Written April 16, 1997/Rewritten April 17, 1997
The woman with the great loaf of hair asked me to sit down; Someone would be with me in a moment. I noticed that the fish tank was gone and replaced by a large ficus with a gnarled trunk that had seen better days. It drooped a little as if it too were waiting to be served.
I stared across at the distressed plant while a vent blew air onto my face. I sat down and wrapped my arms around me. The sun from a window beat upon me. The heat felt good and my once-full sleeves eased their wrinkled grip about me.
My chin had just settled into my chest when I heard sobbing nearby. I cocked my head to catch the sound. It wasn’t a woman nor a child and the voice was low and laden with years of experience. That particular timbre frightened me even more.
The ficus fluttered its leaves and made me take notice of it. Liver spots covered it and its bent trunk seemed to say, “It aches.” I gave it a wan smile and shrugged.
I began to turn away when it said, “It hurts, why am I here?”
I had no response for it.
It suffered in front of me and eventually I had to turn away. The sobs turned into moans.
“Somebody help him!” I wanted to say.
A woman brought some water in a dixie cup. The water had just touched my lips when the ficus caught my eye.
“I hurt.” It said. And the moans grew louder.
I unfolded myself from the chair and gave the water to the plant. It seemed to need it more than I anyway.
“Thank you.” Said the plant.
“You’re welcome.” I replied.
The plant shuddered and sighed.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Fresno.” It said. Originally I was from Fresno, but I live here now.”
“Do you like it here?”
“It’s okay I guess. My family is all gone, and so are my friends. It happens when you get this old.”
“I know.” I said. “You don’t expect this when you are younger.”
“I know.”
“It hurts a lot. My skin gets prickly and my bowels ache.”
“Is it bad?” I asked.
“They don’t tell me so, but I know it is. It used to just hurt now and then, now it seems to hurt all the time. I can’t breathe too well.”
“Can’t they do anything about it?”
“They say they do, but to be honest, I think they are just waiting for me to die. I’m waiting too.”
“Aren’t you afraid of death?” I had a lot of questions to ask.
“What for? Death is nothing to be afraid of. Now dying, thats a whole different matter. I didn’t want to go like this, alone and sheltered like some vegetable. I don’t even get to see the sun from here.”
His voice turned bitter.
“I can’t stand not being able to get around. I need help doing everything. They prod me and poke me. I can’t stand their pity. They try to hide it, but they can’t.
They’re just waiting, just like me.”
“Have you ever thought about…” The word caught in my throat.
“Suicide? Of course, all the time. I would if I could, but I can’t even feed myself, much less kill myself.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” I repeated.
“No, it’d be a relief.”
“But its some kind of sin, isn’t it? You could go to hell, or purgatory.”
“Like this isn’t hell already. My insides hurt. My joints hurt. Hell, it hurts to talk. Can’t do anything by myself, can’t get water, can’t feed myself, hell, I can’t even go to the bathroom by myself. Do you understand?”
I had no response.
There was silence for a while, then a moment of clarity. In that moment of clarity I understood. And in understanding, I was no longer scared.
With great care and dignity, I lifted him from his place and brought him over to the window.
“Its good to see the sun again.” He said. Then he looked at me one last time.
I took his trunk in my hands and closed my eyes before squeezing until it snapped.