Monday, November 29, 2010

A Medieval Affair

The party wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. His invitation had included phrases like “gourmet buffet”, “decadent furniture”, and “sophisticated social interaction”. He had envisioned a magnificent grand hall, with blazing chandeliers and a feast from some medieval celebration. Aaron shook his head and surveyed the room: the “gourmet buffet” was set atop a 6x2 tables (sans tablecloth) and upon inspection was home to a single block of dry cheddar cheese, a few sleeves of the local grocer’s take on Ritz crackers, and some purple grapes that were more vine than fruit. There wasn’t even any punch, let alone wine. The table looked like it ought to be at a high school art gallery reception. He sighed. At least those had cookies.

The “decadent furniture” turned out to be fold-up metal auditorium chairs from middle school set in front of cheap imitation-wood tables that were remarkably similar to the table hosting the “gourmet buffet”. Aaron sighed, and looked around the room, hoping that the party’s “sophisticated social interaction” would be less disappointing than its meager fare. He spotted a trio of gentleman a few tables away and approached them.
“Did you see the dunk Shaq threw down in the first quarter?” asked one man. He wore an awkwardly tight t-shirt that read “Uncle Bob’s Annual Softball Tournament 1983”. Aaron wagered that the shirt severely missed those 80’s summers when its wearer was significantly slimmer.

“Oh yeah,” replied the man across the table from him. He was sweating profusely as he tore into a McDonald’s cheeseburger. A gathering of wrappers on the table revealed that this wasn’t his first. Aaron envied the heavy man’s smuggling abilities. The guy wolfed down the rest of his burger and continued through bites of lettuce, “Those 38-year-old legs looked awfully fresh. Let’s just hope Doc knows how to keep them that way.”

Aaron’s mind drifted. He had no idea why a shack would be throwing down dunks, and he didn’t really care. The “sophisticated social interaction” aspect of this party was just as dismal as the rest of its content. On all accounts, this party failed to live up to its standards.

His attention was brought back to the three men, who had still failed to acknowledge his presence. The third man had begun to cough violently.

The man’s face had looked rather downcast before this episode, but Aaron hadn’t likened it to an illness. He was wearing a white fisherman’s sweater that had been dug out of the closet at least a month earlier than was reasonable. Perhaps, he had a cold.

Aaron’s face flushed as he watched the man’s head fall to the table, scattering yellow McDonald’s wrappers onto the floor. What the hell was happening? The man in the fisherman’s sweater convulsed, spittle frothing from his lips, some of it with a tint that was too red.

Aaron wanted to help, but he had no experience in these sorts of things. He was an aspiring poet, and damn good one in his own humble opinion. He could capture the feeling of budding love or describe the essence of a single blade of grass, but when it came to—well, practical things—he was all but useless.

The other men at the table were oblivious to the writhing pain of their friend, who was now hyperventilating so loudly that Aaron was having trouble hearing himself think. Aaron was terrified. He was also frustrated. Why weren’t the other men helping him? Aaron had a very valid excuse for his lack of initiative: his purpose in life was for the aesthetic betterment of others. Surely, these men, with their adoration of such futile and insignificant topics as sports, should be more inclined to help their fellow man.

Aaron’s face grew red, and after several moments of hesitation, filled with introspection and a careful analysis of the situation, he took a final step toward the table and pounded his fist upon it. The two men turned and looked up, thoroughly confused. The McDonalds eater looked at him with eyes full of disgust, “What do you want, Aaron?”

Aaron was taken aback by the man’s knowledge of his name. How could this stranger possibly know his name? He shook away the question; there would be time for that later. “Why aren’t you helping this man out?” he demanded, his heart beating rapidly at his brazen display of confrontation.

The man in the softball t-shirt sighed, muttering, “Oh lord, not this again,” and put his forehead to his palms. All this time, the man in the fisherman’s sweater condition continued to worsen; it seemed that a heart attack was imminent.

Completely befuddled and angry at the man in the softball t-shirt’s response, he trained his eyes on the McDonalds eater. In his mind, his gaze was so powerful that it must have been boring deep into the man’s soul. The man shook his head and looked towards the ceiling. “Do I really have to do this every friggin’ week?” he asked, more to himself than Aaron.

“What are you talking about?” asked Aaron. “Look at the man right next to you. He’s dying!” Aaron waved his hands wildly about, astonished that the man wasn’t grasping the gravity of the situation.
“Sit down, Aaron,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from the dying man. Aaron contemplated continuing his argument from his feet, but determined that he was a better thinker whilst seated. He also approved of the man’s willingness to engage in this artful sport of educated debate. He took his seat, clasped his hands on his hands on his lap, and brought his eyes up to his opponent.

“Now, Aaron,” he continued. “And no, please do not ask me why I know your name yet, I’ll get to that.” Aaron nodded, satisfied that he would gain that knowledge in time. The man continued speaking, “Each and every night, you wake up; you find a letter embossed in fancy fonts and sealed with a wax signet; you come down here expecting a ball from some King Arthur’s tale; and each and every night you are thoroughly disappointed. Of course, when someone actually dies, you are even more upset than usual, and you judge us on our lack of valor or some other absurd quality that you think we all ought to have.”

Aaron’s mind was swimming. What did he mean he received a letter every night? He had just received the letter a few hours earlier. This was in fact, the only party he had ever been invited to as far as he could remember. Aaron looked up and realized that the dying man had stopped moving. He hadn’t noticed the final cardiac arrest occur, but the man was certainly dead. Aaron whispered a quick prayer to the Lord above, and then turned his attention back to the McDonalds eater.

“Please elaborate,” Aaron instructed.

“Yes, sir,” the man said mockingly. “Aaron, my friend, you are dying of a terminal disease. All of us are. That would be why our friend here, whose name was Albert, just had a heart attack. He had some pretty shitty cancer.”

Aaron’s heart dropped. He had a terminal disease? What the hell was this party? Was this some elaborate prank that his younger brother was playing on him? Robert had always admired Aaron’s intellectual depth. Perhaps he had thought that by undermining Aaron, he could prove himself the better. Well, Aaron wasn’t about to lose this easily. His eyes scanned the room, intent on finding his brother’s menacing figure lurking somewhere.

Aaron continued the conversation, “So my friend, what terminal disease am I suffering from?” Aaron hoped his sarcasm would cause the man’s confidence to falter, which would assure him that this was all a game.
“You’ve got pancreatic cancer,” he replied without emotion. “The doctor said you’ve got a few weeks more at most.”

Aaron opened his mouth to counter, but he was cut off. “You also have some severe memory loss issues. You ever see that Adam Sandler movie?” Aaron shook his head. “Shit, I forgot it was the ‘90s when you were in that car accident. You’ve only been here a few months; the doc says you were living in a mental institution before they brought you here.”

Aaron was shaking, but he managed to ask, “And what exactly is here?”

“This is a housing complex for people with terminal diseases. The founders believed that it was better to let us live our lives out with others rather than being cooped up in a hospital hooked up to a bunch of tubes that only delayed the inevitable. Can’t say I disagree with ‘em.”

Aaron racked his brain, trying to put the pieces together. He didn’t remember a car accident. And had he said that it wasn’t 1998? “What year is it?” he croaked.

The man in the softball t-shirt, who had been silent up until now, brought his head up from his hands. “It’s 2010, bud.”

Aaron’s world crashed. He realized that he had woken up in a room two floors up from this hall. The pieces fit. He began to sob fitfully.

The man next to him, threw an arm around his shoulder, and whispered reassuringly into his ear. “Don’t worry, bud. It’ll all be over soon.”

After he finally stopped crying, he asked the men where his room was and made his way to it. He immediately got into bed, fully dressed, and sulked. After hours of tossing and turning in his bed, struggling to find any hole in the scenario, he had to accept it. He was determined to remember the truth in the morning.

As his eyes finally closed and sleep took him in its embrace, visions of servants scurrying across an elaborate dining hall filled his head. The room was massive, with blazing chandeliers illuminating stained glass portraits of valiant knights, beautiful queens, and sly druids. Aaron smiled and gossiped with the rest of his table. Everyone was beautiful. He sat straight-backed, his poster impeccable. His right hand was at his heart, and he was reciting a ballad about the spirit of the human soul. All eyes were on him. The court scribe had finally received his due.

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