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He set the needle down slowly, holding his 75 year old fingers as steady as he could. That, in case you're wondering, was not very steady. The needle met the vinyl and sent a low scratch echoing through the little, tiled room. As the needle found its place, the rumble subsided, giving way to the honey-voice of Sammy Davis, Jr.
Carl shuffled over to his recliner in the corner and eased himself into its cushions. His chest heaved at the labor, and it took him the duration of "Unforgettable" to catch his breath. He closed his cataract eyes and let the music engulf his weary world. It was loud. He liked it loud. It was against the rules to play music so loud, but no one on the hall minded. His jazz collection brought back memories and soothed the souls of every resident there. These songs were the soundtracks to their teenage weekends, first kisses, and college study sessions. No, Carl's neighbors didn't mind his music at all. It was as much a medicine to them as the regiments of pills and therapy sessions they went through every day.
By the time "Shining Hour" ended, Carl was dozing off, but he awoke suddenly to the click of the turntable as it stopped. End of side A. He looked around for the clock (he could never remember where it hung). 10:30. The charge nurse should be coming by any minute now. He would just wait and ask her to flip the record, saving him another marathon across the room and back. He laid his head back again into the cushioned chair.
Carl stirred and then opened his eyes. He'd fallen asleep, but for how long? And what woke him this time? All was quiet. He leaned forward in his chair and looked around for the clock. 11:15 and still no charge nurse. Strange. Carl decided it would do to call out before trying to stand himself. No point in getting up if it wasn't necessary.
"Gabriel," he called out to the hallway, stretching his neck to send the sound further. Gabriel wouldn't answer, of course. He knew that. They'd played Backgammon together every day for the past three years, so his was the first name to come to Carl's old mind. But Gabriel had died the day before, of old age and fluid in the lungs. He'd stayed in bed that morning, leaving Carl alone in the rec room, and before Carl could go by to see him, Gabriel had passed. This all came rushing back now to the surviving friend, and he shook his head at the recollection. That was the problem with a dwindling mind - memories become fresh experiences every time their jogged.
"Hello?" he tried again. A squeak came fidgeting down the hall. Slowly. The loose bearing of a push wheelchair as it grinds along the rubber wall trim. Carl sat frozen, waiting. The sound grew closer until the waddling feet of an old lady came into view. She sat, hunched in the rickety frame, staring straight ahead, pulling herself along with slothful, slippered feet. As she passed Carl's door (which seemed to take hours), she glanced neither left nor right to spot him. She was Loretta, his neighbor immediately to the right, and this sight was not new. Loretta was deaf and nearly blind. She sat in the hallway every day, occasionally rolling herself this way and that. Carl couldn't even recall if he'd ever spoken to her.
She eventually passed and was gone, her squeaky wheel haunting the hall as she went. Then, silence once again. Carl wondered at the vacancy. He sat in his recliner for another moment and then resolved to go exploring. After all, someone had to get to the bottom of this, and he seemed to be the only someone available to do so.
With a heave, the frail geezer pushed himself to stand and shuffled across the room and into the hallway. What he found there was unsettling, to say the least. Food carts and medicine trays lay strewn about the floor, accompanied by out-of-place body parts. Pools of blood colored the floor and crawled up the walls. Carl stepped carefully down the hall toward the rec room. What would he find there? Anything? Anyone?
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