Prime of Life

by P.D. Bekendam

Genres: Christian Fiction

Synopsis

Operation First Novel 2013 contest winner, Prime of Life was released in Kindle edition only and has garnered in excess of 175 positive reviews with over 6,000 paid downloads.

Release date: January 21, 2014

Publisher: Worthy

Print pages: 272

Sample

CHAPTER 1

I clean rooms in a retirement home. Four years of college, four of medical school, four more in residency, and another four training in cardiothoracic surgery, and now I spend my days scrubbing toilets and mopping floors. My shift starts at eight, when the residents are supposed to be at breakfast.

“Ben,” Frank hollers as I push my cleaning cart down the long hallway of the skilled nursing facility. “Start in my room today.”

Frank is a cantankerous octogenarian. I have yet to discover his pleasant side.

“Sure, Frank.” I wheel my cart into his dingy room. The blinds are drawn. A crumpled potato chip bag lies open on the floor. I step over a few greasy remnants that are ground into the carpet as I make my way between the bed and the television stand, taking care not to bump the rickety plastic contraption supporting the heavy 1970s-era TV.

“Just the bathroom,” Frank says as he shuffles toward his chair. He takes an unexpected detour toward his rolltop desk and rummages through a drawer. “I just remembered. I’m gonna need your help with a little project later on.”

This triggers a warning bell in my mind. “Not if it has anything to do with Marvin. You know my position on that.”

Frank and Marvin have been feuding for half a century. Probably longer.

“Did you hear what he did to my denture cream?” Frank’s voice raises an octave and his bushy white eyebrows perform a frustrated dance.

“Yeah. Cayenne pepper and Tabasco sauce.” I suppress a grin.

“Don’t you want to hear my plan for revenge?”

“Absolutely not.” I make my way into the bathroom … and shake my head in disgust. I gave it a thorough cleaning only two days ago. “Why aren’t you at breakfast?”

“Nasty scrambled eggs. Hey, I found ’em!”

Curious, I poke my head out to see Frank sitting at the foot of his bed, a pair of toenail clippers in hand. His knee pops as he laboriously raises his foot and yanks off his sock. He reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a plastic bag full of wet soil. Using the cuticle cleaner attached to the clippers, he scoops up some mud and crams it under his large toenail.

“What are you doing?” I can’t help but ask.

“Dr. Kentucky is coming tomorrow.” He grins.

Dr. Kentucky missed her calling to become a supermodel and instead became a podiatrist.

“You’re pathetic, Frank.”

“Can you blame me?”

I can’t. Dr. Kentucky is nothing short of intoxicating, which is why I do my best to avoid her. If she even knows I exist I’d hate to imagine what she would make of me, a thirty-eight-year-old toilet scrubber.

“Hey,” Frank says, “why don’t you ask her out?”

“Give it up, Frank.”

“Seriously. You’re not that ugly and you two are probably about the same age. What’s holding you back?”

“Drop it.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Do you want to scrub your toilet yourself?”

“There’s no need to get all riled up. I’m only trying to help.” He crams more mud under his toenail. “In my lifetime I’ve dated more women than you’ve dreamed about.”

I return my attention to the bathroom and remind myself that I’m here by choice. I’ve been doing this for three years now. I make ten dollars an hour, my job is low stress, I mostly manage myself, and nobody bothers me as long as I keep things clean. There are other perks too. I have plenty of friends. Granted, they’re all forty years older than I am, but they’re wonderful people—present company excluded. I’ll probably stay here until I retire. I won’t even have to move. In the meantime, I can enjoy all-you-can-eat Jell-O in the cafeteria whenever I want.

I make quick work of rectifying the disaster in Frank’s commode and then smile with satisfaction. This is what I want. A simple life.

Eager to make my escape from Frank’s company, I arrange my assorted cleaning supplies in their proper configuration on my cart: bottles organized by category and sub-organized alphabetically with labels facing outward, brushes in their holsters, mop and broom securely fastened. My cart exemplifies humankind’s ability to overcome chaos and defeat the second law of thermodynamics. The universe may be a mess, but my cart is in perfect order.

As I push it out of the bathroom, one of the front wheels snags on the carpet and snaps off. My cart tilts sideways, launching a few bottles overboard.

“You should probably fix that before you spill bleach on my floor,” Frank says. “I don’t want any stains.”

“Look who’s talking. You’re getting mud all over the place.”

“Don’t worry about that. I know just the man who can clean this up.”

“Well, I’d be happy to meet him.”

“I meant you, you numskull. I’ll register a complaint if you don’t.”

“I’ll tell Dr. Kentucky how the dirt got under your nails.”

“Humph.”

“I’ll bring the vacuum by later on. I’ll even plug it in for you. But mark my words, Frank: I’m not cleaning that mess.”

“Humph.”

“I’ll see you later.” I rescue my wayward bottles and carefully limp my damaged cart out the door.

Frank sends me a parting grunt.

My next stop is the Professor’s room. His name is Jerry, but my private nickname for him suits him better. From what I can gather, he holds three doctorates: physics, literature, and psychology. Perhaps philosophy too, but I’m not certain. Regardless, I suspect he knows everything.

I knock.

“It’s open.” His voice nearly fails to penetrate the wood. Nobody seems to be at breakfast this morning. That means Frank was right. Scrambled eggs must be on the menu. I can say with confidence that this place has the worst scrambled eggs in the entire Western Hemisphere. The Professor once described them fairly adequately when he said they taste like they were fished out of the garbage disposal right before they were slopped onto the plate.

“Good morning, Jerry.” I follow my three-wheeled cart into his room.

Despite his brilliance, the Professor demonstrates exceedingly poor choice in attire. Today he’s decked out in orange pants and a cherry-red polo shirt. I wonder where he acquired his bright yellow socks. His entire wardrobe consists of neon garments, giving him the appearance he strayed from a tropical fish tank.

“Good morning, Doc.” He pulls his reading glasses toward the tip of his nose. With grey hair in disarray and a moustache in need of trimming, he resembles the classic Einsteinian image, and what makes it most authentic is that it is completely unintentional.

I falter for an instant and hope I don’t give him the satisfaction of noticing my surprise at his pregnant greeting. I glance his way as he lounges in his leather recliner, hardback book minus its dust jacket propped in his lap. He smiles as if he’s solved some great mystery.

“Whatcha reading?” I ignore his triumphant grin.

“It’s called The Information.” He pauses. “It’s quite fascinating—this whole subject of information. Listen to this: ‘In the long run, history is the story of information becoming aware of itself.’ Chew on that for a while.” He stares me straight in the eye. “Say, Doc, how long have we known each other?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Sure you do.” He pounds his chest with his fist, mimicking the rhythm of a beating heart.

A sinking feeling settles in as I realize today will mark the end of the relative peace I’ve managed to find at Heritage Gardens.

Heritage Gardens is a cookie-cutter retirement village located near Temecula off the I-15 between San Diego and Riverside. The sun shines 347 days out of the year here. I like the number 347 because the first two digits add up to the third, it is prime, and it rolls off the tongue. Other interesting but irrelevant facts about the number 347: it is the case number assigned to the Supreme Court ruling in Brown vs. Board of Education in 1954—the case that ended segregation in public schools; it is the area code for most telephone numbers in New York City; some models of the Boeing 747 have 347 seats; and Plato died in 347 BC.

I am annoyed by the name Heritage Gardens, as I am by most clichés. Why is it that nine out of ten retirement communities must have the word Gardens or Village or Springs in the name? I suppose this is better than an honest name like Ticking Clock or Borrowed Time, but when it comes time for me to find a place to enjoy my final days, I don’t want to be patronized. I’d rather stay in a place called Heaven Can Wait a Little Longer While I Golf.

I don’t golf and I’ve abandoned my belief in heaven, but I’d still prefer that name.

There are several levels of retirement at Heritage Gardens. The first is independent living in condos and small homes. After that, the residents graduate (or get demoted, depending on your perspective) to the nursing facility, which is where Frank and the Professor live. The last stop is the mortuary, where the residents embark on their ultimate retirement.

In all, there are approximately 126 residents here. Well, not approximately. Exactly. I’m hoping we add one more, because that would be prime. The alternative would be that thirteen residents would have to die so that the total could be 113.

I have invested the past three years in this place, learning to love it, becoming part of it, beginning to imagine how I could become a permanent fixture here.

But now the Professor has somehow managed to slap me in the face with my past.

“Did you think I wouldn’t discover you’re a doctor, Ben?” He closes his book with finality, as if to say, Case closed. I solved the mystery. Now what’s your move?

“I’m not a doctor. I’m a janitor.”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry. “You know I can’t let this go.”

“Please let it rest, Jerry.” I turn to leave. I’ll clean his room another day.

CHAPTER 2

Yesterday was a nuisance. Today looks promising. Tomorrow will be a blast. I’m certain it will because I just happened to meet the 127th resident of Heritage Gardens. She plans to move in tomorrow.

For several days the place has been abuzz with rumors of a potential newbie. Frank was the one who started the gossip last week, so nobody really believed it. But ten minutes ago, while I was wiring a high-speed fiber-optic Internet connection in the manager’s office, Betty Boop walked in. Her real name is Betty Boestra, but I think Betty Boop will suit her just fine. She’s only fifty-five years old—more than a decade younger than the next youngest resident here. And she doesn’t look fifty-five. Her hair is a sleek auburn, her face virtually wrinkle free, and she has either had plastic surgery or gravity has chosen to overlook certain parts of her anatomy. Why she decided to take up residence at Heritage Gardens is beyond my capacity for deductive reasoning, but I look forward to observing the social chaos her presence is sure to initiate.

I am now standing in the foyer of the manager’s office waiting for Boop to exit the inner sanctum—

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up a few minutes. As I sat inside the office fumbling with the fiber-optic cable and wondering why the manager needs such a high-speed connection,

Boop breezed in and rescued me from a train of thought that was probably going to get me in trouble.

The manager, a morbidly obese man by the name of Ross Peterson Jr., promptly commenced drooling. “Miss Boestra, what a pleasant surprise!”

“Ross, dear, I’ve made up my mind.”

“You’ll be moving in?”

“Yes.”

“Well! That’s excellent news!” he said, practically slobbering. “Do you have the application forms I gave you?”

She handed over a file folder, which he quickly perused.

“Oh … I see you missed a line here. You see this space where it asks for your date of birth? It’s blank.”

“Oops.” Betty smiled coyly. “I must have overlooked that one.”

“That’s okay, I don’t even know why it’s on here,” Junior said. “We don’t really have any restrictions based on age. You could live here even if you were only forty-five as long as you pay your rent. I won’t make you put down your age, but I bet I could guess it.”

“I bet you can’t.”

“Fifty.”

If he was trying to flatter her, he should’ve started at forty. Or at least made it interesting and picked a number like forty-one, forty-three, or forty-seven.

“Nope.”

“Okay, fifty-five.”

No wonder he’s still single.

“Bingo!”

“I knew it! I told you I could guess your age! So when will you be able to move in?”

“Actually, the moving company will bring my things tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Well—er—uh—yes! Tomorrow will be just fine!”

“I wanted to confirm that the corner unit—the one overlooking the koi pond—is available like you promised.”

I’m sure my eyebrows rose at this. She was referring to Marvin’s place. Marvin has been living there for as long as I’ve been around. From what I understand, his is the most coveted unit in Heritage Gardens. Frank was the previous occupant, but he had to give it up and move into the nursing facility after he broke his hip. Marvin promptly took it over, much to Frank’s chagrin. Frank insists that Marvin did it to spite him, but I know this isn’t true. Marvin has a passion for fish and takes great pleasure in living next to the pond. He has invested countless hours as well as a small fortune in making improvements to that little body of water. That pond is his life.

“Well … uh …” Beads of perspiration suddenly appeared on Junior’s brow. “I haven’t brought up the subject with the current resident because I wasn’t certain of your decision.” He glanced in my direction, as if suddenly realizing I was there. “Ben, would you excuse us for a moment?” He ushered me out the door and closed it.

So that’s why I’m here in the foyer alone. I don’t try to overhear what’s going on behind that door. Not because I’m not curious, but because I would rather deduce such matters by observing the behavior that follows. Junior’s actions are simple to predict. If there’s an asinine way to do something, he’ll find it. He took the helm at Heritage Gardens a little over a year ago, after his father’s untimely death. Peterson Sr. was a saint, and I refuse to believe he intended to leave the responsibility of running this place to his incompetent son. But Junior somehow managed to weasel his way into his father’s old position and I can’t say I know how he keeps this place afloat.

Since I have no idea how long Junior and Boop will be in there and I am unable to be idle for more than thirty-seven seconds, I decide to spend the time ensuring that the bottles in my cleaning cart are arranged in the most efficient configuration. Part of me wants to alphabetize them, but sometimes alphabetification can lead to inefficiency. (I’m not sure if alphabetification is really a word, but it sounds good, it has seventeen letters and seven syllables, and it rolls off the tongue.) I frequently use a dust spray called Zap, but if I place it in the rear it will be hard to reach. If I resort to reverse alphabetification, Zap will be in front, but bleach will be near the rear, and I often use that as well. My solution: I’ll create subcategories of cleaners based on their frequency of use and alphabetize the different products within each subcategory.

Another issue I must resolve is the fact that one of my cart’s wheels is still missing. I almost ventured to the hardware store yesterday evening to buy a new wheel, but I was feeling sorry for myself thanks to the Professor’s nosiness, so I didn’t feel like going out. But now that I’m thinking about it again, I realize that in my cart’s current state, it has a prime number of wheels. If I replace the missing wheel, the total will again be four, and four happens to be my least favorite number. Perhaps I could rearrange the remaining wheels into a triangle so the cart wouldn’t be lopsided. If that fails to work, I could install two more wheels on either side of the wheel in the center, bringing the total to an acceptable five. The steering might be more difficult with five wheels, but that’s a price I’d be willing to pay.

I smile with satisfaction. Another problem solved in a most agreeable fashion.

The office door finally opens and the two occupants emerge. Boop seems determined; Junior, nervous. Without a word, they walk past me and exit the building. I instantly deduce where they are headed.

Their route will take them past the chess tables, and I know a shortcut to that spot, so I abandon my three-wheeled cart and make good time without resorting to anything that involves an increased respiratory rate because I suffer from exercise-induced asthma.



Heritage Gardens sits on thirty-five acres of land. I wish it were thirty-one or thirty-seven, but we don’t live in a perfect world. About half the land is taken up by twenty-eight small homes. Or perhaps they should be called townhouses. A winding street courses through this quaint little neighborhood. Large oak trees scattered throughout the property provide shade and a sense of permanence. Aside from the independent homes, there are several larger buildings, including the skilled nursing facility, the recreation center, and the mortuary. In the middle of Heritage Gardens one will find the swimming pool, some tennis courts, a lawn, and the koi pond—which is where I am headed because the chess tables overlook the pond.

When I arrive I find the usual gang: The Professor, the Captain, el Jefe (that’s Spanish for “the boss” for the glottically challenged—and yes, I’m aware that’s not really a word, but if you know what it means then I’ve just managed to achieve my goal of inventing a new word), Jane (I don’t have a nickname for her), and Frank the crank. Frank is a surprisingly good chess player, though he always plays too aggressively in his middle game and therefore sets himself up for defeat in the end. The Professor and Jane are engaged in a match. The others observe with interest. The positions on the board appear about even, but the Professor has never lost.

“What’s up, Doc?” he says when he realizes I am present.

“What kind of oddball greeting is that?” Frank says.

“Just an inside joke between me and the kid.” (Many of the residents refer to me as the kid. I find it endearing.)

“Well, it’s not funny,” Frank says.

“That’s why it’s an inside joke.”

“He’s not laughing either.”

“I don’t know why I waste my breath.” The Professor reaches up and adjusts the collar of his neon-orange polo shirt, two sizes too large for his thin torso.

“It’s your move,” Jane says. Her short, white, curly hair has a bluish tint.

“Holy moly!” Frank’s tone suddenly changes. “It’s her.”

“What?” the Captain and el Jefe say in unison.

“Over there. With the manager. It’s the woman I was telling you about.”

They turn their heads and squint.

“See? I told you.” Frank thrusts his finger toward el Jefe.

“Wowser,” says the Captain, “she’s a looker!”

“Looks like they’re headed for Marvin’s place,” I say.

“Impossible.” Frank shakes his head.

“I think he’s right,” el Jefe says.

“Maybe she’s with the IRS,” Frank offers. “Or the humane society.”

“Marvin doesn’t have any pets,” Jane says.

“I know, but I called and reported that he’s hiding three unregistered cats in the attic. They said they’d be coming to investigate.” Frank rubs his hands with glee.

“She’s not with the IRS or the humane society,” I say.

“Tell us what you know,” Frank says.

“She’s moving in.”

“Nooo,” they all say.

“With Marvin?” the Captain asks.

“I don’t know about that, but she’ll be living here somewhere.”

“But she’s too young!” Jane shakes her head.

“Apparently not.”

“Holy moly,” Frank mumbles. “I was right.”

“Do you know when?” Jane asks.

“From what I can gather, looks like tomorrow.”

“Holy moly.”



It is now early afternoon. I finished wiring up Junior’s office and then successfully triangulated the wheels on my cart, which is working fantastically. I feel surprisingly happy, even though I’m on my way to clean the public restroom in the mortuary.

My walkie-talkie squawks and threatens to dampen my mood. “Ben, we need your help over at Marvin’s place.” It’s Junior. He loves bossing me around over the walkie-talkies.

“Is Marvin okay?”

“Yes. He’s fine.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

I arrive in short time and find the front door ajar. Cardboard boxes litter the living room. Marvin is busy removing books from a shelf in the corner.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“I’m moving.” He gives me a sheepish smile.

“But—”

“I know what you’re going to say. Don’t worry; it’s fine.”

“Where are you moving to?”

“There’s a room available in Building C.” That’s the skilled-nursing facility. There is no Building A or B. I don’t know why. This mystery has caused me ma. . .