Checkout Policy

Previously published in Nude Bruce Review.

 

By the time Stan showed up to Tender House Hospice in Detroit’s East Side, I was used to the shuffle of patients and the refilling of rooms only hours after the previous tenant had died. The first thing that struck me as odd when I strolled up to suite number ten with my trusty dust mop was that the shades were drawn. Most folks lucky enough to get a south-facing room liked to fill it with sunlight and take in the cityscape.

 

I stepped in and saw the back of a wheelchair and a bald, tombstone-shaped head. The pale fluorescents gave off a dull, greyish hue when mixed with sunlight from the hallway. I pulled out an earbud, letting the wire take up slack, and gave a knock.

“Excuse me, sir, mind if I come in for a quick cleaning?”

“No baths. I don’t give a shit if this body is dirty or clean,” he replied.

I pushed a nervous laugh. “I’m not here to sponge you, it’s the room I’m after.” He turned his head slightly. I met him halfway by stepping in fully and revealing the shag of the mop. Since he didn’t tell me to go away, I proceeded with my duties and polished the floor up real nice. Back then, I didn’t make small talk with the patients unless spoken to first.

 

As I maneuvered around the wheels of the bed, I snuck quick glances at Stan in his wheelchair. Hunched over a mobile table with a pad of paper and a dark marker, he held the writing tool like a toddler does a crayon, and slowly put words to the page. After letting his glasses hang from the strap around his neck, he signaled at me.

I paused the Walkman in my back pocket. By then, everyone had gone digital with their MP3 players – not me, though – I preferred chunky analogue buttons and physical cassettes.

 

“What can I do for you, sir?” I pushed a grin that was more gaps and gum than teeth, but he couldn’t tell due to the mask I’d been mandated to wear recently.

“Hang this on the door.” His eyes were duller than a trashed motel vacancy sign.

“You sure?” The squiggly letters looked like mistakes on the page.

“Damn sure,” Stan grumbled, then coughed up a spiral of phlegm and snapped it toward the garbage bin by his feet, missing the mark. “I’d do it if I had the capacity to walk. These legs are just decoration now, like teeth on the starving.”

“Uh, alright.” I headed to my maintenance cart parked in the hall, tore off a ribbon of tape and attached the sign to the door. I pressed play and let the music occupy my mind while running a dust rag across the top of the TV, polished the empty vase, then buffed the tabletops. With my trigger finger on the spray bottle, I brushed back the curtain, ready to give the window a shine when something bounced off the back of my dreadlocks. I turned to see a ball of paper hit the floor. The old man was up in arms, mouthing something.

“Curtains closed!” I heard him say once I removed an earbud. “I don’t want to see those poisonous smokestacks!” He pointed into the distance.

I shrugged and did as requested. Since this was the Motor City, it was impossible to look out a window and not see a factory.

On account of Stan being bound to a wheelchair, I did a half-assed job in the bathroom, but more than was necessary.

 

After leaving, I got started on the hallways. People think that pushing a dust mop is all in the arms, but it’s not. Just like hockey, the wrists and shoulders get the brunt of it, twisting the stick back and forth, while inching forward. Every step I took was met with the sharp jingle of keys hooked to my belt loop. When I didn’t have tunes playing, the crispy crunch of my hospital-issued pants filled my ears. A couple of shifts into my tenure at Tender House Hospice, I learned that conversations between the living and the almost-dead were downright depressing. To keep my nose out of other people’s business, I began wearing headphones.

After passing through an intersection, I was nearly sideswiped by a woman striding along while chatting on her phone. She was yakking and nodding like a rooster pecking at mealworms. I stopped to express my apologies for the near collision, but she just kept going. Whoever she was there to see must’ve been ready to expire. She stopped at suite number ten.

 

“Okay, I’ll see you later,” she said, dumping the phone into her Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. “Who the fuck put this here?” She called out, pulling down the sign. “Dad? Who did this?”

I stamped my grin into my shoulder and kept moving. I’d barely made it to the end of the hall when my two-way radio crackled: Richard, we have some glass and spilled liquid in room ten. Mop and bucket, please.

Back at Stan’s room, I got to work on the broken bottle of OJ. Listening to headphones had their drawbacks; with Aretha filling my ears, my spatial awareness was compromised, and I didn’t realize the girl had moved behind me. When I bent over to pick up the glass, our butts bumped and I stumbled forward. 

“Did you just get grease on my jeans?” she gasped, struggling to turn her head far enough to take in the breadth of her backside.

I turned my Walkman off. “I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t mean for…”

“I just bought these! If they’re stained, I’ll be having words with your boss. What’s your name?” Her hair was styled messily and had that wet look you get from excessive gel.

 

I tapped my name tag, “Mr. Jackson, but you can call me Richard. I sincerely apologize.”

“Do you know who put this sign on the door? Bring viruses. NO MASKS ALLOWED!”

I looked at Stan. Trying not to crack, his lips were sucked in. I shook my head, then went about my business with my Walkman turned off. 

“Dad, I brought your cheque book; I need help with my bills,” she said.

“Where’s the bottle of bourbon I asked for?”

“You aren’t supposed to mix booze and pain meds.”

“Tell that to the drunk bums downtown,” he coughed, putting his entire chest into it. “I deserve a drink for my birthday.”

“Fat chance.” She pushed the cheque book so it was right under his nose.

“You write it and I’ll sign,” he said. “But not a penny more than two grand.”

“Two? I need double that!”

“If I was still rich, I’d be in a country club down south instead of dying in this hole. Ask your boss for a raise,” he said, putting his glasses on.  

“I got fired.”

“Of course you did. You must be a nightmare with that phone attached to your hand. I’d be embarrassed to ask any of my contacts to give you a job.”

“I’m not asking for employment; can you tide me over, pretty please?” She fluttered her fake caterpillar lashes. 

“The last divorce rinsed me for almost all that I’ve got.”

“Well, you’re not going to need the house anymore, and I know a good realtor…” she said, writing out the cheque. “Three grand. Sign it please.”

 

Scratching pen to paper, Stan shook his head.

“Thanks, Daddy.” She put on her best little girl voice before taking a seat on the arm of the recliner. “Besides alcohol, what do you want for your birthday?”

“For someone to smother me with a pillow. I can’t imagine listening to your horseshit for another couple of months.”

“Oh, Dad, ha-ha, dramatic as always!” 

“How about getting the Red Wings to win their last two games of the season?”

“You and your beloved hockey team, just a bunch of men chasing a ball,” she said.

“It’s not a ball! It’s a puck!”

She was nose-deep in her phone, bouncing her foot. “Do you still do crossword puzzles? I meant to bring you some newspapers.”

“That would’ve been nice.”

“What about that thing we were talking about yesterday, working your only grandchild into the will? Did you call your lawyer?”

“Enough!” the old man graveled. “My affairs are set in stone! You can give Alex whatever you want from your share.”

“I can’t afford it!” she cried, putting her phone in her lap. “I should get more than your sons; I grew up without a father!”

“Because I couldn’t stand to be near your mother. You just happened to get caught in between.” Stan gave her a once over. “You turned out exactly like her. The buck stops here.” He pointed his index finger into the tabletop.

“You’re angry because I’m right. You can fix it by calling in the addendum to your lawyer.”

 

She was really working him now. I needed to see where the conversation was headed, but was running out of surfaces to disinfect so I equipped myself with a monkey wrench from my cart and got ready to fake a sink repair.

“I certainly won’t!” he paused for an intense round of coughing. “You and your swine mother put me through hell!”

It was difficult not to feel for him, stuck in that chair with no escape, his voice as his only tool.

“Jenny, just leave. And don’t come back unless you’ve got a bottle of bourbon,” he said.

She began picking up her things.

 

“Mom’s going to contest the will unless you cut Alex in. Her lawyer says there’s a case.” Jenny held up her phone, attempting to get Stan to look at the screen before stepping toward the door. 

I know I shouldn’t have listened, but I couldn’t help myself. I made it to my maintenance cart before realizing I’d forgotten the bin with the broken glass.

“Hang this!” Stan yelled at me. Looking defeated, he was holding up the sign again.

“It’s your birthday?” I asked, taking the paper.

“If I make it through another night.” He brought his hand to his face and motioned for me to pull down my mask.

I obliged.

“You believe the balls on that girl? Even after supporting her through a teenage pregnancy, and buying her a house, she still feels ripped off.”

I glanced around the room awkwardly and spotted a hat hanging off the coat rack. “You a Wings fan?” I asked.

He nodded. “They’re Detroit’s greatest sports franchise. Too bad they couldn’t make the playoffs.”

“They came close last year,” I said. “Edged out by one point.”

“Hand me my jacket, will you.” He pulled an envelope from the interior pocket of a high-end leather coat, one that would fetch a pretty penny on the right street corner. “Due to my condition, I’ve been giving these away.” He held out two tickets. “They’re for tonight’s game.”

“That’s awfully generous, but I’m not allowed to accept gifts.”

“I don’t give gifts. It’s a matter of circumstance.”

 

I’d been a Wings fan my entire life but had never attended a game. Pushing a broom in Tender House Hospice was the best job I’d ever had. Previously, I’d earned minimum wage on construction sites, barely scraping together enough cash to make rent on an apartment that was as dusty and barren as a moon crater.

“Centre ice. The only people with better seats are the refs,” he said.

“Accepting these could get me fired,” I replied, though my eyes lingered on the tickets.

“Fine.” He threw them in the garbage bin. “Empty my trash please. And throw the jacket out too. I won’t be leaving with any possessions.”

I laughed and did as instructed. But first, I removed the tickets from the envelope – they were more pristine than a wad of hundreds that had just rolled off the press. “Thanks a million, sir.” I nodded.

 

“It’s Stan.” We shook hands.

“Call me Ricky.” I wouldn’t say Stan smiled, but his face slackened a bit.

“Take one of your kids to the game.”

“I don’t have any,” I said. “But my sister’s a huge fan.”

“No children? Dying should be a lot more peaceful knowing nobody will be fighting over your money.” He shook his head in a jerky sort of way, like a ball-and-socket joint that needed to be greased.

“I guess I’m good on two counts then, no kids and no money!” I smacked my thigh. “The greatest gift my mom ever gave us was poverty and debt.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed, causing his forehead to scrunch. “Explain.”

“I’ve learned that everyone has a debt to pay just before they checkout. Family members are never satisfied with their cut. Things get real messy.”

“You can never have enough,” Stan said. “I worked like a madman, terrified I’d go broke at any moment. And you know what? I did go broke, more than once with all the divorces. I made a lot of money for a lot of people.” He said this ruefully, with his gaze fixed on the floor tiles.

“When my mom passed,” I said, “there was no life insurance or retirement funds to fight over. Instead, my siblings and I banded together to give her a proper funeral. We shared the debt, it made us closer.”

 

Just then my radio crackled, giving me a start: Richard, we’ve got a clogged toilet in room two.   

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Stan. Thanks again!” I patted the breast pocket of my pinstriped custodian shirt. 

“Make sure to hang that sign!” he yelled as I sprang for the hall.

The next day when I went for my routine cleaning, Stan was laid up in bed. I gave my customary knock, walked in, and announced, “Happy birthday, buddy!” When he looked at me, it was as if he was trying to decipher my alien heritage. From the glassy nature of his eyes, I could tell that he was doped up on pain meds.

“Did you catch me on camera at the game last night?” I joked, while leaning on my mop stick. He tried to speak, but his tongue rolled around his mouth like a wad of bubble gum. He grunted then closed his eyes.

During my rounds, I kept an eye on Stan’s room. Since it was his last birthday, I expected to see a bunch of visitors coming and going. But I never saw a single one. Before my shift ended, I walked by once more and he was propped up in the wheelchair. The TV was on and there was a remote under his hand.

“Stan?”

“Oh hey, Ricky.”

“I just wanted to thank you again for those tickets,” I said, entering the room and placing a Dixie cup full of ice on the table. “Our boys won!” 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

I pulled a juice-box-sized bottle from my backpack and set it on the table. Stan’s eyes grew to the shape of apple slices. In the short time I’d known him, they had always been mere slits.

“Bourbon!” he wheezed. “How’d you know?”

“I understand this might not be the quality you’re used to, but it’s the best I could get my hands on.”

“You got a couple cups? The Pistons’ game is about to start, have a seat in the lounger.”

I looked at my watch. I was officially off the clock, and it was shift change for the nurses. Assuming there wasn’t any trouble, no one was likely to come by for at least an hour.

“How do you like it?” I asked.

“On the rocks, if you got any.”

 

I portioned some cubes, added the liquor and handed it to Stan.

“Happy birthday.” I held up my drink and took a heavy sip. He tried to do the same, but his hands were shaky; hitting his mouth at that angle was like trying to land a jet on an aircraft carrier during a storm.

“Mind passing me that straw?” Stan asked. He took a pull then smacked his lips together. “Velvety, with hints of butterscotch. I’ll be able to tap-dance on out of here after a couple more swigs, the bourbon might knock the polyps right off the bone.” Stan seemed to relax, letting the first genuine smile steamroll across his face.

“Amen to that,” I said, and we bumped cups. “Bone cancer?”

He nodded, “Started in the lungs and spread. I suspect it has something to do with all the chemicals I was exposed to in the factory. I worked production before managing multiple tire plants.” He looked down at his legs. “The spine is a lightning rod that transmits electricity to all parts of your body. Without a clear path, the brain is just a rambling cloud in the sky, not good for much more than talk.” He shrugged. “The doctors say I won’t be able to move my arms soon. I’ve got a couple of months yet.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.

 

He looked at the phone that was just out of reach. “Don’t be. I’m happy to get on with it. Not a single call or visitor today. I didn’t expect any gifts because what could you possibly get someone who’s on death row?”

“Bourbon! We can’t please ‘em all, Stan. Let’s just enjoy the moment.” I’ve never been much of a comforter in times of need, but I could sure talk a good game. 

“Everything they say about money and happiness is true,” he shook his head. “With the first million, you buy a massive house and fancy car, then suddenly you need another million.”

“Chasing the almighty dollar,” I sighed. “My mom used to ignore our poverty. If there wasn’t food at dinnertime, she’d cover up the silence by playing Motown hits. It wasn’t all bad, though. She had a piggybank she’d put pocket change into and managed to scrounge enough to buy us a birthday gift every year, usually something simple like ice cream or a toy.”

“What about Christmas?” Stan asked.

“Nope. She didn’t give a damn about Christ’s birthday, ha-ha.” I slapped my knee and thought I saw Stan jerk a bit, perhaps from a giggle. “I tell you though, no one ever cared about her birthday. For the longest time I didn’t even know she had one.”

“You think you could do it? If you had an opportunity to make millions, could you stop at comfort?” Stan leaned his ear, like he was getting ready for me to reveal a secret.

“I can’t say for sure, not after all the money-related fights I’ve seen. I played the lottery once, for a multi-million-dollar pot. The ticket filled me with a hope so big it kept me up at night. I thought about the money constantly, thinking I could manifest a win! After losing, I felt like I’d been robbed. Living on that kind of hope was tough to come down from. Ever since, I haven’t mentally spent a nickel before actually earning it. Heck yeah, I could stop at comfort, because I don’t need much more than I’ve got.”

 

Stan’s hard-nosed expression didn’t change.

“Some midweek ice cream would be nice, not just on special occasions,” I finished.

“Hi, Stan,” Nurse Watson said, entering the room. “I’ve got your meds and water. Oh hey, Ricky. You guys watching the game?” She glanced at the TV.

I tensed, thinking she might smell the booze, but she never mentioned it.

“I’ll be sure to take them,” Stan said. 

After she left, he looked at me. “Gimme a healthy pour. It’s helping numb the pain. I’ll go stupid after taking those damn pills and won’t catch the end of the game.”

We drank and chatted until the booze was gone. When it looked like the Pistons had cemented a win, Stan decided to take the meds and pass out for the night.

During my walkabout the next day, I peeked into Stan’s room and saw his daughter. She had a Suit with her. Honestly, I didn’t want to snoop, but I couldn’t help myself – I needed to know if she was there to make amends for missing Stan’s birthday. I walked in and grabbed the garbage bin. When that didn’t raise any alarms, I started working the floor.

“The codicil with the requested changes to your will,” the Suit said, placing a stack of papers in front of Stan. “You’ll need to sign in all spots with an arrow sticker.”

“I know.” Stan shooed him to the corner before picking up the pen.

“Mom’s going to be so happy!” Jenny paced the room, while pecking at her phone. The balls of her cheeks looked as if they were about to burst from the sheer intensity of her smile. She stepped into the hall to take a call.

 

I was polishing the tabletops when Stan looked at me and asked, “You coming by for the Wing’s final game tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. 

“Maybe you can bring another bottle of nail polish remover?” he grinned.

Seeing his smile made me blush. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Before Stan, I used to get through my workdays by minding my own business. I was there to put a shine on the place, not the people. But apparently I enjoyed being able to make a crab apple smile. On those days, when I got home to my empty apartment, I felt like I’d accomplished something meaningful. I can’t say that little bottle of bourbon made Stan’s dying days any easier, but being able to provide it sure lifted my spirits.

After Stan died, a gentleman with a severe case of dementia took over his room. Since we couldn’t build a rapport, the best I could do was slip him some chocolates every now and then.

 

Around the same time, a little old rockrose from Portugal checked into the house. From the moment Mrs. Silva got there, she complained about missing her daily dose of port wine. Once I learned about her condition and that she didn’t have any family to check in on her, I got my hands on a bottle of ten-year-old tawny port from a Portuguese shop across town. She warmed my heart that one, weaving stories in broken English about her childhood and home country. If I ever qualify for a passport, I might seriously consider heading there to try the bifana sandwiches she spoke so highly about. 

Six months to the day after Stan passed, I received an inheritance from an anonymous donor. I’d be lying if I said it was just enough to pay the bills. Heck, I could’ve wiggled my way out of the shoddy one-bedroom I’d rented for most of my life and moved into the upper-middle-class hood. I could’ve even gotten my chiclets fixed. But I decided against all of that; it just wasn’t me. And besides, every time I considered getting loose with the money, I heard Stan asking if I could stop at comfort.

 

I kept on at the hospital, continued using a Walkman, and kept riding Detroit transit. The only difference was I suddenly had a retirement fund and a couple pints of ice cream in the freezer. To ensure I didn’t get too attached to the money, I donated the extra within the first week. I didn’t even keep a rainy-day stash. That’s the beauty about spending your entire life as a poor man – you never forget the ins and outs of being in need at all times. If I lost it all, poverty would take me back with open arms.