by James LaForge
The old man stumbled in the dim morning light to find the “off” button on his alarm clock, cursing his cataracts under the contraption’s blare. He stood up as the cracking of his bones and the creaking of his floorboards sang together in harmony. His callused fingertip met the piece of machinery caked in decade-old dust and the deed was done.
Jerome stretched his octogenarian limbs to relieve some of the soreness in his joints as his bedroom windows tried to resist being coated in the autumn air’s condensation, both to no avail. The room was now silent except for the rattle of the old man’s asbestos-ridden heater. He reached for his cane which leaned against the wall—he would never accept a walker from anyone, as that would mean he’d really be getting up there in age. The cane was riddled with splinters and the bottom tip sat at a 45-degree angle due to Jerome’s uneven walking pattern, but it was better than a walker. His hand fumbled against the golden brown wood-paneled wall before making contact with his only means of mobility.
After five minutes of shuffling down the stairs and another ten to get into his best and only gray tweed suit, Jerome’s kitchen smelled of instant oatmeal. That was about as much as the old man’s microwave could handle anymore. The device’s raucous beeping sound always pierced through Jerome’s hearing aid as if someone were blowing a whistle directly into his eardrum. This was in part due to the microwave’s age and deterioration, and more likely because Jerome’s hearing aid was the cheapest one money could possibly buy.
The old man opened the microwave door, nearly pulling off the handle that was hanging on by one loose screw. He mustered the might of his left arm to reach for the bowl, scalding himself upon touching it. Jerome jerked his arm back suddenly, causing him even more discomfort. The old man looked at the old scalded hand which was now trying very hard to be red through all the wrinkles and liver spots.
He stared at the hills and valleys of his palm, the bits of skin that had been eroded and weathered from years of use, so distant from the long-gone days of life and passion. Jerome slowly grabbed the bowl with a discolored dish towel and set it down on the kitchen table next to a box of gasoline green army-man figures, a pile of mail mostly dominated by unopened stairlift catalogs, and a short stack of heavily creased papers sitting face-down. He grabbed the papers and put them in the pocket of his suit jacket. He’d need to eat fast in order to stay on schedule.
With a now slightly healed hand and a belly working hard to rapidly digest oatmeal, Jerome reached for the trilby hat on his front doorknob. He lightly blew off yesterday’s dandruff and topped the hat on his head snugly. The old man was greeted with a gust of wind when he opened the door, bringing autumn leaves of red and gold into his home. Unphased by the determined leaves, Jerome walked onto his porch and shut the door. The old man didn’t pay much mind to lock it up anymore when he left, or when he was home for that matter. The most valuable thing he owned was his gold tooth, which was set on staying in his mouth unlike most of the others.
Jerome waded through what was now a sea of leaves that had formed on the sidewalk all the way down Oak Avenue, having to blindly stomp his cane into the ocean of orange as if it were a canoe paddle. The old man checked his watch. It read four-past-eight, which was to be expected as the contraption’s battery had died months ago. Still, Jerome checked it every day without fail. He finally made it to the street corner at about five-past-four-past-eight, right on schedule.
An eighteen wheeler barreled by, causing the ground to shake and in turn threatening Jerome’s balance, which was barely hanging on by the jagged tip of his cane. The pedestrian regained his composure and straightened his tie. His face lit up when he saw his 60-seated savior, the local 144 bus bound for Willow Hills Mall. Jerome defied his slow mobility and made it lickety-split up the bus steps.
“I’ll have the usual,” the old man said through worn vocal cords, having probably been the only person to ever ask for “the usual” on a bus. The bus driver, an old woman herself, knew exactly what he meant. Jerome dropped five dollars and fourteen cents worth of quarters, dimes and pennies into her likewise wrinkled hands.
“Morning, Jerome,” she said as she handed him a round-trip ticket, barely gracing him with a glance. Jerome reciprocated the greeting with an “and to you” and sat down in the third row. The vehicle was entirely empty besides the two golden agers. The bus stayed silent for the length of the 15-minute ride.
The mall’s bright lights pained Jerome’s eyes greatly. This, combined with the intense aroma of buttery pretzel dough, made Jerome dizzy and disoriented. He found himself longing for the crisp outdoor air of two minutes ago and the dry heat of his home but pushed on towards his destination. He could walk a little faster on the polished floor compared to the street where he was at Mother Nature’s will. The mall was mostly empty, save a few janitors and the nine a.m. Starbucks crowd.
Jerome’s knees buckled as he reached his greatest obstacle: the first floor escalator. A bit of sweat came out of the pores under his arms, proving they still functioned. The old man stumbled across the sawtoothed gap where floor met machine, his eyes half closed. His large heart rested a little as he made it safely aboard.
Jerome reached the apex and spotted the apple of his eye. Old and ancient like him, signs of age all across the body, but somehow still so smooth. Tightly wound, just the way the old man liked. Standing upright, waiting to be touched, felt, sustained, given purpose. Jerome approached his greatest love like a child, shedding the skin off of his old soul and leaving it on the ground behind him.
“I’ve missed you, my love,” the old man gently sounded out with his mouth. Jerome was met with a wonderful response that only he could’ve caused by putting his fingers in the right places. A beautiful chord flowed through the second floor of the Willow Hills Mall. The old man pulled the stack of papers out of his suit jacket pocket. He placed the handwritten sheet music on the rack of the piano and sat on the rickety bench. He rested motionless for minutes, doing nothing but taking in the beauty and the bliss of feeling whole again. Jerome finally eased his callused fingertips onto the keys and played ever-so-delicately.
The old man worked his way through jazz standards, plunking away on the out-of-tune yet so consonant keys. The sheet of paper taped to the instrument’s side reading “Please be gentle with the mall piano” lightly shook when Jerome played low bass notes. Minutes turned to hours as the pianist played through songs that reminded him of adolescence, chord progressions that made him feel the warmth of the oven when his mother would make apple pie, melodies that reinvigorated the thrill of playing shortstop in his neighborhood’s makeshift ballpark.
Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. He felt an energy beat through his being while he played, a body high so rarely achieved. A tear dropped from Jerome’s face onto the E flat below middle C, making his thumb slip when he voiced an F minor seven chord. Another fell onto the back of his right hand. The tear splotched on the wrinkled skin and found its way into the pores like the first raindrop of the wet season does a seed. The stem of a tulip started to sprout from a crack in the old man’s hand. Jerome’s tears grew heavier, and blades of grass started poking out in between the ebony and ivory keys. Bright green moss formed beneath the old man’s fingernails, and his wrinkles turned into coarse, oaky lenticels.
Any tenseness left in Jerome’s body was gone, and he was no longer sitting on a rickety piano bench but a patch of soft green grass. Waves of delight pulsed through the old man’s arms, then his torso, then his legs. Water gently dripped off of his beaming skin, each drop fueling the brilliant garden even more. Music still played in front of Jerome, only now the old man was gently stroking the petals of a sunflower instead of playing the piano. A light puff of wind gusted by, causing Jerome to shiver before rays of sunlight beat down on his moist skin and relieved him.
The old man was shaded by a fully-grown oak whose canopy provided perfect coverage, giving the tomatoes and cucumbers just the right balance of sun and shade. Chipmunks and gophers would run by, nibbling at the little berries which fell from nearby bushes before running off. Jerome’s garden was a magnificent one.
The first gray cloud rolled in a few songs later, bringing a couple of friends along with it. The puffs of wind grew more frequent, which then turned to breezes, which then turned to gusts.
The leaves on the great tree vanished as quickly as they came. Jerome shivered as his sunflower petals returned to sharps and flats. Peeking through the clouds were the lights of the mall, first gently then blindingly. Jerome’s music was overtaken by the peaking of his hearing aid. He looked up to see the JCPenney shoplifting alarm going off as an employee realized she forgot to remove a shirt’s security tag. The old man winced at the sound as he looked around at the now-packed mall. He stood up from the wobbly old piano bench and his joints ached. He started his slow shuffle when a janitor approached him.
“Same time tomorrow, Jerome?”
“Mmmm-hm.”
The old man made sure his bus ticket was still in his pocket and walked towards the exit.
About the Contributor & Piece
James LaForge is a senior Communication Arts major with a minor in Creative Writing. In addition to Trillium, James is involved with the Ramapo News and composed music for the Ramapo theater production “Sunless” and the short film “Shattering the Hourglass.”
“Steinway” is a story about the things that make us get out of bed and live.