One night I had the mother of all sinus headaches and passed by their room without so much as a glance. I heard one of them start the shtick-“Here comes Captain Spaulding!”-but was well past the room before his buddy could do his part. I stopped for a moment when a dribble of pain moved from between my eyes to the back of my throat, then turned back toward the water fountain that was only a few feet away from their room. I downed a couple of decongestants then figured, What the hell, I’m here, and poked my head around into their room.
They weren’t looking at the door, nor were they looking at each other-in fact, they didn’t seem to be looking at anything at all. They just stared. At an empty space where their laughter should have been ringing. At a place where a visiting child should have been sitting. At a lifetime of Maybe-Next-Year places they’d always meant to take the wife, but the old girl had gotten cancer too young and left this world before they could ever get away together.
There is a very thin scrim that keeps the ruined things behind the curtain of everyday life, and one of the weights that held that curtain in place had just been removed. Now, with no Captain Spaulding shtick, the edge of that curtain was fluttering, and something of infinite sadness and disappointment could be seen shifting: Here we are, pal, two old sons-of-bitches at the end of our lives and no one else but each other to give a shit. It would’ve been nice to have our nightly laugh but that’s gone now, too; just like our families, our good women, our strong young-man notions. It was nice while it lasted, though. Maybe they’ll serve buttermilk pancakes tomorrow, huh?
“Excuse me,” I said.
They both started, blinked, then turned in my direction. The look on their faces suggested that something with three heads and a dick growing from its left nostril had just entered the room.
“I, uh… I was passing by and could have sworn someone in this room called me ‘Shnorer.’ Was that one of you gentlemen?”
It took them a moment.
It is him, right?
I believe so, yes.
Hey, the curtain fell back into place.
Damn good thing, too; I think tomorrow’s poached eggs.
“‘Shnorer,’ did you say?” asked Old Fart #1.
“Yes, I believe that’s what I heard.”
They looked at each other, then: “We weren’t talking to you!”
Uproarious laughter. This time I actually joined in.
“Sounds like you got yerself a mighty nasty cold there, Captain.”
“I do. I’m kinda dizzy and my ears are clogged.”
“Have trouble sleeping?”
I nodded.
“Neither one of us can sleep worth a tinker’s left nut, either.”
They both smiled and told me I should take some tea with a little whiskey in it, and while I was at it could I sneak a little in for them? Maybe they could get one of them young nursing assistants a little tipsy and she’d give them an extra-long sponge bath.
I grinned and mimed tapping the edge of a cigar. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever hoid.”
That got a big laugh out of them, though I’m damned if I know why. I waved at them, sang a quick “Hooray- hooray- hooray! ” and headed back down the hall. I made it a point after that to stop by their room every night and do the shtick until the night that door was closed and the names which I had never bothered to read were removed from the outside slots. I knew neither one of them slept worth a tinker’s left nut, so that limited the options.
But, for that night, I felt better about myself and the world and my place in it. My sinuses, however, were having none of this fun and frolic and warm squishy happiness. I’d decided to give Mabel the keys and let her drive the car that night; the decongestants weren’t helping, my chest felt like it had been filled with rubber cement, and I couldn’t see clearly past five feet or so.
Which is why it took me a moment to locate the voice coming from another of the opened doors.
“You did the wrong routine,” it said.
Here I go, stumbling around, looking for the speaker, banging my knee against one of the wall rails used by the patients who didn’t get around so well on their own anymore.
“Hello?” I said.
“To your right, Baryshnikov.”
I blinked, wiped my eyes, and found him.
Seventy, seventy-five, but he wore it so very well. Think of Burt Lancaster in Atlantic City. Class and style; shopworn and a bit craggy around the edges, but still commanding. If it hadn’t been for the wheelchair and the gnarled branches that had once been his legs, I would’ve expected him to grab my collar and warn: “Don’t. Touch. The suit!”
“Hello,” I said. Then: “What did you mean, the wrong routine?”
“When you blew your cue back there and had to go back and cover your ass. Instead of trying to pick up the old routine where you’d left it writhing in a heap on the floor, you should’ve hit ’em with Groucho’s ‘Hello, I must be going’ line.”
“Hello, I must be going?”
He nodded. The light danced across his startlingly white hair. “Right. ‘I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going.’ ”
“Ah.”
“Not a Marx Brothers fan?”
“ Big Marx Brothers fan,” I said, a bit defensively.
“That’s good. You’re young enough to be one of those Three Stooges people. That’d be a damn shame.”
“Why?”
“Because there are only two types of people in this world: those who like the Stooges, and those who like the Marx Brothers.”
“Buster Keaton was always my favorite, actually.”
“He’d’ve been embarrassed, the way you were stumbling around out there. No grace. No style. No art.”
I cleared my throat. “Well, thank you, James Agee, for that blistering review, but I came to say I must be going.”
He clapped his hands loudly. “ There you go! Not the most clever or smoothest transition back to the opening gag, but a damn good outing your first time. No doubt about it.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe. Hey, you got a minute?”
I checked my watch. “Actually, I’m here to pick up someone.”
“Who? If it’s your mom or grandpa or someone like that, they tend to discourage late-night roustabouting. Afraid if we actually have some fun it’ll improve our dispositions and make us a bit more clearheaded, and then they’ll be forced to deal with us like we possess honest-to-Pete personalities and feelings. Keepers gotta keep the kept kept, know what I’m saying? Ever had anyone talk to you like you don’t have the brains God gave an ice cube? After a while you start to wonder if maybe they aren’t right in addressing you like that because maybe, maybe you have taken up residence in Looney-Toons Junction and spend all your time discussing Heraclites’s River with Elmer Fudd while out here in, the happy world, they’ve been changing your diapers and drawing lewd grafitti on your butt with permanent markers. By the way, in case you lost track of what I was talking about before I wandered off the highway subject-wise, I’d just asked you who you were here to pick up. If I’m not being what you’d call a buttinsky. Too inquisitive. Nibby. Et cetera.”
“Mabel,” I said.
“Ah, our Angel of the Cafeteria and Catheters. I know her well, Horatio. Your mother? Aunt? Mistress-or are you a kept man? A heartless gigolo using her for your distasteful carnal pleasures while racking up charges on her credit card?”
“Your minute was up about thirty seconds ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had such a jam-packed social calendar. How thoughtless of me. No wonder the Kremlin will return none of my calls. Can you set the clock on this damn thing?” He pointed to a brand-new Betamax
