Breakneck Bill

Written by Jacob VanWagner

Preface: The process of composing Breakneck Bill is what made me realize that short-stories are not merely assignments to be completed in high-school or in freshman composition. They are an art in their own right that, if acknowledged as such, can be utilized to invoke images, emotions, and lessons that no other form of writing can achieve. It is my hope that anyone who reads this story, Breakneck Bill, will not become caught in the snare of graphic imagery and instead learn the lesson that old Jack Morris has to teach.

“Some days – rarely – they take their baths. Other days, the bath takes them.”

– Henry Lehnim, Shady Palms Retirement Facility Administrator; July 23, 2018

Jack Morris, aged 82, lived in a beachfront retirement community known as Shady Palms. His apartment was one of the oldest. It was remodeled from a condo built back in Florida’s summer years – a place that must have been a grand sight when it was new and one that must have cost a pretty penny to live in and maintain.

The luxurious accommodations remained after a fashion. Most were antiquated.

His air conditioner was an old machine. It blew dust every time it started up, but Jack liked it for the fact that he could turn the knob up when the place got too cold and turn it down when it got too hot. As for the television, it was a tube, but it was in color and connected to his very own cable; he could watch whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Really, his only gripe about the apartment was how the water heater was on a closed loop; he didn’t have the infinite hot water like he would in one of the newer places, though, at least he didn’t have to deal with some idiot on the upper floors flushing their toilet and freezing or frying him to death in the shower.

Currently, Jack Morris was about to take one such shower. He posed naked in front of the bathroom mirror – one of those old Hollywood-style types with the ten large bulbs across the top; it made the whole room warm and bright.

Two of his favorite beverages stood on the counter beside him. Apple-pie martinis, they were called. Their color was a translucent, chemical green, while the brown caramel drizzled along the inside spiraled from base to edge in a perfect swirl. He had once thought of ‘pie martinis’ as girls’ drinks, but that was before he got old and before he stopped caring what others thought.

Glancing in the mirror, Jack poked at his sagging chest to justify the sentiment. He grimaced. His body was that of a pot-bellied lizardman. There was coarse grey-and-white hair sprouting from all the wrong places, and his skin was loose, wrinkled, and peppered with stray moles the size of shirt buttons. As for his arms and legs, they were as boney as they had been when he was a boy, albeit now they were draped with drooping muscles that swung like oblong pendulums with his every little motion.

“And speaking of pendulums…”

Old-man Morris swayed one time, gawking in half disgust and half wry amusement as his shriveled snake of a cock went on a hunt for goose eggs within the folds of an equally long and shriveled rucksack.

The phone rang, and Jack left the room to answer it. He had to; it was a corded phone.

Jimmy was on the line.

Jack still didn’t quite know what his son did for a living. The boy was an architect or engineer for something having to do with those computer machines. Either way, it was a job for a smart man, and it was enough to support the boy, his wife, and to put Pop in the old folks’ community. He’d never given Jack the grandkids that he wanted, but Jack supposed that had something to do with the ‘smart’ bit.

“Hey Dad,” Jimmy greeted.

“Hey boy,” Jack replied.

“What are you up to today?”

“About to hop in the shower.”

The boy seemed to know what that meant and could be heard talking to his woman, ‘Oh boy, Dad’s getting in the shower.’ Then, he was back on the line.

“Got your martinis?” Jimmy asked.

“Your goddamn right I do.”

Laughing.

Jack let the laughter go on. It was a happy and sweet sound when compared to the listless chuckles and throaty gurgles to be found in an old folks’ home. Then, kindly, he asked why his son was calling. There was always a reason.

“It’s my birthday,” the boy said, “I just wanted to call and thank ya for ‘planting the seed’ and whatnot.”

It’s his birthday?

Jack felt guilty at not remembering but was distracted when his son proceeded to ask about the morning’s doctor visit.

“How did it go, Dad? And how are ya likin’ your new Doc? I hear he’s a graduate from one of the best universities down there. U.F., I think? I don’t know. He’s good, though, or so I’ve heard.”

“T’went fine, and he’s fine,” Jack answered brusquely. He was certain the boy was about to ask him if he was ready to move up to the newer, more costly assisted living facility – a place where there’d be more than a cleaning and grocery lady twice a week.

Jimmy did no such thing. Instead, he only sounded a tad disappointed with the lackluster praise;

“Well. That’s good.”

“He’s better than fine,” Jack amended – now contrite; he wanted to further compliment the doctor but couldn’t remember the man’s name, “This, uh, Doc always tells me what’s what. Talks to me like I’m a human… not some jackass to put on pills and forget.”

 “Oh!” the boy perked up, “Well that’s fantastic, Dad. I’m glad you like him.”

Jack felt redeemed. Jimmy had gone out of his way to provide this place to live, and even if it was half a thousand miles from Tennessee – from home – old man Morris always felt that he should reciprocate the boy’s care with a bit of gratitude. A thought occurred to him;

“Jim- Jimmy, hold on just a moment before you hang up, will you? Put your woman on the phone.”

“Um, sure,” they boy sounded a bit confused but did not relinquish the receiver quite yet, “She’s right here. We’re about to go out to Kayne’s. They’ve got the best damned steak.”

“I’m sure. You enjoy it; drink a pie martini for me.”

“I will.”

“And happy birthday, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

There was fumbling as Jimmy handed the receiver over to his wife. Laura’s voice was as sweet as she was beautiful. The woman’s hair was of the lightest blonde that could be imagined, and her skin was so pale and perfect that it would put Florida’s prized sandy white beaches to shame should she ever choose to visit.

Jimmy made a good choice; that was the thought that always popped into Jack’s head when he talked to her.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Hello darlin’.”

“Jimmy said you wanted to talk to me.”

“That I do. It’s my boy’s birthday today. You’d better take good care of him, Laura.”

“You mean… tonight?”

Jack smiled widely; “Yes, girl… tonight… And all the other times, too. I told him to have a pie martini for me, but make sure he doesn’t drink too much. Watch’im well.”

“I always do.”

“Good.”

There was a brief pause before Laura decided she was ready to be off;

“Have a nice shower, Jack.”

The old man chuckled hoarsely, “I intend to. Have a good dinner, girl, and tell Jimmy I said t’have fun.”

Jack set the receiver down and shook his head – a mischievous smile still on his lips. He sauntered back into the bathroom, and there, was met by the ‘wrinkleman’ once more. This time, however, he admired himself. His skin bore no age spots – a blessing compared to old Marty Crawford living down the hall – he still possessed a full head of coarse white hair, and despite his muscles’ drooping appearance, there remained a fair bit of life flowing through his bulging blue veins.

Why, I can almost see the man I once was…

Morris collected his two martinis. He drank one down in a single go, making sure to choose the cup with a tad less ice. Its sour tang melded with the sweet caramel syrup he had drizzled along the sides, and after it was all gone, he smacked his lips while peering with intense yearning down toward the second.

He exercised restraint. This was made easier with the knowing that he’d allow himself a sip as soon as he got in the shower. It was all part of the process.

Standing there for a moment longer in front of the mirror, Jack recollected how not so long ago he had treated showering as work; Get in, clean, and get out as quickly as possible. Many people were like that, he knew, but many of them – too many – seemed to retire from showering when they retired from their jobs. The stench of that fact could be smelled on his rare visits to the Shady Palms’ common hall. Management always perfumed the place, but below the fragrant citrus and pine and seasonal lavender, there was always that scent of old body odor. Not old, as in having lingered for a long time, old as in oldfolk.

Unlike his peers, Jack had not quit showering when he came to this place. No, he had actually gone in the opposite direction. The warm water felt so soothing running down his old leathery skin that his showers had only grown longer. Too long. He would stay in and fiddle with the knob until the water ran cold.

He had learned a lot since then, though. He had learned to stop toying with the stupid spigot, to enjoy the hot water, and then to get out before disappointment set in. More importantly, he had learned how warmth on the outside and how ice on the inside – combined with a little gin and vermouth – could create a euphoria like none he had experienced for many years.

And so Jack set down his empty martini glass, kept his full one, and ventured into the shower room, squaring his shoulders as if he were about to confront some dread beast, which in fact, he was.

He strode into its domain. The glossy tiles on the floor, wall, and ceiling resembled those of an old barrack’s bathroom like the sort he’d seen in California before being sent across to ‘Nam. To his left, was the toilet – looking as clean and white as if it were brand, spanking new – and to his right, was an antique cabinet jam-packed with various provisions. Most of that space was dedicated to supplies of the ass-wiping category, though a small portion was also set aside for his magazines of ‘ill repute’.

To his front, meanwhile, stood the adversary. It was yet another of those outdated accommodations: a high-sided tub with a shower pipe jutting up from where there used to be a fancy spout. It bore no curtains, but there was a drain inset into the polished floor below.

Amongst Jack’s aged ‘brothers and sisters’ there were many names for a tub like this – the Culler, the Man Eater, the Dog Man – with one of the more ridiculous titles being Breakneck Bill. That last one had been thought up by some woman, of course, but Jack couldn’t remember her name.

Each of the tub’s labels had been selected due to the monster’s supposed affinity for slipping up the elderly and breaking hips, necks, or skulls. And yet, it had only ever claimed one victim: another greyhair also named Jack. The clutz hadn’t even died. No, FlapJack had been sent up to the intensive care facilities, and nowadays, they said he was walking about just fine with a cane in hand.

Bearing all this in mind, Jack Morris did not dignify the proverbial piece of porcelain with a name. He had survived all sorts of dangers throughout his long life: farm accidents, car accidents, and even a god-damned war. He would not be intimidated by a glorified toilet.

Matter of fact, the old man thought, I’ll get in one-handed without spilling a single drop of this here drink.

Despite his enthusiasm, Jack’s getting into the tub was a tenuous affair. The surface was slippery even when dry, and the high siding forced him to lift his sore, stiff legs to a point far beyond the range of comfort.  He placed his free hand on the bath’s edge while drawing the first leg over. That leg was followed by the next.

He rose, stood triumphant, and took a sip of his appletini. This one was a tad more sour than the last, but he enjoyed the bite and placed the glass down on the windowsill just beyond the tub. It was a low ledge that was at perfect grasping distance when sitting on the shower stool. Which, by the way, is one of man’s greatest goddamned inventions… Outside, he observed the top of a rustling palm. He wished that he could open the crystal pane and let in some fresh ocean air. For some reason, though, they liked to glue the windows shut at these old folk’s homes.

Thus, he turned to the shower itself. Jack twisted the spigot and quickly stood back to watch for steam. The wait was lengthy, and the sound of water pelting his little plastic seat was thunderous. He scratched himself before sticking an arm into the stream. Still cold. It always took a while for it to heat up.

Finally, the mists began to rise and Jack turned the knob back down to a non-scalding temperature. He stepped into the water, sat on the stool, and closed his eyes. A violent shudder passed through him as he began to release water of his own. The pleasure was immense.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found the room filling with a pleasant fog. The window was already cloudy, and beyond, only the blurred green silhouette of palm fronds could be seen against the skyborne backdrop of vivid blue. As for the surrounding room’s tiled ceiling, walls, and floor, their polished sheen had become dun, made so by clinging moisture. The entire scene was becoming more perfect with every passing moment, but Jack knew there was work yet to be done.

He did not use a rag, instead grabbing the soap from its rickety holder attached to the shower pole and running the bar over his skin just like he had in the army. Today, as he applied and sluiced the suds from his left arm, the cake slipped from his grasp and hit the side of the tub with the sort of silence that only soap on porcelain could create. It was usually easy enough to fetch that rascal, but today it had fallen a tad out of reach. Jack leaned forward to grab it – left arm and hand outstretched while the other clutched at the tub’s siding.

He leaned… leaned… leaned… and suddenly the stool was moving – sliding – on the tub’s treacherous surface. Jack tumbled with it but was saved when his right arm caught ceramic right in the pit. It hurt his ribs fiercely, and the electric surprise of it all caused his skin to prickle with invisible sweat in spite of the surrounding moisture. He let go of the side, lowering himself gently to the tub’s floor, and there, he scooted forward on his ass until the bar of soap was in hand once more.

“Tried to get me, y’ bastard,” he grumbled aloud. Whether he was speaking to the soap, tub, or himself, it could not be discerned.

On his knees, Jack resituated the stool. Then, he clambered atop it, sat down, and resumed where he left off. It did not take him long to scrub his chest and legs. As always, it was the feet that gave him the most trouble. He had to use both hands – one of which was clutching a bar of extremely slippery soap – to lift one stiff leg at a time and put it on the opposite knee. Morris tended those feet with utmost care; it was a habit he’d kept since the war.

Finally, the cleaning was done.

Jack reached over and grabbed his martini. He shielded it from the shower’s deluge with his body, took a quick sip, and returned it to the sill. The beverage was as cold and crisp as a late-autumn apple. Its tartness stung the tongue while the caramel soothed. Best of all, though, was the way that the coldness creeping down his eager throat was met with and juxtaposed by the sensation of hot water running down neck, chest, and spine.

Now, came Jack’s favorite part: his thinking time. The room’s filling with steam briefly reminded him of life outside the shower. Every day, the world was becoming less and less clear – less lucid. Not by way of sight; by way of mind.

Life in the tub was different, though. As the bathroom filled with vapor, his sight grew hazier, but his thoughts grew clearer. He could remember and see events of his past as if they had happened yesterday, and better, he never knew which ones would crop up. It always lent the shower a sense of mystery and adventure.

The first such memory this day was of Old Pa’s farm. It was a lively bit of acreage filled with green meadows, grazing cows – them black and white bitches, old rust-colored barns with patchwork roofs, and similarly rusty red tractors that had seen better days.

Jack found himself as a boy. No, a young man. He was dashing after a cow that had gotten loose into the neighbor’s cabbage field, and there was a girl helping him. She was about his age. Her name was Annabelle, and she had golden hair, bright blue eyes, and a mouth that sometimes split into the most radiant of smiles.

One such smile flitted across her lips after the cow was chased back onto Morris property. She accepted Jack’s apology in regard to the escapee and gave him a cabbage to bring home to Old Ma and Pa. The girl would be his future wife, this Annabelle Lee. She liked to be called Annie.

Jack returned to the shower and took another draught of his magic elixir. He shivered in content at the heat outside, the ice inside, and at the emerging warmth of alcohol in his belly.

Morris now found himself in a jungle. His legs were broken; he was in agony. The only comforts he had were his brothers-in-arms – Lieutenant Randal, George, Marty, Ben, and Sumter. He also had a photo of beautiful Annie, and yes… a very large bag of peanut M&Ms. They were his favorite, sent by Annie along with a letter of condolences after his mailing her some of the swill that the Vietnamese had called candy.

He heard a sound. It was a deep rumbling like that of distant thunder. Everyone was quiet. Not a breath was taken, and even Marty – that old noisemaker – seemed to have lost his tongue. They all strained their ears to see if their hopes were well-founded or if it was just another of the land’s accursed rainstorms.

Seconds later, there were copters flying overhead. Jolly Green Giants, Choctaws, Mojaves, Workhorses… a whole blessed fleet of them with red, white, and blue painted on their tails. The airforce almost missed their lost platoon, but George climbed a tree and hailed down one of the Jolly Greens.

Suddenly, Jack was on a boat so large that, were it not for the waters surrounding him on all sides and extending for as far as the eye could see, he would not have believed himself to be en route across the Pacific. He was on a gurney – legs in casts, but he was on deck. The sunshine was on his skin, and the sea breeze ruffled his hair. He was headed home.

I am home.

He was in the shower. Through the bathroom’s steam, he noticed how the martini glass was coated – base, stem, and cup – in condensation and knew that the beverage within was still cold. It was cold; however, it was also a tad weak. He didn’t care. It wasn’t his first watered down drink. Jack left a last sip in the bottom – enough to reward one more reminiscence.

It was July 1969, and he was 33 years old. He had been walking without a cane or crutches for seven years thanks to his doctors and to Annie’s loving care. Yet today, he was sick – so sick that he could neither appreciate his functioning legs nor even his country’s triumph over the Soviet dogs in being the first to put man on the moon.

Jack paced back and forth in a pale blue room. There were dark green chairs lining the walls, a television blaring ‘one small step for man…’ in the corner, and at the center of it all was a token coffee-table laden with wrinkled magazines. He kept a steady tempo – tap, tap, tap… turn… tap, tap, tap – until he could take it no more. The wait had been too long, and no one would tell him what was happening. He barged through the clinic doors, and a nurse tried to stop him. Pushing her aside, he made it to room #0319. The room where Annie was, before. There, he was met by a sight he would never forget for the rest of his days.

Annabelle Lee. Sitting up in bed. Hair disheveled. Face ruddy. Bags beneath her eyes of livid blue. She looked goddamned awful, but he didn’t say so. He just stood there and gawked as she fed their newborn son, little Jimmy, from a pale, pink-tipped pap.

“Happy birthday, Jimmy,” Jack croaked aloud; Annie looked up, and the steam returned, clouding his vision and spiriting the entire scene away.

The final sip of apple pie was the most delicious and at the same time bitter. As he held the glass in hand, it filled with water, overflowing with liquid dream and memory. Jack felt an internal sort of warmth spread up to his head, and along with it, weariness. He reckoned he shouldfeel weary. It had been forty-nine busy years chock full of happiness, pride, success, and sorrow since that day. Forty-nine years exactly.

“Today is Jimmy’s birthday,” Jack uttered; his voice was half-amused and half-bewildered, “I lied to Jimmy on his birthday.”

The doctor’s appointment earlier that day had not gone ‘fine’. Jack had been experiencing more lapses in his memory as of late even with all the books and exercises and medications. His previous doctors had told him that was normal for a man his age, but two days ago, he had ‘awoken’ on a beach with no clue or reason as to why or how he had got there. Doc Aldren had set him straight.

“Ah, there’s the name,” Jack muttered, “The shower never fails.”

Jack deemed Aldren to be a good man – that, he had not lied to Jimmy about – and today Doc had told the truth: the dementia was catching up, and medication would not keep it at bay for much longer. The news had been told plainly and with utmost candor. It was one of the reasons Jack liked Aldren.

Apparently, Doc had seen the anguish written in the wrinkles across Jack’s face. Annie had experienced a similar decline about ten years previous, and the end of the approaching path was all too clear. Thus, after a brief discussion, Aldren had provided a little phial of ‘cure all’ that would aid with the coming trials. The stuff had cost 500 dollars because it was off the books, and Jack had given the man a hard time. He hadn’t meant any of it, though. 500 dollars was nothing compared to ten or twenty years of enduring a rotten brain.

Jack Morris smiled as a wave of fatigue rushed through his inebriated body. He felt his shoulders slump and knew that no one would find him till Monday when the cleaning lady came. That was a comfort; there was no need to ruin his boy’s birthday.

The warm deluge of water that enshrouded him began to display the faintest signs of exhaustion, and out of habit, Jack began to turn – intent on stopping the cooling stream. His hand never reached the spigot, despite his slowing, fragmenting – dying – mind iterating and reiterating its final command;

Don’t let the water run cold.

Don’t let the water run cold.