The Big Surprise
| It was a night like any other. I came home to my one-room apartment, fried up a couple of steak and onion sandwiches, watched a story on TV, then took my shower and went to bed. Sometime in the middle of the night, I was ripped from sleep by harsh flashlights piercing my eyes, voices calling my name. By the time they got me on the gurney and loaded me into the ambulance, I started to come around. That’s when I realized the worst: a stroke .God damn it! Just as things were going right for me. Bills all paid. A nice Honda bought and paid for in cash. My head spun, but not from the stroke. It was the thought that everything I’d worked for, everything I’d built, might be slipping through my fingers. .Next day Jacks’ eyes flickered open, his mind groggy and unfocused. The dull hum of hospital machinery buzzed in the background. As his vision cleared, a familiar face appeared — Tina, his sister-in-law, perched on the edge of a stiff plastic chair. Her face lit up the moment she saw him blink. “There you are,” she said with a smile, her voice calm but edged with relief. “Took you long enough.” Jack tried to speak, but his throat was dry, and his words came out as a rasp. Tina was already on her feet, pouring water into a cup. “Don’t try too hard,” she said, placing the cup in his shaky hand. “Just sip.” As Jack drank, Tina grabbed a small notebook from her bag, flipping it open like a seasoned manager about to run a board meeting. “I’ve got it all under control,” she announced. “The doctors, the insurance… I just need your card or account number. Oh, and your cell bill — I’ll take care of that too.” Jack managed a weak smile. Classic Tina. Always practical, always prepared — and always worried about something. He didn’t have to ask if she’d been sitting there all night; he knew she had. “You sure know how to make a guy feel important,” Jack croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. Tina snorted. “Don’t get used to it.” But her hand stayed on his for a moment longer than necessary. It wasn’t just business — she cared deeply, and Jack knew it. In that moment, surrounded by wires and sterile hospital walls, Tina’s presence was the strongest comfort he could have asked for. | |
| Jack had only been in the facility a couple of days, still learning the layout and avoiding eye contact whenever possible. He waited in the hallway near the elevator, just trying to get to the coffee station without having to talk to anyone. But of course, the universe had other plans. From the far end of the corridor, a figure slowly inched forward, hunched and awkward, weaving like a man navigating invisible tripwires. Jack squinted. Oh no. Another one. The guy was coming straight for him. “Hey there, new guy! I’m Gus,” the man said cheerfully, one shoulder dramatically higher than the other. His voice was loud, like someone who had never mastered indoor volume. Jack offered a polite, forced smile. “Hi.” “I saw you move in the other day. Room 114B, right? That was Mrs. Kessler’s room. She left because her daughter wanted her closer to the family, but between you and me, I think it had something to do with the chicken salad incident.” Jack blinked. “…The what?” “Oh, never mind, long story. You’ll hear it eventually. Everyone does. So! You like bingo? No? Me neither, but I go for the cookies. Did you meet Hank yet? Big guy, laughs like a drain pipe. And watch out for Thelma, she’ll talk your ear off about her feet.” Jack nodded slowly, his internal monologue already spinning. Great. A human newsletter. Just then, the elevator dinged. Jack pressed the button quickly, praying for a silent ride. “You know,” Gus continued as he shifted next to Jack, “you’ve got a good spot, room-wise. Not too close to the trash chute. That thing’s louder than a brass band.” The elevator doors opened. Jack rolled in, turning his chair just in time to see Gus trying to wedge himself in beside him. “I’ll take the next one,” Jack said quickly, not out of politeness but pure survival instinct. Gus smiled. “Suit yourself, buddy!” As the doors closed, Jack let out a breath and muttered, “So it begins. The next day at lunch, just as he was about to take my last bite of his sandwich, a very slight dude suddenly appeared in front of him. “Hi! I’m Oscar,” he announced, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. Before Jack could even acknowledge him, he launched into a monologue about how much he loved helping everyone. It immediately took him back to first grade. There was this girl named Melissa who prided herself on being the teacher’s helper—a real ass-kisser! So then, Oscar invites Jack to sit with him at Table 8. That works—better than sitting alone. Later that day, he goes down to the dining room. As he enters he glances over to see Oscar watching for him.He thinks to himself, well, here we go. He rolls over to the table as the server approaches. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?” . “I think beef stew over egg noodles sounds interesting. I’ll have that.” Oscar, still examining the menu, says, “I’ll have the usual. A hamburger, wel done.l “Well, Oscar, you’re full of surprises today,” Vera states. Her sarcasm falls flat as he sheepishly just gapes at her. She then gives Jack a look, and he smirks, letting her know that he I got her joke. ” cell number?” Debrah asked. he hesitates. “Sure,” He I said, fishing his phone from his my pocket. | |
| Jack’s New World Jack had always prided himself on his independence. He was the guy who could fix anything, grill a perfect steak, and outwit anyone with his sharp tongue. But that was before the stroke. Before his body betrayed him. Before he found himself here— Maplewood Assisted Living, a place where time crawled and the walls smelled faintly of antiseptic and overcooked vegetables. His left side was weak, his speech slower than he liked, but his mind? Oh, his mind was as sharp as ever. He’d quickly learned that Maplewood was filled with characters straight out of a sitcom. Gus, the gossip king, knew everything about everyone before they did. Virginia, tough as nails, didn’t sugarcoat a damn thing. And then there was Maude, who had the charm of a brick wall and looked at Jack like he was an annoying housefly. Jack’s biggest challenge wasn’t the stroke—it was keeping his patience,. People insisted on helping him when he didn’t need it. Every time he wheeled himself down the hall, some well-meaning aide would chirp, “Need a push, Jack?” “Nope, just training for the Indy 500,” he’d quip, rolling his eyes. Meals were another battle. One evening, he sat down to a plate of something that was allegedly meatloaf. He poked at it suspiciously. “What’s wrong?” Virginia asked, noticing his hesitation. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out if this is food or a science experiment.” Virginia chuckled. “Just eat it before it eats you.” Despite the annoyances, Jack found ways to keep himself entertained. He made a game out of dodging the ever-chatty Ron, who could talk for twenty minutes without taking a breath. Most times, Jack would try to roll past him as stealthily as possible. He kept a mental tally of how many times The Shadow, a resident who appeared out of nowhere, startled him in the hallway. But the best part of Maplewood? The people who got it. Like Jimmy, who wore a New York Rangers shirt one day and ended up talking hockey with Jack for an hour. Jack wasn’t the same man he was before the stroke. He knew that. But he also knew this—he wasn’t done yet. And as long as he had his wit, his sarcasm, and maybe, just maybe, a few people worth talking to, he could handle this new world just fine. Knowing his career was over, he constantly thought of what he could do now for a living—after all, Social Security wasn’t going to be enough to live on. His first idea was to raise tropical fish. Bad idea! Next, he remembered the scammer who once tried to con him into investing in gold. That sparked a thought—maybe he could do something with investing. His younger brother had done well with blogging and all that internet stuff. Perhaps a blog about investing in gold and other precious metals, for Jack was a jeweler prior to all this trouble it could work because Jack did understand the relationship between gold and the economy. Jack smirked at the thought. If nothing else, it would keep him busy—and keep his mind sharp. And who knew? Maybe it could actually make him some money. The following days, Jack couldn’t stop thinking about this idea. He spent hours trying to come up with a good, catchy name for his blog. Every scrap of paper within reach became a brainstorming pad. “Gold Rush Daily? No, too dramatic. The Gilded Edge? Neh. Nuggets of Truth? Ugh.” He muttered to himself while wheeling through the halls, earning puzzled looks from passersby. But he didn’t care. He was happier as long as he could just be on his way quietly without being bothered They just avoided him. The idea lit a fire in him. For the first time in a long time, Jack had something that felt like purpose—and he wasn’t letting go of it anytime soon. |
Betty the Scammer – A Digital Detour
I got a text one day from someone asking if I recognized the number.
“No,” I answered.
Then another text. Could they send a pic—maybe I’d recognize them. Okay, I thought. I was interested in what this was really about.
Soon we started communicating on WhatsApp. Betty sent me a picture—a very pretty girl along with a little bio: 43, divorced, and living in California.
But something didn’t sit right. The picture wasn’t just a selfie—it was a picture of a woman taking a selfie. Like someone had captured a stranger mid-pose and sent it along as their own. If she just took the photo, why not send the selfie itself? Hmmm.
Then she told me she was from France.
“Wow,” I replied. “Coincidence—my favorite singer is Stella Jang. A lot of her songs are sung in the French language.”
And then I left that to hang. I wanted to see what kind of reaction she’d give. I mean, Stella Jang is South Korean. If Betty were actually from France, wouldn’t she at least question that? Ask why the name didn’t sound French?
But no. Two minutes later, she replied:
“My favorite singer is Adele Adler.”
Adele Adler? Not even trying.
That’s when I knew—I wasn’t talking to a lonely 43-year-old French-American divorcee. I was talking to someone who just googled “popular female names” and hoped for the best.
Still, I decided to play along. Hell, I’ve got nowhere to go anyway.
I sent her a polite “TTYL” and headed down for dinner.
Game on, Betty.
UNDER CAFFEINE
A few days went by, no sign of Betty. Then, on Sunday, while I was halfway through lunch, my WhatsApp alert chimed. Betty.
I let it sit until I finished eating, figuring I’d need a strong coffee for this nonsense. I wheeled over to the coffee vending machine, and there she was. The immovable object. “Big Barbara.”
Big Barbara is a mountain of a woman. The nickname is almost too kind. She’s so large she can’t even stand up from her wheelchair. But size isn’t what bothers me—it’s her total lack of self-awareness. She parks herself at the machine like she’s got all the time in the world, completely oblivious to the line growing behind her.
I sat there stuck, caffeine-starved and blocked by Barbara, waiting for her glacial pace to release the coffee hostage. The whole scene made me think of that old B-52’s lyric:
“Hop in my Chrysler, it’s as big as a whale and it’s about to set sail!”
Meanwhile, Betty’s message just sat there on my phone, the digital bait still dangling.
Just another day under-caffeinated. Dammit, Barbara Finally, I read the message of how she made over one hundred thousand dollars between friday and saturday. Would I be interested? Interested? I thought YEA! I’d be interested in becoming A Kept Man!. hahaha. Anyway, I figured I’ll wait to answer in the morning.
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