How Many More Years

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How Many More Years

Several years ago I held a part-time job at a retirement community. This was not a home for dementia or for anyone especially ill. It was just a place for elderly people that were too weak to look after themselves. The Home was nothing much to look at. It was an old dilapidated building with coat upon coat of white paint that cracked and wilted like a vase full of white roses that don’t get enough water.

The lobby where relatives come to check-in was renovated a week before I began working there. I can still smell the fresh lacquer.  After the lobby, there was a deep hallway lined with framed black and white portraits of nurses and caretakers of the distant past. At the end of the hallway was an elevator that transported family and staff to the tenants’ dwellings.

The first day I met Robert was the first day I started. He was eighty-nine and always exuded vibrancy in all manners, like the way he colorfully dressed seems to stick in my mind now more than anything. A part of my job was laundry. During the scheduled lunch hour for the seniors, I made my rounds to each room picking up loads of musky clothing. First stop happened to be Robert’s.

The room was tiny with a twin bed near a small window. However, what caught my eye were the stacks of vinyl records that overtook almost the entire living space. The stacks covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. I quickly forgot why I was there and started to shuffle through these vinyl artifacts. The records had post-it notes on them, being labeled;

-first kiss

 -first girl I danced with

 -Phillip born 1959.

           While I was lost in the array of the racks of vinyl records, I failed to notice a man that was in the doorway of the room.

“Ahem!”

 I turned around in a jolt and saw a short and stubby man no taller than what must have been 5’2”. 

“Hey boy! What do you think you’re doing? What’s your name?”

I quietly responded, “Arthur, sir.”

He approached me and snatched a record I forgot I had picked up. He looked at the record, which was labeled Phillip born 1959.  Robert slipped the record out of the sleeve casing, blew the dust off of it, and placed it on his record player. With his wrinkled hand, he smoothly lifted the needle and placed it gently on a precise groove of the vinyl surface.

“Ah, Howlin’ Wolf. You know that this year was very important. This was the record I was playing when the Lord decided it was time for my first-born to come into this world.”

 He closed his eyes and started humming to the song, “How Many More Years”.

As I stood there in the midst of his recollection I felt an immediate connection. I shut my eyes while his gentle voice guided me. He continued picking out a few more records and gave me a vivid and detailed picture of his memories. Some were happy, some were sad, and some were downright hilarious. Robert was always full of life in retelling his past, even when he was going over the more somber parts of his life.

“How about this one?” I handed over a Miles Davis vinyl.

“Ah. Kind of Blue. I haven’t listened to this since…” He paused for a moment.

“…Since I last talked to my daughter. Her name is Irene. Haven’t seen her for

five years.” Robert slipped the vinyl out and placed it in the record player.

The vinyl began spinning and out of it came a soft piano accompanied by a calm cello. A sharp trumpet abruptly pierced through the sonic waves that the piano and cello carefully constructed.

            “The last thing she said to me was that I had no place in her heart.”

 The high-pitched trumpet continued to set the harmonic pace until it dissipated and gave it back to the piano and cello.

            “She told me I was already dead to her.”

Just as soon as the piano and cello were finally getting it back to how it started a saxophone took over which seemed to shift the harmonic rhythm.

            “I’ve made mistakes, too many to count, I know that boy,”

The saxophone began to dwindle into obscurity, where the trumpet reemerged, challenging the piano to keep up.

            “I’m a lonely old fool, with nothing but my memories.”

 The tempo began slowing and the sounds became dissonant. The piano soloed out the piece in a plaintive tone that made me inexplicably shiver.

            Before the next song started to play I told Robert I had to get going. He nodded and slumped over on his bed. I slowly slipped out and overheard Robert’s sighs of grief as I was shutting his door. At the end of my shift I inquired at the front desk when Robert’s last visitor came in. I was told to see the Manager of the Home, Jenny who keeps the records of all tenants and their visitors. Jenny told me the last and only visitor was Irene. That was five years ago, a week after Robert checked in at the Home.

“She only stayed for five minutes. I remember she dropped off those piles of dusty records in Robert’s room.” Jenny explained.

“Does Robert have any other family members? I find it odd that he hasn’t had a visitor in so long.” I asked.

Jenny nodded and added,

“He has a son Philip. We tried to get Philip’s contact information, but haven’t had any success. Believe it or not, Robert’s case is a very common one. Many of our tenants are lucky to have one or two visits a month. Why are you so interested anyway?” She asked in a voice full of condemnation.

In a defensive tone I answered, “Just curious. I met Robert and he seems really nice.”

“Some first day advice. Don’t get too attached to our tenants. We try to keep a professional environment and it won’t help if one of our employees gets emotionally involved with personal family history of one of our tenants.”

Jenny firmly slammed Robert’s file shut and showed me out.

            The next day at work, Jenny’s voice carried throughout my mind. I began to detach myself and carry out my duties in an autonomous fashion. I avoided Robert’s room for the whole week, up until the next laundry day. I saved his room for last and as I might have guessed he was there waiting with a record in hand.

            “I’m really sorry, but I don’t have enough time to…”

Robert cut me off,

            “Nonsense. Just listen to this one. I’ve been waiting to show you all week!”

He quickly shuffled his short legs to the record player and began playing Jimi Hendrix.

            “Let me tell you about this one fine woman I saw for a short while.” Robert said in a seductive tone.

 “All Along the Watchtower” began to drown out Jenny’s warning and I sat down waiting eagerly to hear about this “fine woman”.

                                                                ~

Months passed by and once a week Robert and I would share music albums and stories attached to the songs. Laundry days couldn’t come fast enough. They were the only days to look forward to at work and an escape from the wilting shell that surrounded Robert and I. 

However, there will be one week that will always haunt me. At the scheduled lunch hour, I hastily made my way toward Robert’s room. I cracked the door open and saw him sitting at the edge of his bed with a bewildered expression upon his face. He noticed me standing in the doorway and gestured me to come in.

“There’s not enough time. Not enough time.”

I saw an open notebook on the bed beside him and noticed what looked like estimates in very careful handwriting.

“I did the math. I figure I don’t have much time left so I started to go on figuring how long it would take to listen to my records again. I just don’t have time boy. Even if I listened to all my records back to back staying up all night and day, I just won’t have time to listen to all my memories.”

I studied his calculations and inwardly agreed as I placed my hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. I stood there thinking of all the songs he had yet to listen to; each song with its packet of memory allowing him to relive with pure emotion, his loved ones and happier moments of his life. He was right. He did not have the time.

We stood there in silence for several minutes until Robert snapped us out of our contemplative state.

“Ah the hell with it! I better get started! Pick one we haven’t listened to yet!”

He began to tell a story, but with a disheartened tone.

~

He never brought it up again. Things continued just as normal where he would reveal to me his wealth of experiences for about four months until Robert passed away peacefully in his sleep. The day we found him, Robert had the Howlin’ Wolf record placed on his record player with the needle skipping from needing to be flipped to side two. My shaky hand lifted the needle and placed it unsteadily on a groove. As “I’m Leavin’ You” started playing I picked up the casing of the album and noticed an extra added post-it labeled first time I met my friend, Arthur.