Tag Archives: depression

TICK-TOCK, TICK TOCK

The last two years have by far been the most difficult years in my entire life.  I’m not trying to be overly dramatic or garner attention or sympathy. I’m just stating the truth. Yes, I’m speaking from my perspective. Who’s else would I speak from?

Home in Moorestown, NJ

First, my mother developed terminal cancer, and then my father started exhibiting memory issues that worsened over time. I’m an only child, and there was no one else to help me. In addition, I have a high-pressure job. I couldn’t just stop working and stay home with my parents. Who was going to pay the bills?

After my mother passed away, I had to make the difficult decision to place my father in an assisted living residence. I wasn’t selfish. I

was practical. The day-to-day care of my father as he declined was more than I could handle. I was exhausted. Sometimes, he would roam around the house at night and come into my room crying that he wanted to kill himself or just come in and wake me up several times a night.

I never got enough sleep. I had to bathe him and change him several times a day because he became incontinent. He had to be watched while he ate. Because sometimes he forgot to chew his food and would choke on it. You can’t possibly understand how stressful and exhausting it was unless you experienced it yourself.

I made the decision that was the best for both of us. He was safe. And caring people took care of him twenty-four hours a day. I saw him as often as possible. He passed away after six months while he was living in the nursing home. After he fell and broke his hip, I did the best I could; it wasn’t my fault that he fell.

My script is due in less than a week, and I can’t afford to be late. On the other hand, I don’t want to send in a script that will be rejected. I have a reputation to uphold. I’m running out of capital, and so I’ve been writing non-stop scripts hoping that one or all of them might get approved and get me back in the black and out of the red.

Being a writer is not an easy job, not by any means. You spend a lot of time alone. Writing is a lonely job. Then there’s the additional bugaboos, procrastination, and writer’s block.

My biggest problem is procrastination. I can find reasons to delay writing for hours, days even. After all, I’m a creative guy. I have to take Al to the park. He hasn’t been anywhere except in the backyard for a week. I need a haircut. I have to get a haircut; I’m starting to look like a hippie. I haven’t had a decent meal for a week; I go out to lunch with a friend. This takes care of loneliness and hunger at the same time, a twofer. Unfortunately, I like to have a shot or two or three when I go out to lunch. And that tends to put a dent in both my creativity and my typing.

If I’m able to get past the procrastination, the blank page can deter me for quite a while. But eventually, eventually I get an idea and type away, and before you know it, I’ve finished the script or the screenplay, the short story, or even the book.

But it doesn’t look like today is going to be one of those days. I’m staring at the laptop screen, and I find myself humming “Troubled Waters.” And then, out of the blue, there’s a loud knocking at the door. It startles me so much that I scream out, “holy shit.” And then I laugh at myself. Who do I think it is, the bogyman? Or the bill collector? No, it can’t be that no one really sends out bill collectors anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true once last year, I fell six months behind in my car payment, and they came and towed my rental car away. I have terrible credit. I’m not entirely reliable in either paying my bills on time because of lack of funds or just plain undependable, I guess. I make good money when I work. But as I said, I have a problem with procrastination and the fear of the white page.

I hear the knocking again. It is more insistent and louder. Al starts barking in earnest and goes so far as to stand up and look towards the sound of the knocking. Al isn’t a very energetic dog. He sleeps about fifteen hours a day. But the loud knocking keeps disturbing his naptime. Finally, we both get up and head toward the front door. Al takes the lead, barking the whole way. If you ever heard a Basset Hound bark, you know it’s no joke. It can be loud and resonates through the whole house. The knocking continues.

We arrive at the front door, and I look out the glass windows on the door. I see a brown cap. He’s still knocking. I quickly unlock the door with one hand and pull it open. I hold Al by his collar with my other hand. A surly face is on the other side of the door. “I have a delivery. You have to sign for it.”

I grab the clipboard and quickly scribble my illegible signature. And then he hands me a small package. I take it and shut the door. “Asshole,” I say to the closed door.

Al and I retreat to the living room, and I sit down on the couch, and Al lies down on the area rug and falls asleep in moments. I will never understand how dogs can fall asleep in a single moment. I envy him.

I carefully open up the small package. Inside I find a key. It looks old. Like the kind of key that my grandparents had on their doors. The one that could open all the exterior doors. I think they used to call it a Skeleton Key.

The key is taped on a handwritten note. It bears the legend; this key is for the house that belongs to you now. You are the last living member of the family now. If you have received this key, it is because I am no longer among the living. There is a signature on the note, but it isn’t legible, no phone number, just an address. 2567 Crofton Way, Moorestown, New Jersey. It sounds familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“Come on, Al, let’s go have lunch, and then I will try and find out what this is all about.” Al doesn’t answer me. Al isn’t much of a talker, probably because Al is a Basset Hound.

And then the two of us head toward the kitchen. I sure could use a strong hot coffee right now. I pour dry dog food into Al’s bowl and make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Whenever I’m stressed, I eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Probably harkens back to my long-ago childhood days. I spread the peanut butter twice as thick. And I pour myself a steaming hot coffee. I’ll be the first to admit I am addicted to caffeine. Al looks up at me as if to say, any dessert?”

“No, that’s it, Al. How about I let you out in the backyard to relieve yourself.” Al looks up at me with his sad Basset eyes as if I’m asking him for a payday loan. He reluctantly heads toward the back door. I hold it open, and he goes out into the yard and is soon consumed with smelling all the smells. A Basset Hound is really all about the nose and smelling.

I pick up my phone and google the address. And Google magically comes up with the information that the address is the former home of none other than Cecile Menlo, my mother’s brother, who has apparently passed away.

Cecile Menlo, wow, now that’s a blast from the past. I scrounge up a memory of my long-ago childhood. I have to dust it off it was that old. I drink down the first cup of coffee quickly and scorch my throat. I pour a second one and sip it ever so slowly as my childhood memory comes flooding back to me.

It was in the mid-sixties I was in middle school. And that my friends were a long, long time ago. But still, those are the years of my life that I always felt I were the happiest. The endless summers with no responsibilities, swimming at the lake or my neighborhood friends above ground pools, riding my bike all over town. As long as I was home for meals on time, no one questioned my whereabouts or what I had been up to.

And then there were the summers I spent with my uncle Cecile Menlo. He lived in a house in Moorestown, NJ; it was so enormous, so over the top, it was hard to believe it was real. He had made big money as one of the original investors at RCA in Moorestown, NJ. RCA was a large facility that developed and manufactured government apparatus. And eventually became a division of RCA Government and Commercial Systems.

My uncle retired at forty, which was unheard of since most people worked until they turned sixty-five or older. Summers at his house were a kid’s dream come true. He had several pools and tennis courts and property so immense it would take hours, if not days, to see it all. He used to show movies on a screen so large that it felt like you were at the movie theater. He had horses, and I used to ride all over the property. My friends would come over, and we would play crocket or swim or hide and seek. His Fourth of July parties were out of this world. He had fireworks that could be seen all over Moorestown by everyone that lived there.

My uncle was a big influence on me as a child. He taught me self-confidence and said if I worked hard enough and long enough I could achieve anything, I set my mind to it. He was the one adult that encouraged my creativity. Everyone else thought spending most of my time writing stories was a waste of time: even my parents, but not my Uncle Cecile.

As I sit here thinking about those summers with my uncle, I wonder how I ever lost contact with him, he meant so much to me as I was growing up. Why did I drift away from him? And then I remembered that when I first achieved some fame with the first books I got published, I let go of all the people from my past and left them behind. I made new friends with the rich and famous.

I vaguely remember that my Uncle reached out to me over the years, and I never contacted him. I was too important, too busy to care about an old relative. And now here I am, all alone in a house struggling to make ends meet. Struggling because I don’t have the self-discipline to work hard and work smart like my uncle always told me to do.

And here he was, reaching out from the great beyond once more to give me yet another opportunity to do better. And to lift me out of my self-indulgence and self-pity. I have to admit to myself that I don’t deserve his help, but I need it. And this time, I decide I will do the right thing. I’m sure I don’t need a huge house and property. But I could sell the house pay my bills, get back on my feet. And then invest whatever money is left to help kids like I was. Kids who needed someone to care about them and mentor them and encourage them to realize that they too have what it takes to make something of themselves when everyone and everything around them says differently.

I pick up the phone and call the lawyer whose name and number are on the letter I received. “Hello, could I speak to Taylor Brown. My name is Johnathan Cummings. I received a letter and key this morning stating that I was the sole beneficiary of a house that once belonged to my Uncle Cecile Menlo in Moorestown, New Jersey. Would you possibly have time to speak to me in the next couple of days about this inheritance?”

“Tomorrow at one o’clock would be perfect, thank you. I will see you then.” I hear Al scratching and howling at the door, and I go over and let him in. He rubs his neck against my leg. He does this to put his scent on me. So, all the other dogs know I belong to him. But to tell you the truth, Al is my best friend. “Al, guess what, tomorrow we’re going to take a road trip, and you’re going to get to see a place where I spent the best years of my life when I was a kid at my Uncle Cecile’s house in New Jersey.”

Al looks up at me with his big, sad eyes and his doggy smile and lets out a howl. I lean over and hug him. And say, “who’s the best dog in the world, Al? You are Al, you are. And I smile at him and feel the best I’ve felt in years.

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Beddy-Bye

At four-thirty sharp every morning, my eyes fly open, I‘m wide awake. This morning I look over at the digital clock that is large and glowing, and it is blinking 12:00. Oh, oh, it seems as if the power went out again. We must have had another electrical thunderstorm. Wonder, what time it is? I make a bet with myself that it is four-thirty in the morning.

I blindly make my way over to the bathroom and flip the light quickly on and off, long enough to see the alarm clock. It has a backup battery. I win or lose, depending on whether I’m feeling optimistic or pessimistic at any given moment. It is indeed 4:30 am. My inner clock has wakened me up at 4:30 am.

This had happened to me every night since August 23, 1986, when my mother passed away from a complete coronary and respiratory arrest. On that particular night, I had wakened up from a sound sleep at 4:30 am and knew my mother passed.

At five am the aide, Doris, who was staying with my mother during the week, called to let me know that my mother had died. The ambulance arrived at the house to take her to the hospital, but of course, I was too late.

Doris, the aide, thought my mother’s refusal to have the air conditioner on or any of the windows open had precipitated her death. It was the hottest August 23rd in the recorded weather history of NJ up to this time. I had a new air conditioner put in my mother’s room, early in the spring. She had mid-stage dementia. And she was sometimes argumentative and combative.

Her disease had caused a radical change in her personality. Formerly a shy and quiet woman that spent her time saying the rosary, reading from her prayer book, and for excitement, she read the Reader’s Digest.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention she was completely blind for the past ten years from glaucoma. She became a paranoid and terrified woman who called me ten times a day to tell me someone was breaking into the house to steal her money, or that someone was hiding behind the living room chair, and smoking pot.

Before I realized what was going on with her, I used to sneak over to her house and peak in the living window to see if someone was hiding behind the rocking chair in the living room. Of course, there never was. Sometimes she called the police. And then they would call me. And I would assure them that she was somewhat senile, and I would be over shortly to check on her. 

My mother suffered these delusions for three years before I was able to get her to agree to go to a psychiatrist who specialized in sedating senile patients into submission, or as in her case, sleeping away the rest of her life. Subdued.

But that day, she had refused to take the sedative and was acting delusional and stubborn. There wasn’t much left of her. But what was there was stubborn when she wanted to be.

I waited until seven in the morning to call the rest of my family, and they were all upset that I hadn’t called them earlier, as if it would have made any difference. She was buried four days later at Calvary Cemetery, next to my dad, who had passed away from lung cancer eight months earlier, after a short battle of eight months, the longest months of my life.

The day is quite long when you wake up at 4:30 every morning.  Sometimes the days seem to run one into the other. This day would be no different. I was exhausted when I fell into bed, into a deep sleep, at ten pm. A little tomato juice and Temazepam paved the way for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

It was Sunday night, I had a full week ahead of me, but thanks to Mama’s little helper, I fell asleep ten minutes after my head hit the pillow, and didn’t wake up until eight-thirty the following morning. I woke up slowly. The room seemed different somehow, oh I realized it was daylight and not the usual pitch dark I wake up to. I had slept the entire night. I thought this is going to be a good week.

THE LIGHT DIES EARLY ON WINTER DAYS

God, I’m so fricking tired of this shit. Every morning I get up early, wake the damn kids up and feed them their fricking Cocoa Puffs. This is the thanks I get. That piece of shit won’t start again. I just had the battery replaced. So, what the hell is wrong with that bucket of bolts now? I’ll have to wake up Gerry and see if he can get it started. I have to take those brats to school. I have to go to traffic court for that trumped-up DUI ticket.

 “Gerry, wake up. The hoopty car won’t start again, get up.”

“What, what the hell do you want now? I just got to sleep a couple of hours ago. God can’t you keep those kids quiet and turned down that damn TV.”

“Don’t you go to sleep again, you lazy good for nothing? You’re just another example of how I try to help people and they end up taking advantage of me.”

“Alright, alright, let me put some pants on and take a piss. Can you give me five minutes?”

“Five minutes that’s it. You get your sorry ass out on the curb and help me. You have been living here for a year and a half and you never lift a hand to help me. And I let that brat of yours live here too. When you leave, she’s going with you. Keep that in mind.”

God, it’s so cold out here. What am I going to do if he can’t fix it? I’m tapped out. I used up all the child support this month already. That old bag of a mother won’t lend me another dime. I spend the SSI money on the heating oil. My exes won’t fork over any more money. My credit cards are maxed out. Crap.

“Well, it’s about time you got your sorry ass out here. What took you so long?”

“I’m here now, let me try it. You probably just flooded it.”

“Well, can you fix it or not?”

“Not. I don’t know maybe the alternators’ dead or it needs a new ignition system. You’ll have to take it up to Pep Boys and get it checked out. I’m going back to bed.”

“The hell you are. If I don’t get this piece of crap running, we’re all screwed. Do you have any money, you didn’t tell me about?”

“Oh yeah, my hidden assets. You take my disability check, the second I get it. Where would I get any money?’

“You think I don’t know that your selling meth out of my trailer out back. Come on, hand it over right now or get the hell out of here. And take that skanky daughter of yours with you. I’m sick of her waking me up all night with her constant hacking. She always seems to have money for her smokes. Where’s she getting that money, on her back?”

“Hey, don’t you talk about my daughter like that? Here I’ve got fifty bucks, that’s it.

“That’s not enough. I have to find some more money fast. I’m just going to take a credit card out in Harry’s name. I did the same thing with the older two. I don’t have any choice.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Credit card in Harry’s name, he’s only seven years old. And you did that to the other two too? Man, you really are one crappy mother. You’re always calling them names and knocking them around. Now you’re screwing up their credit too. What are you going to do next make Sissy prostitute herself?”

“She probably already does. But she won’t give me any money. Right now, I’m going to call my mother. See if she can come and pick up the kids and take them to school and then drop me off at court. I have to take care of that bogus DUI.

After traffic court, Meghan stands outside the police station trying to decide what to do next when her cell phone rings.

“Meghan, it’s your Aunt Tilly.”

“I know who it is, Aunt Tilly, what do you want? I’m having a hell of a bad day and it’s not even lunchtime.”

“Meghan, it’s your Uncle Morty he’s really bad. If you want to see him again you better get your ass over here now. He isn’t going to last much longer.”

All I ever do is give, give and give.  All I ever get back is crap. Nobody appreciates anything I do. How I keep food on the table and clothes on their backs. They never lift a hand to help me. Now I have to go visit my Uncle. What’s next? Do I have to serve food at the homeless shelter? Next thing I know I’ll be living in the shelter along with those two brats of mine.

“Hi Aunt Tilly, I got here as fast as I could. I had to go to court today. My car broke down again and I had to take the bus to get here. It’s cold as hell out here. Can I come in? Can you give me a cup of coffee? I could eat too. I haven’t eaten anything today. I’ll go see Uncle Morty while you’re doing that.”

 Oh Jeez, look at him he looks like he is about to breathe his last breath. God, it freaking stinks in here. I hate old people. They stink. I ought to get a medal for this.

“Hi Uncle Joe, it’s me, Meghan, I came to see how you’re doing. Aunt Tilly called this morning and said you weren’t feeling too well. Uncle Joe raises his limp hand and signals for Meghan to come closer. She leans in and his breath almost knocks her over.

“Jeez, Uncle Morty would it kill you to rinse out with some Listerine once in a while. So, what do you want to tell me?”

She hears him whisper, “Here. You were always my favorite.”

He hands her a paper. She looks down and it’s a check. At that moment she sees his hand drop down and he releases a long sour breath. She looks at him and lifts one of his baggy eyelids. He’s dead. She screams at the top of her lungs. Her aunt comes running in.

“For the love of god, what are you whaling about? You scared the hell out of me.”

Meghan points at Uncle Joe. Aunt Tilly says,” Well if that don’t beat all. The first time I’m out of this dam room for more than five minutes and he croaks. He was always such an inconsiderate bastard. What’s that in your hand?”

Meghan looks down at her hand and says, “I forgot, he handed this to me and told me I was his favorite. “It’s a check for…oh my god it’s for one hundred thousand dollars. Is this for real?”

“Yeah, it’s real. He said he was going to leave you something. But I thought he was going to leave you his baseball card collection. He said that you and he used to collect those when you were a kid. And he took you to all the Phillies games. I guess you were his favorite. He didn’t leave your mother anything.”

“Holy crap this is the answer to my prayers. Thanks, Aunt Tilly, I gotta be going. Let me know if I can do anything to help with the funeral. I have to get home to pick up the kids from school. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait you’re leaving now? Aren’t you going to at least wait until the mortician comes to pick up your uncle?”

“Naw, I can’t now Aunt Tilly. I’ll call you later.” Meghan takes the 402 express bus home and gets off in front of the bank. She wants to cash the check before her aunt decides to stop payment on it or something. She walks up to the bank teller and hands the check over. “I want to cash this check. Can you put it all in one-hundred-dollar bills?”

The bank teller takes a look at the check and gives Meghan a look over too. “Can you wait a minute, please? I have to talk to the manager. I don’t know if we have enough cash on hand at this branch. We may have to contact the main branch to get this amount.”

About twenty minutes later, the manager calls Meghan over to her office. Here you go Ms. Mullen, sorry for the wait. We had to get the cash from the main bank. I put the money in an envelope for you. I don’t recommend you walk around with this much cash. Perhaps you would like to open up a savings account and place some of this money here for safekeeping.”

“What? No, no I’ll be taking it to… to my accountant tomorrow morning. Don’t worry about it. Thanks.”

 Oh, my freaking god, I’m rich, rich. Finally, I get what I deserved all these years. The first thing I’m going to do is get rid of that freaking piece of shit car and get those freeloaders out of my house. Then I’m going to take a vacation, by myself. Maybe I’ll get lucky and meet a rich guy on a cruise or something, somebody with class.

One month later Meghan returns from a gambling cruise on the Mississippi.  Her pockets are empty and no rich guy in tow. Her mother meets her at the door.

“Well, it’s about dam time that you showed up Meghan. These brats of yours are driving me half crazy. I had to let Gerry and his daughter move back in. I couldn’t cover your bills by myself. You neglected to leave me any money, while you took your vacation. Your car still isn’t working. I hope you saved some of that money to get a new car or at least get that junker fixed. The least you could have done was stay for your Uncles funeral, Aunt Tilly was really pissed when you didn’t show up.”

“Goddam it all to hell. Can’t I ever catch a break?