David Alan Dedin
Knock Three Times On the Ceiling if You Want Me
Thirty-Two
Knock Three Times on the Ceiling if You Want Me
2016
Vegas
“PATRICK!” Stephanie shouted, bursting through the doors of the Dekalb Coffee House. She was holding her iPad. “YOU’VE GOT A FRIEND REQUEST!”
Turning to his coworker, Rudy chuckled from behind the counter. “You must not have many friends buddy, if that’s the kind of reaction you get from a friend request.”
Frothing a latte, Patrick motioned Stephanie over. He did not look pleased. “I thought we had a discussion about you using FaceTime on my behalf.”
“Facebook,” she corrected.
“Whatever.”
“No, but LOOK. You’ll want to see this.” She held her tablet above the Cafina machine so he could see. Drink still in hand, Patrick adjusted his glasses to look at the request. His eyes widened noticeably when he saw a once familiar face –
You have a friend request:
Sharon Donovan
Accept? Ignore?
“Holy fucking crap,” he said.
“Right!?” Stephanie said, taking the tablet back. She immediately touched the “accept” button –
You and Sharon are now friends.
Send her a WAVE.
“Wait,” Patrick said. “Did you just” –
“There’s no fucking way you’re gonna’ deny her request,” Stephanie told him. Finishing his customer’s drink, Patrick came around the counter to join Steph. She had already pulled up Sharon’s profile – “Look at this! It’s nothing but pictures of cats!”
“Let me see that.” Patrick snatched the iPad. He clicked on Sharon’s profile photo, enlarging it. Steph was right – it was Sharon Donovan, though time had not treated her well. Her face was sagging and her hair looked like yellow rayon. She still apparently liked her blazers, though. The one she was wearing was the color of Kaopectate.
A “Messenger” box appeared in the corner.
“Oh my god,” Stephanie said. “Is she” –
“She’s typing!” Patrick cut her off. A sudden wave of excitement shot up his spine. This is ludicrous. Why am I so excited to hear from the woman who fired me twenty-five years ago? He quickly grabbed a table with Steph. The two watched the chat box together:
Sharon: hello this is sharon donovan I used to work at checkers im looking for patrick tyler who worked at checkers are you him or do you know where he is
“Not much for punctuation,” Stephanie observed.
“What should I say?” Patrick asked her.
“Say hello for starters, then find out what she wants.”
Thinking a moment, he typed:
Patrick: Hello Sharon! This is Patrick Tyler. Long time, no hear. How are you?
The two watched Sharon’s chat box. It took her a moment to respond. She seemed to have trouble typing.
“I’ll bet she has carpel tunnel,” Stephanie said.
“Shh,” Patrick told her. “I think she’s almost finished.”
Sharon: i need to see patrick tyler in person this is very important where do you live it says las vegas do you live there or are you just visiting i live in florida
“Would it kill her to use a period every now and then?” Steph asked.
“Do you think I should tell her where I am?” he asked.
“You’ve got to,” she said. “Then ask why she friended you.”
Patrick: Yes, I live in Vegas now. Sorry, but I don’t get to Florida often.
Sharon: i need you to come to see me i need you to come here asap
Patrick: Forgive me Sharon, but your message – and travel request – are out of the blue. Can you please explain why you want me to visit you in Florida? Would you like to speak on the phone?
Are you dying? he thought. The last time I saw you was 1992, and I was in handcuffs. Is that why you want to see me? To tell me off to my face before you finally leave this world?
“She’s typing again,” Stephanie told him. “I wonder what she wants?”
“She clearly wants something,” Patrick said. “But you have to admit, it’s all very strange.”
“Zoinks – it’s a mystery, Scooby!” Steph said.
“Look, I think she’s done” – Patrick stopped midsentence, his voice growing astonished – “Get out of town!”
“Let me see,” Steph said, turning the tablet towards herself –
“GET…OUT…OF TOWN!” she exclaimed.
Patrick stood up and quickly took off his apron. Whatever Sharon had just typed/sent had completely changed his demeanor. “Hey Rudy, I hate to do this to you but I need to leave early – something’s just come up.” He felt for his phone. “I’ll text Heath to see if he can come in.”
“We’re going to Florida, aren’t we?” Steph said excitedly.
“I’m going to Florida,” Patrick told her. “You’re staying here.”
Stephanie scoffed, standing up with her backpack. “Okay, do you really think that’s going to happen, or are random words just falling out of your mouth?”
“Steph, you can’t come. You have a job.”
“So? I’ll just have someone cover me like you’re doing now.”
Patrick looked down at his buzzing phone. “He’s on his way,” he said to Rudy. “I’ll let you guys know how long I’m going to be gone either tonight or tomorrow morning.” When Patrick looked up from his phone, Steph was already surfing Priceline on her iPad –
“First class okay? I hope you don’t expect me to ride in coach.”
Patrick chuckled –You are indeed your mother’s daughter.
The front door jingled as the two left for their apartment to pack.
It’s time for another adventure, Stephanie couldn’t help but think.
* * * * *
Orlando
Seven hours later, an Uber stopped in front of the Elysian Fields Supportive Living and Retirement Community, a repurposed 1960s-era hell-hole that looked like it needed retiring, itself. The structure was little more than a big concrete box, with windows that didn’t open and rooms that had no balconies. Most retirement homes had some signs of life at their entrance – chairs, benches, flowers, people – but “the Fields” looked hermetically sealed, as though in an effort to keep its tenants from getting out. The place was as happy as a Dickens orphanage. Even its palm trees seemed depressed.
“Well, this is where dreams go to die,” Stephanie said as the two climbed out of the car, carrying suitcases. Patrick thanked the driver, and the Uber sped away. “Please tell me this is not our hotel.”
Patrick looked at his phone – “No, but it’s where Sharon lives. I figured we’d stop in and say hi first. See what she wants. Maybe take her to dinner.”
“You know what she wants,” Steph reminded him.
The sliding glass doors hissed as the two entered the building. Almost immediately, the smell hit their nose – a nauseating combination of cigarettes, Youth Dew, adult diapers, hospital food, and commercial-grade disinfectant. Stephanie winced – “I think I’m gonna’ puke.”
“This is how a lot of nursing homes smell, Steph.”
“Yeah, but we’re not in a nursing home.”
“Do you see any employees?” Patrick asked as they walked through the vacant lobby and up to the empty reception desk. He rang the bell – ding!
“If I ever end up in a place like this, I want you to just shoot me,” Steph said.
“Noted.”
“And I don’t think there’s anybody here,” she added. “Do you have her room number? Why don’t we just go up?”
“It’s an address, not a room, Steph.”
“My mistake.”
Ding! – Patrick rang the bell again. Nothing. He then noticed a small handwritten sign on the desk – On break. In case of emergency, dial 911. “Now, that’s a dedicated staff,” Steph joked. “Doesn’t Stephen King write stories about places like this?”
“Well, hello there, friend!” a familiar voice called from behind. “Are you sad? Are you depressed? Are you lonely? Do you ever wonder why that is?”
Turning around, the two then noticed a television in the empty TV room – where a local televangelist had come back from commercial break. It had been ten years, but Patrick recognized her immediately.
“Well, it’s because you need a little Jesus in your life, that’s why! And for just a small donation of $45, you can get our official prayer handkerchief, that you can use any time you’re alone!”
It was Pam, Patrick’s partner in crime from the Bingo scam a decade ago. She was now, apparently, a local afternoon preacher. How far they both had come.
“…so, blow your load of troubles away, praise Jesus … just send $45 plus shipping and handling to your friend, Sister Pam…”
“C’mon,” Patrick told Stephanie. “Let’s find the elevator.”
“It’s over here, by the out of order sign,” Steph said.
“Is it really out of order?”
“Only the one. But it looks like there are two. Fancy-schmancy!” She pressed the call button and the elevator slowly rattled down from one of the upper floors. When the doors opened, they could see their reflection in a large pool of urine on the cabin floor.
“You first,” Stephanie told Patrick.
* * * * *
Knock, knock, knock…
The two waited nervously outside the fingerprint-stained door to Sharon’s apartment. They could hear music inside – the Carpenter’s Ticket to Ride – and the faint sound of movement as someone shuffled towards the door. A lock was opened. And then a second. And then a third, fourth, and fifth before the doorknob jiggled and the door slowly creaked open.
Both Patrick and Stephanie gasped at Sharon’s appearance –
* * * * *
Sharon was now a tiny thing in a wheelchair, a ghost of the woman Patrick had known before, with liver-spotted skin, cigarette-stained fingernails, and a cheap blonde wig that didn’t quite sit right. Her black hose and heels were gone, replaced instead by teal sweat pants, rolled up stockings, and a pair of pink Crocks. Her blazer was missing too, and in its place was an oversized sweatshirt with a bedazzled picture of cats playing with yarn. Sharon hadn’t gotten old, she’d gotten olllllllllllllld, and it was almost hard to look at her, especially considering her circumstance and surroundings.
“It’s good to see you, Sharon,” Patrick said, extending his hand. “It’s been a long time.”
She didn’t respond.
Retracting his hand, Patrick gestured to Stephanie. “This is Stephanie. She’s Guinevere’s daughter. You remember Guinevere, right?”
Sharon shot him daggers.
Of course she remembers Guinevere, Patrick thought, a little embarrassed. The three of us made her life a living hell back at Checker’s…
“I don’t think she can talk,” Steph whispered to Patrick.
“That’s right,” he whispered back. “She said she had a stroke.”
“May we come in, Ms. Donovan?” Stephanie asked loudly.
Sharon nodded and let them pass. As soon as everyone was in the apartment, she re-locked the front door. For all practical purposes, her visitors were now trapped.
* * * * *
“You have a lovely home, Ms. Donovan,” Stephanie said as they entered the tiny living room. She was lying of course; the place was hideous. The apartment was a shrine to everything “feline,” including cat pictures, cat knick-knacks, cat pillows, cat curtains, cat throw-rugs, cat afghans, and an animated cat screensaver on an open laptop. There were so many pussy-themed tchotchkes it was surprising that Sharon didn’t actually own a cat; Patrick would later learn that the facility’s bylaws didn’t allow them. Like any untreated infection, the cat-theme had permeated all four rooms of the flat – kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath. There were even multi-colored crocheted cat toilet paper cozies (which stretched over individual rolls of Scott tissue) which Sharon kept close for emergencies.
Even her ashtray was shaped like a litterbox…
“Well,” Patrick said, after an hour of uncomfortable small talk. “Should we jump right on the elephant in the room?”
Sharon typed on her laptop:
“i know where alan works”
“And where is that?” Patrick asked.
“restaurant” Sharon pulled up a photo she had taken on her phone while Alan was catering. She showed it to Patrick.
“Here, in Orlando?”
“yes”
“And you took this photo yourself?”
“yes”
“And you’re sure this is Alan?”
“yes”
“It certainly looks like him. What’s the restaurant called?”
“heritage house”
“A restaurant?” Stephanie said, perking up. “Well, that makes a lot of sense.” She turned to Patrick. “Hey – didn’t you say that you wanted to take Sharon to dinner?”
“I did,” he said, knowing where she was going. He looked at Sharon. “Sharon, can we take you out to dinner at the Heritage House?”
She thought before answering – “no”
“Why not?”
“i think it would be a good idea you go to heritage house yourself and have dinner and check it out because theres something i need to ask you its important”
“What’s that?”
“tell you later not now but go to dinner ill tell you tomorrow”
Stephanie looked at Patrick – “I can eat.”
“Listen Sharon,” Patrick said. “Steph and I need to find a hotel, so how about this: We get a place to stay, have dinner at the Heritage House, then we all meet tomorrow and you can ask us whatever it is that you need to. Is that okay?”
“yes”
“We’ll do that, Sharon,” Stephanie told her. “And it was very good to meet you.”
“Well, I guess we’re having dinner,” Patrick said, standing. He grabbed his phone – “Siri, find me a nearby hotel.”
“Err, Sharon would you mind opening the door?” Stephanie asked. Sharon obliged, and after two minutes of fussing with locks, Patrick & Steph stood outside the closed door to Sharon’s apartment.
“Well, that was interesting,” Stephanie told him.
* * * * *
“How much did this beast cost?” Chad asked, coming out the kitchen door with a cigarette in his mouth. His hand was in a different wrap tonight. His doctor had made him swear off off-sites until he was fully healed. That didn’t stop him from helping Alan load the van, though.
“A cool two thousand dollars,” Alan told him. “And it even came with jumper cables. Here – help me take out the captain’s chairs.”
With the demise of their old catering van, Alan had to replace it. Of course, he didn’t want to spend much money which is why, rather than a preowned commercial van, he’d opted for this monstrosity from Craig’s List: a near-mint, perfectly preserved, early 1980s conversion van – a study in shaggin’ wagons. The new van was shiny green, green seats, green carpet on the floor, walls, and ceiling, and a small green kitchenette towards the back. Back in the eighties, this vehicle was one of the coolest rides on the street. Of course, also back in the eighties, A Flock of Seagulls was said to have had really great hair. Good taste was relative, and often didn’t stand the test of time.
“You know this carpet is going to act like a sponge,” Chad said. “And after a few sharp turns spilling gravy and au jus, it’s gonna’ smell worse than our last one.”
“We’ll rip out the carpet when we have time,” Alan said. “But for now, this is our new catering van. And stop complaining. I want to enjoy our maiden voyage.”
“And what about this?” Chad asked, pointing to the air-brushed unicorn on the van’s side.
“I like it,” Alan said. “It implies that our service is magical.”
“Or something that fell out of a horse’s ass,” Chad suggested.
“Shut up and go get prime rib from Twiggy,” Alan told him. “And don’t spill it on purpose just to prove your point.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, the two loaded the van. Once they were done, Alan climbed behind the wheel while Chad went inside to help with the dinner rush. Lighting a cigarette of his own, Alan carefully pulled out of the lot and merged onto Orange Grove Ave, in front of the restaurant. Less than 60 seconds later, an Uber pulled into the lot and deposited Patrick and Stephanie at the front door, where a number of signs advertised local events – including Sunday’s Pride parade.
Libby greeted them once they were inside.
* * * * *
“Grab a tray, grab a plate, and grab your ankles when you see our prime rib,” Libby told the two, gesturing towards the buffet line. “Work your way down, and Chang will seat you at the end. Enjoy!”
“Thanks,” Patrick told her as the two grabbed trays and wet plates. They began their journey down the Heritage House buffet line, and stopped at the section marked “SALADS,” where a token bowl of iceberg lettuce sat next to small containers of ranch, thousand island, and red French dressing. The lettuce looked untouched and decorative.
The real salads – the vats of mayonnaise-based potato, macaroni, and coleslaw-style salads – were perched in large plastic bowls behind, slowly sinking into mountains of crushed ice. Patrick attempted to take a serving of potato salad, but the bowl – balanced on ice – went up like a Tilt-A-Whirl every time the serving spoon pressed down into the cold, starchy muck. At Stephanie’s suggestion, after several failed attempts, he eventually held the bowl with one hand while digging out a scoop with the other. Using both hands, Patrick slammed the scoop down onto his plate – splat! – an effort that wasn’t much different than serving prison food on a tray.
Next came the “HOMEMADE SIDES,” vast troughs of canned corn, canned beans, canned peas, canned spinach, and a large vat of instant mashed potatoes – all cloaked in clouds of steam. The only thing “homemade” about this area were the long strands of duct tape that were temporarily blocking a water leak below the steam table. Neither Patrick nor Stephanie took anything from this section.
Next came the “ENTREES” section, a long row of stainless-steel compartments, each piled with a different shape of deep-fried food. There was batter-dipped fish (square), batter-dipped tenderloins (round), batter-dipped fish sticks (long, rectangular), batter dipped popcorn shrimp (small, round, like golden-fried deer poop), and of course, fried chicken. A lone tray of baked cod in butter separated the meat from the non-meat items, as the Heritage House wasn’t completely behind the times and offered non-meat items for its vegetarian friends. A second assortment of batter-dipped okra, zucchini, mushrooms, and onion rings were available for those who chose to eat healthier.
Finally came the prime rib & ham station, a heat lamp-illuminated slaughterhouse at the far end of the buffet line. Knives in hand, Chang stood at attention. As Patrick & Stephanie approached, Chang rubbed his knives together – “You want prime rib?” Steph declined, but Patrick nodded yes – “Please.” Chang grunted, then went to carving the wet, bloody meat. Peeling off a 20-ounce slab, he slapped it on Patrick’s plate, making it heavy. Patrick thanked him, then followed Chang to their table in the folksy dining room. Steph trailed, a few steps behind.
“So, this is the Heritage House,” Stephanie said, taking plates off her tray. “Forget what I said earlier. THIS is where dreams go to die.”
“Yeah, it’s not exactly what I was expecting,” Patrick admitted.
“It’s the land that time forgot,” Steph joked. “And that’s after seeing Sharon’s apartment.”
“Can you see Alan?” Patrick asked.
“No, but ask the waitress,” Stephanie told him, looking up as the server approached. The waitress looked as old as the restaurant, with hair and makeup from another time. Steph smiled at her nametag – “Hilda.”
“You two want something to drink?” Hilda asked.
“Two Sprites,” Patrick said. “And would you mind if I asked a question?”
“Go ahead, sugar.”
“Is Alan here tonight? Alan Lavinski?”
“There ain’t no Alan who works here, sugar.”
“This is what he looks like,” Steph said, showing Hilda Sharon’s photo of Alan at the catering event. The waitress nodded in recognition –
“Oh, you mean Frankie,” she said. “No, he ain’t here. He’s working an off-site tonight.”
“When will he be back?”
“Not til late,” Hilda said. “Probably after close. You want me to leave a message for him?”
“Yes,” Stephanie told her. “Tell him that Patrick and Stephanie said hi.”
“Will do, sugar. Be right back with your Sprites.”
“Was that necessary?” Patrick asked once Hilda was gone. “You’re just going to spook him.”
“What’s he gonna’ do? Run?” Steph asked. “How much lower can you get than this place?”
“He still has all my money,” Patrick told her. “If he gets scared, he can go wherever he wants.”
“Do you really think he has all your money?” Stephanie asked. “It’s been over ten years. I’ll bet he’s spent it. I’ll bet he’s trapped here.”
“Do you want to wait for him?” Patrick looked at his watch. “It’s going to be hours if we do. I’m willing to wait if you want to, but remember – we don’t have a car.”
Stephanie thought about this.
“How about if we eat, leave, take an Uber to the hotel, then come back first thing in the morning?” Patrick asked.
“What if we miss him, Patrick?”
“I honestly don’t think we will,” he said. “Look, Alan’s had ten solid years to make a life for himself here…and I doubt he’s going to just let that go. Seriously, Steph…let’s wait until tomorrow.”
“But he ran once before, and on a moment’s notice,” Stephanie insisted. “I’m just afraid that he’s going to do that again.”
“Then you shouldn’t have told the waitress to give him a message,” Patrick said. “But if it makes you feel better, I’m pretty confident that he’s not going to run. Lets’ do this” –
Hilda returned with Sprites – “Enjoy your meal.”
“Hey, Hilda, if you don’t mind,” Patrick said, “Could you not tell Frankie we said hi?” – he passed her a twenty – “We’re actually old friends, and we wanted to surprise him. Can you tell me if he works tomorrow?”
“Frankie works every day,” Hilda told them. “He’ll definitely be here tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Hilda.” The server pocketed her tip and left. Patrick looked at Stephanie – “There. Now we know that Alan’s not going anywhere. Happy? Can we please come back tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Steph said begrudgingly. “But I want to come back early.”
“Done,” Patrick said. “Now eat your food so we can leave and get to our hotel.”
Stephanie nodded, poking at her plate with a fork. A few minutes passed before she set it aside and looked up – “Patrick?”
“Yes, Steph?”
“Can we please go somewhere else to eat?”
* * * * *
Later, after the restaurant closed, the “new” green conversion van pulled up to the side of the building. Alan honked twice, and Twiggy opened the kitchen door, propping it with a cinder block. “Did they like the prime rib?” she asked.
“Everyone likes your prime rib, Twig.”
“How’d the catering go?” Chad popped his head out of the kitchen.
“Surprisingly well,” Alan said. “And believe it or not, the van was a hit.”
As a full Florida moon shone down from above, the three emptied the catering van. Once finished, Alan came into the restaurant and brought tonight’s receipts to the cash register, where Hilda was cashing in her tips. “How was your night, Hill?”
“Very profitable, thanks,” she said.
“You’re here kinda’ late,” he said.
“Long night, late tables,” she said. “And oh – you had some friends ask about you.”
“Who was that?” Alan asked, keying in the off-site.
“A guy and a girl…said their names were Patrick and Stephanie. Nice couple. They left me thirty bucks.”
Alan froze.
“Did you say…Patrick and Stephanie?”
“Yes. Tall, skinny guy with tattoos, and a girl in her twenties with blue hair.”
“What did they say?” Alan’s heart was in his throat.
“Just that they said hi,” Hilda told him. “And that they decided not to say hi later. But they still said hi.”
“Did they say anything else?” Alan asked.
“Nope.”
“Did they say that they were coming back?”
“Nope – but I assumed they will because they asked for you.”
“Hilda, listen…did they say anything else that you can remember?”
“What’s with the twenty questions?” Hilda asked. “I told you all that I know.”
Alan swallowed his anxiety – “Okay, sorry. Thanks.”
As soon as she cashed out her tips, Alan bee-lined for the manager’s office, where he closed the door and ran to the safe. He opened it. He reached into the back for “his” envelope. He opened it - $45,000.00…
It’s enough to get away, Alan thought, but is it enough to start a new life?
There was a knock at the door – “Come in.”
“You’re acting strange all the sudden,” Libby told him. “Something on your mind?”
“No, Libby, I’m good – but thanks.”
“You sure, boss?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Okay if I head out?”
“Yes, Libby. Have a good night.”
The old woman hesitated, not quite buying it. “Okay, you too.”
She left.
Alan closed the safe.
A few minutes later, once he was sure he was alone, Alan started to cry.