Chapter Eleven
Okay, this time there’s a new twist. I’m going to hang out with a person.
The clue is rather cryptic and includes an address for the Hearthstone Senior Living facility in town, and a name, Gregory Hampton.
Then it says that I’m going to learn a new card game.
So, I’m on my way to play cards with an elderly person, I guess. Never underestimate the mystery!
And so, I find myself checking into the front desk in the giant welcome area of Hearthstone.
There are several dignified elderly men sitting in various overstuffed chairs and leather sofas of this room.
It’s very welcoming and brightly lit. The woman at the desk gathers my information and gives me directions to a room.
Her directions make me feel like I’m in for a labyrinth of travel, but once I enter the hallway, getting around is intuitive.
This care facility has rooms built around a courtyard, so the hallways have numbered doors along one side, and giant plate-glass windows along the other which look over a beautiful indoor garden area.
The sunlight coming through the trees of the open courtyard is bright and cheery in the long hallway, and several doors have minor decorations. It’s very cozy.
“Yes?” an older man, about shoulder height, is standing in the doorway, mouth open, eyes smiling.
“Hello, I’m looking for Gregory…”
“You found him,” he says, clapping one hand on my shoulder, finding my hand with the other for a rough handshake. I find myself being pulled through the door. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been expecting you. I thought you were coming yesterday.”
I’m pushed through the doorway, past a small lounge area with a small sofa and a chair, and through a single glass doorway to an outside patio area with small wicker furniture and a table.
As we walk he’s mumbling or humming, I can’t tell which, but his body language clearly indicates that I’m to pull up a wicker chair and get comfortable.
“I’ve forgotten your name,” he says with a curly-handed flair, “I’m not so good with remembering things these days.
I was told your name, but I think some days I might just forget my own name.
I think that’s why it’s written on the inside collar of all my shirts.
” He laughs hysterically at himself, heading back inside.
“Would you like some…” He pauses and freezes, rubbing a crooked hand into his temple, then flicking it over his head in a snapping motion.
“A drink. The hot one. Coffee.” He finally lands on the word, and then makes eye contact again, the question now on his face.
“Um, sure,” I say. I can’t help but smile.
He continues to narrate his coffee task from the small kitchen beyond the lounge area, and then makes his way back with two cups of coffee, sets them down carefully and then joins me in a chair.
“Hope you like it black, because that’s how it comes.
I don’t have any of that fancy flavor stuff if that’s your thing.
Now remind me your name, son?” He looks up at me, grabbing his mug carefully between two withered hands.
“Liam. I…”
“That’s right,” he says, setting his mug down untouched.
“I was told you were coming and that you were someone very special. And handsome, too. Which is true. You are a very handsome young man.” He stops talking, locks a smile on his face and stares, breathing through his nose.
He’s like a close friend or mentor I never knew I had.
My face curls up a little. “Who told you I was coming?” I can’t help but ask, and it seems like the natural next step.
He leans forward and whispers dramatically, grabbing the table with one hand, “Ah, that is the secret, son. That is the mystery. This old man will not ruin that secret. Not today.” He leans back in his chair and smiles coyly.
I guess his memory hasn’t failed in this regard.
I don’t know what to make of all this and we sit silently for a moment.
Conversation flows as we sip our coffees and he asks me about what I do for a living, how I like my job, and about my family.
He shares pieces of his life, he had been a journeyman, a pipefitter, most of his life until he retired and then ran the facilities department at the local hospital.
He talks of his grown son, older than me, and his grandkids and family who he gets to see occasionally.
It’s nice to sit and chat with him, and I feel like I’ve stumbled into family.
Then he surprises me when he states, “So, tell me about your secret adventures. How sweet is that? Are you not just swept away by it all?”
“It’s very sweet,” I admit. “I’m doing things I wouldn’t normally do. Today, I’m having coffee with a new friend.”
His broad smile crinkles up his face. “Have you figured it out? Do you know who it might be?” He has a glint in his eye.
The question he has asked me is a “yes” or “no” question, but for some reason, I feel so comfortable talking to this man, that I venture off-script and just think out loud.
“Have you ever had moments in your life where you stop looking for the ‘who’ or the ‘why’ and just enjoy the feeling of it? Like, just ride the wave of life as long as it will carry you?” His smile grows when I look up at him, “That’s what I’m doing.
I’m just enjoying the ride.” I smile and sip my coffee, looking into the bottom of the cup for reassurance.
“You’ve given yourself permission,” he sighs.
“What?” I sip my coffee again, “What do you mean?”
“You’ve just given yourself permission to be free.
To stop thinking or analyzing or planning and to just be.
And enjoy life without trying to understand it.
You are something special, that’s for sure.
” Then, he suddenly leaps awkwardly from the chair with a start and heads inside.
“I can use your help,” I hear him say. He’s heading toward an interior doorway.
I presume I’m meant to follow, which I do cautiously.
After winding through the lounge and the kitchen, we arrive in the bedroom.
A double bed is in the middle of the room, but Gregory is already rummaging through a nearby dresser.
He’s either mumbling or humming again, I can’t tell, but he’s definitely moving with purpose.
Suddenly, he pulls the top drawer all the way out, sets it on the bed, and goes for another.
“Grab a drawer,” he says. We’re apparently organizing his dresser. I grab the next drawer and we tag team until all five drawers are teetering precariously on the bed.
“These damn bolts,” he declares, reaching so far in the drawer-less dresser that he’s nearly climbing inside. I lean over to see what we’re after.
The dresser is bolted to the wall with two large hex bolts through the back. He heads to the nightstand, digs through the drawer, and retrieves a crescent wrench, waving it at me like a prize.
“They don’t let us have tools in here, so don’t tell anyone, son.
” He climbs back through the dresser, and attempts to resize and align the crescent wrench to the heads of the hex bolts with a quivering hand.
The metal of tools and bolts clangs together.
He stops and looks at me. “Would you be willing to help me?”
Before I know it, I’m climbing through the dresser adjusting a crescent wrench.
The bolts are longer than they need to be, and thicker, too, I notice, so the release and restart nature of the crescent wrench makes it slow going.
“Where is this dresser going?” I grunt into the small space, hoping he can still hear me.
“Over here. Where it belongs.” He motions to a blank space on the wall across from the end of the bed.
I look briefly, but realize that this slow, tedious process is so taxing on my focus that I can’t multi-task. Eventually, the first bolt is free, I hand it through the dresser to Gregory, and start on the next.
“These are for the trash,” he declares, shuffling over to the bin in the corner.
The bolt hits the bottom with a thud. He comes back over and leans in to watch my progress, breathing essence of coffee sporadically in my ear.
After what seems like an eternity, I can finally hand-turn the bolt and it breaks free from the wall.
This bolt, also, thumps into the bottom of the bin.
“Why are you moving the dresser?” I’m not really sure what we’re doing, so I feel like I’m just trying to make small talk.
“I’ll get it from here,” he says, grabbing the side of the empty dresser box, tilting it back on one corner and dragging it toward the spot he indicated earlier. He’s breathing heavy when he says, “This is where I like it. This is where it should be.”
“Does it need to be bolted to the wall?” I’m still wondering what we’re up to.
He stops and turns to me, pointing a gnarled finger in my face.
“Don’t you worry, son. They will come bolt it to the wall again.
Never you fear. But until they do, I like it here.
” He returns to the nightstand and I see now that his prized wrench has a secret hiding place beneath several boxes and books.
“You mean they’ll move it back?” He’s already grabbing drawers again, and starts aligning drawer channels.
“They will, but I like it here, so I’ll just move it back again when they do.” He’s huffing a little at the exertion, but focused. I grab the next drawer and try the alignment process.
“Why can’t it be here?”
“There’s some rule that it can only be bolted to that wall, but I hate it there, so I unbolt it and move it here.
Then they’ll move it back and re-bolt it to the wall.
” He stops aligning the next drawer and looks at me, beginning to laugh.
“If you’re free in a few days you can help me move it again.
” His laughter is contagious and simple.
“Why don’t you just leave it where it’s bolted?” Another drawer slides in.