the counter. “When you moved in you said if I found someone else to fill the empty place at the table you’d be gone….”
“Of course!” she said indignantly.
“It’s time for you to leave.”
“Your little friend….” she snickered.
“You mean, Arlene?” I picked up one of the plates, the place setting, and napkin and put them away. “Probably not. But then….” I took the cold pint from her and set it on the counter. “I need time to take stock. Maybe Ronnie and I will go camping in the Porcupines.”
“What do you expect to happen?”
“I have no idea.” I lifted the pint, then poured it down the sink. When I turned back, she was gone.
- A Place At The Table - September 22, 2021