Disconnect the Dots (216 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Parlor Trick (View user info) at 2005-08-02 10:15:12 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
"Frank? Wake up Frank."
The sunken milky eyes of Frank Schaeffer opened, blinking as he tried to focus. His knees made small jagged mountains in the otherwise flat bed sheet.
"Frank? Get up Frank. It's time to get ready to go to the community room for breakfast." The massive woman was speaking too loudly and enunciating each syllable with obvious annoyance. She yanked the thin covers down and pulled Frank's legs over the side of the adjustable metal-framed bed.
"OK Frank, let's get you dressed." The woman leaned her shoulder into him like a linebacker, lifted him with one arm around his waist and dropped him into his chair. She released the wheel brakes and turned him towards the bathroom door.
He could've walked. Just moments before he was chasing fireflies in the field with his beloved, now dead, wife Ellen. He could've walked, but he chose not to.
Even as the oversized sized woman stripped his pants and lifted him onto the toilet he would've said there was nothing wrong with Air Force Lieutenant Frank Schaeffer. But Charlotte, the weekday morning nurse had never bothered to ask and he never told her.
He had lived alone for three years after Ellen died. Six months after she was gone and the doctor's bills arrived; he sold the hollow old farm house along with the Maples he and Ellen had planted beside it. He moved into a small apartment. He had managed things, but he, like everyone, had 'situations'. He increasingly couldn't recall where he had left his car and eventually what his car looked like or how to drive it.
He was convinced that it had to have been a mechanical malfunction the day the stove was left on and the paper towel caught on fire. He had managed to drown the incident quickly in his small kitchen sink but not before setting off the smoke alarm in his and four other apartments in his building. The second time it happened, he found himself signing the admittance papers for Horizon Manor Senior Center with the understanding that eventually he would be released and could go home.
"Frank," the nurse repeated his name with every sentence like a curse. "Frank, do you want to wear your brown or your blue sweater today?"
"Brown," Frank thought. The baby blue sweater was coarse and the tag poked his neck.
"Broil." Frank said.
"Blue? OK, blue." Charlotte grabbed the blue sweater and pulled it over his head.
He knew when his brain retrieved the wrong information. And if he managed to run back and return with the corrected version, his lips failed to make the connection. Usually the circumstances wouldn't wait around for the second try anyway.
His brain, however, had no difficulty recalling April 1966 when the F107 aircraft he was flying abruptly jerked and lunged to the right, he had radioed a panicked distress before he ejected. The plane spiraled and fell from the sky into the lush forest of North Vietnam and Frank reluctantly followed. He, woke up two days later, in Hoa Lo, his legs strapped to a wooden stock and his mind and body confined in a small brick room. They would spend the majority of the next seven years getting to know each other and enduring the poor service at the Hanoi Hilton.
"After Breakfast you can stay in the community room for the Forever Fit program at 11:00 and the Sally's Singers will be in after lunch." Charlotte maneuvered his wheel chair through the opened door turned him in the direction of the smell of warm processed mush. He heard the squeak of her white-soled tennis shoes trail off behind him. He, like the others, followed the same routine every day. Still the nurses repeated the instructions as if they were new. He pushed the large wheels forward.
The wheelbarrow teetered on the slope. The heavy load of rocks shifted slightly. Frank caught and steadied the weight ignoring the needle of splintered wood that pierced the palm of his left hand. It was best not to flinch when they were watching, and they were always watching. The work was heavy, but he was out of his cage in the arms of the sun.
He saw the others, his comrades slowly wilting by the weight of endless confinement. Some would risk speaking, others merely gestured, still others hid quietly within, but no one thought they would ever leave these confines alive.
The corridors were in slow motion. Residents of various forms of ability plodded, rolled or just stood staring in the direction of the community room. Most of the faces were blank in concentration. Very little real conversation occurred between those going to the same destination; they were busy getting there.
As they reached the community room they were hastily guided to the farthest available chair as not to cause a bottleneck at the entrance. As usual, 86 year old Glenna sat in the corner flipping through a deck of cards saying "I win. I win. I win..," once after every turn.
Harold Jackson stood at the door and said "Hi. Hi. Hi" and flipped a boney hand at everyone who entered. No return greeting was expected, nor were usually offered.
The population was systematically served its portioned food, the dishes were cleared, and the exercise program started right on schedule.
Frank had resisted participation. He had no intention of conforming to their protocols, of meeting their demands or submitting to their conditioning. He sat motionless as those who had long ago lost their will raised their arms in unison then bent low to touch their knees.
He thought about Ellen and how she had surprised him at the airport when he returned from the medial center in New Jersey. He had proposed on the beach with a sea shell ring tied with seaweed. She never mentioned the scars on his back or insisted that he tell her why the toes on his right foot bent at odd angles. Eventually the memories insisted and he shared his stories. She carried the weight with him and he surrendered to her.
The music stopped. Most of the residents floated out of Frank's periphery, back to their rooms to refresh before lunch. Frank remained seated and still, looking at the ornate wooden Lobby doors.
Razor wire coiled its way around the top of the chain link fence. A scrap of cloth still hung on a razor tip where Pvt. Charles Stockwell had attempted an early release last spring. He was denied by his captors and was never seen doing crafts again.
"RESIDENTS NOT ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT" The sign reminded without bothering to specify the consequences. Everyone knew that those who wondered would be properly dealt with to ensure their safety and no repeat offenses. The stark contrast between the carved cherry wood doors and the institutional community they sealed was evident to all who entered and more so to those who stayed.
Frank watched, as hurried visitors rushed in, guilty and anxious to leave before the doors closed behind them. He saw Margie the receptionist leave her post in the Lobby to eat lunch in the staff room with the others on duty, safely away from the unappetizing company of the facility's occupants.
Frank waited for these moments to see beyond the sign into the room with the overstuffed leather chairs, the large silk bouquet and the cheerful yellow wallpaper. Frank could see beyond the guest registry and the receptionist's desk to the tall glass doors that separated the Lobby from the outside world, the swirling fall winds and his former life. He saw the cars passing unaware along Hoa Lo Street.
"Frank? Wake up Frank." The day started like all the others.
Frank forced himself awake and went through the motions as directed. They all did. The guards moved among them, they too had become dulled by the routine. The halls filled with the murmured voices and random yells of undefined anguish. A young girl dressed in autumn orange ran by clutching a red balloon.
Doors shut, keys clanked and the lucky of the prisoners stood in line hoping to eat. "I win. I win. We'll win. We'll win. Hey, hey, hi, hey, you're gonna get out today." Frank waited in the line and his world spun out of control around him.
He sat staring for hours, strapped to the chair intended to break him. The doors swung open. Frank tasted the cool outside and caught the metal safety latch the moment after Margie slipped past. She didn't see him anymore than the peeling paint on the ceiling above her. He didn't see Margie either, just that the guard left his post leaving the front gate unattended.
Without thinking he crouched through the hole into the unguarded space between captivity and freedom. The sirens would sound any moment, they would open fire and damage the lovely wallpaper. He moved quickly, as best he could, to the large glass doors and pushed them outward expecting to feel a bullet punch his chest. None came and no one saw him emerge on the outside. He stood. His legs strong, his mind alert, he ran, and then flew with the autumn leaves in the direction of home.
"Frank? Wake up Frank."
User Reviews
Submitted by electrictoothsyndrome (user info) at 2005-10-27 10:22:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Horray for the elite 8!