The day lingers on into evening here, for all those who enjoy this artificial tranquility, the way the lone scribe does. There is no one here to be considered hostile in any sense the man might imagine. This tranquil, docile environment serves to him his limited liberty on a silver platter, it is an evening filled with possibilities unexamined by lesser men. Their theoretical pleasure, like the perpetually changing images glared at who all gaze in return, unendingly, while the scribe avoids them all.
They might wander out of the den, to dare think any original or creative thought once in a while. Many have no medium to turn to, to vent the creativity we all innately possess. They behave as though they don’t know it, or it’s yet to occur to them at eight five. They all huddle in their personal chambers, prone on their pallets, girded against an invasion that’s not coming. They irrationally fear reproach for something they’ve never done.
One might think it’s the early summer months here, the way the orb in the heavens balks at setting until late into a sterile evening. One has solitude he may term isolation, who has no concept of what genuine isolation is. All have a sweet option for silence – to reflect upon at length as one chooses, or they may chase shadows in every direction, as they repose on their pallets day and night.
Many retreat to rest in their final resting places prematurely, between the three servings per day, in an atmosphere of perpetual anxiety, as if residents might never get that extra cup of coffee, or serving of milk they demand. Residents are not busy anyway. Some heckle the servers to receive every amount of food more efficiently when they receive the converse. They rush back to their beds till the next meal, as though they’re on a stopwatch, were they to do it all again.
The kitchen is feeding beds, for a bed rest probably too long in coming.
One cannot perpetually demand, and then succeed in gaining immediate repose. It is not likely such behavior will be easily sanctioned, much less rewarded, by Divine purpose, as a habit one practices out of compulsion rather than necessity. What does it matter, if someone achieves a filled glass or cup, or a more timely serving of whatever, while blatantly ignoring the comfort and dignity of all in their vicinity? One dehumanizes not only their servers, but everyone.
The environment itself has eliminated every possible creature in all of creation, who might defile the sterility of a tailored environment, as well as those creatures who cannot leave, yea all creatures alive, save a pitiful few domesticated varieties, which are otherwise banished from our cleansed and sterilized realm. I repose here under family arrangement, with convenient premeditation of one’s personal genius of the family, gone on and departed, in spite of herself.
One can’t help but wonder if the family had more than a hand in these convenient arrangements, ultimately conspiring to detain and keep an unsuspecting man hogtied, with few or no options. There he sits, scarcely able to walk, with his latest disability now removing him, forever, from the driver’s seat of a car. Is it for higher purposes beyond what the simple man’s imagination can unravel? One waxes fearful to add up individual incidents leading up to this moment in one man’s captivity.
The shattered bone occurring in assisted living at an absurd, young age, is an effective deterrent from a whole host of activities and behaviors one can no longer consider. One is restricted to a walker and a passenger seat forever and a day. One is at the mercy and generosity of whomever might care to, or be disposed to, provide transportation in foreign land. One can buy a car on a fools errand. Giving the bastard a benefit, while not actually handing it over to him was a good trick by someone.
We’ll have to look into that before a terribly long time gets by.
One can only be given the benefits of what would seem to be someone else’s pie, within the strict guidelines of the dashing, young attorney employed by the deceased genius. That attorney scored a lifetime as a senior partner, which is no small matter. He enjoys all the glory that appoint entails, to make one of these scanty arrangements with the beneficiary, himself. None of his siblings ever found it necessary to chronicle their part any of it, or the edification of the black sheep if the family.
I guess the old hussy got even with the black sheep for all his vulgarities and excesses by playing this one final little trick on the rebel of the family. It’s a heck of a little cat house he’ll never escape from this time, if he lives as long as some the old codgers hanging around this place have lived. They’ve got drool on their shirts and on their depends, as the new man will develop as he ages. Somehow, he has what he can never have.
There is a two-seated couch, a soft chair and comfortable bed, with a brand new heating/cooling unit to maintain the internal environment of the place, just so. There are women to be helpful in every way, awaiting his beckon call day and night. The food is an improvement. Is this a coincidence, is it something to be relaxed and enjoyed? This most certainly, is not the old Thirtieth Street or Cathedral Street, with bare floors and drug addicts at every turn.
One’s got wall to wall carpeting everywhere one looks, with one exception. The bath has the tile floor idiosyncratic of baths, to be verbally ignored by anyone of breeding or taste. There is no bare floor, beyond the tile in the bath, and the sense of luxury permeates even the complimentary van service, which unendingly carries the broken man along with all others, to appointments to doctors. This cannot be anything like a government prison. It’s way too comfortable.
Besides which, what could possibly have been be his crime?
The man in question has been a law abiding citizen all along in life, save the few bags of weed he would briefly possess in a social phase, long ago. One thinks about it, and no officer of the law cares about that least little bit of reefer he carried in his boot every now and then, better than thirty years ago, when almost all the young people were doing the same.. One could jam the stuff in a cop’s nose out of an audacity he never had. Thirty years ago is a long time, it’s scarcely worth mentioning.
No, let’s leave crime to criminals and enjoy the blessings of a comfortable place to stay.
If the paranoia persists, and one is forced to consider better than thirty years ago, when he was forced by circumstances to become a confidential informant for the authorities, and Lord only knows who they were, exactly. They were a large group of people in street clothes. They never bothered him again, nor did any other officer. We’re looking for some motive in a man’s life, for the law to have had any provocation to question or prosecute, but there’s nothing, as we’ve been saying.