Unshelled Pistachios

by Brenna Koenig

There’s a heaviness to guns in more ways than one; they carry a physical and psychological weight. A gun needs a strong hand and an even stronger mind to wield it properly, and I don’t think I have either of those anymore. Since I came here, I like wood much better. The handle is better accustomed to my hand, more natural than holding a gun; it’s fragile like it could snap in half if I gripped it too hard yet powerful enough to make me feel like I’m still holding something important. Something that could change the world if I really tried. At the very least, the wood is softer on my joints. Yes, I like the paintbrush much better. It feels lighter. Easier to carry. There’s no heaviness, no presumption for destruction: only opportunity for creation.

When I first arrived at this facility, I didn’t talk much. I liked fiddling with things, unraveling and picking them apart like plucking the threads of couch cushions or peeling the skin around my fingertips. Sometimes there was blood, but I liked using my hands. I liked keeping them busy, giving them purpose, even if that purpose was destructive. When I can’t sleep, I often wonder if that’s all my hands are capable of.

The receptionist, a young gal wearing a navy blue shirt that read “The spirit never ages; it stays forever young,” noticed my fiddling tendencies and politely suggested I join a painting class. She said it would be a good way to keep my hands occupied and handed me a brochure filled with other senior-friendly activities. My eyes narrowed on the advertisement for the painting class, cleverly labeled “Art Has No Age Limit! Join Today!” My gaze drifted to numerous photographs of seniors huddled in a recreation room, hunched over easels, wooden paintbrushes in hand, unsuccessfully trying to recreate works of the Masters. The young gal eyeballed me hopefully as I stared at the pamphlet silently. She had honest eyes, the kind that want to help people, but I felt like a lab rat being studied in the corridors of a never-ending maze.

As a sixty-four-year-old Veteran standing at six feet tall and weighing over 250 pounds, the thought of picking up a paintbrush seemed comical to me. Foreign. I felt out of place enough as it is. The thought of sitting in a stuffy recreation room futilely trying to imitate Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” with other seniors almost made me chuckle. No, I was not prepared for creativity, for actions without consequences. I was not prepared for softness. For freedom. For letting go of fear.

Noticing my hesitation, the young gal leaned over the counter, glanced from side to side, and whispered, “Don’t worry if art isn’t your cup of tea.” She gave a half smile; her eyes softened as she continued. “No offense, you don’t strike me as the artsy type. It’s a beginner class though, so you don’t have to paint the next Mona Lisa or anything like that. What’s your name again?” I said nothing but gestured to a name badge hanging around my neck.

“Ah yes, I read in your file that you’re having arthritis symptoms, but that shouldn’t be a problem. In fact, a lot of other Vets here say painting is therapeutic for the joints and the soul, if you know what I mean.” She gave another half smile. “Comforting, you know, if you’re looking for something like that.” Her eyes glazed over like someone poured varnish over them. “In this world, I think we could all use something like that.” She raised her eyes to mine, shining bright with sympathy, and it felt as if I was looking into the face of humanity for the first time in decades. I wanted to put that feeling in my pocket just to have something to hold onto. Something to ground me. The young gal continued her stare, awaiting a response; I said nothing but printed my name under the sign-up sheet, handed her the pamphlet, and walked back to my room.

Like the military, I had one small bed and one small drawer. When I got inside, I sat down on the bed and pressed my hands together in prayer, but I wasn’t necessarily praying to anyone or any God. It just felt good to use my hands, to press them together, to feel the softness of flesh radiate between them. Maybe I was capable of gentleness. I could let go of violence; new doors were opening up to me, new realms of peacefulness that had been inaccessible. All I had to do was open them.

My bed was like a bed of rocks but arguably much comfier than the beds in the service. I felt the caresses of drowsiness, the temptation of unconsciousness knocking at my door. Without having to search for it, beg for it, or fight for it: sleep came easily. Since my arrival, I closed my eyes without fear; the darkness behind my eyes did not scare me. No painful memories replayed. Before I was swept away into somnolence, my last conscious thought repeated itself: I would rather pick up a paintbrush than blow my brains out.

I hesitated when ordered to pick up a gun for the first time. Instinctually, I knew it was the inklings of fear; however, of what exactly, I was and still am unsure. At first, my hesitation didn’t make sense as I had been close to many throughout my life. On both sides of my family, my Uncles openly carried; I even played with toy replicas as a kid. In my youth, I don’t remember feeling afraid of guns; I was only curious, as most children are. During family get-togethers that dwindled past midnight, both drunk as skunks, my Uncles would sneakily let me hold one of their pieces in my small fragile hands. My first thought was that it was much heavier than the plastic ones I played with. Something about that heaviness made me shudder in the warm country air.

When I get asked why I joined the service, I say I was simply eager to serve my country; this usually precipitates a wave of admirable head-nods, pats on the back, or some congratulatory remark. However, this is the furthest from the truth. At eighteen, when I could still use the excuse of being young and impressionable, I suppose I was eager to make something of myself. I felt I had something to prove. That I was capable and worthy of holding a gun’s weight: both physical and psychological.

At my core, there had always existed a deep yearning for recognition, for legacy; it burned so intensely that I was willing to slaughter for a sliver of glory. In combat, glory was my ticket to escaping oblivion; it was my ticket to being remembered in history textbooks for my bravery, nobility, and legacy as a soldier who would not be forgotten in the inevitable passing of time. In some self-preserving way, it was a way of keeping myself alive after death. In my hands, I held more than a gun but an object that could make me a memorable man. Eventually, I did pick up the gun, and the trajectory of my life veered off its glorious course into the depths of something cataclysmic. When sleep evades me, as it often does, I find myself twiddling my thumbs in contemplation of what would have happened had I not picked up the gun. I wonder how my life would have turned out if I resigned from the service right then and there and moved back home to pursue a career in something, well, a little less violent. I think things would have been better if I had. In my sixty-four years, I suppose that’s the blessing and curse of getting older. In the spirit of a certain kind of retrospect that is only gained through suffering, insight reveals itself too late.

When I got back from war, I went to church for a while. I sat in a pew away from everyone else; the other ones filled up, and soon I was surrounded by a sea of worshippers who did not know I was a killer. To them, I was just a patriotic martyr. When the service was over, I was stopped, forcefully hugged, and enthusiastically congratulated by all members of the congregation: old men, young men, women, children, etc. I still don’t think any of them understood what they were really congratulating me for.

A flurry of different questions was verbally hurled at me about my experiences overseas, how I was adjusting to life back home. Behind their eyes masked with pleasantries, I could see they were all hovering around one particular question without knowing how to ask it: do you still believe in God after everything you’ve seen? I could see it forming on their lips before they checked themselves, gave me a half-hearted smile, and walked away with relief knowing they did not have to carry the same burden as I did. They could leave their burdens in the church while mine were permanently glued to the insides of my eyelids. After all I had seen and all I had done, I did not have the heart to tell them I gave up religion as soon as I returned to American soil. Part of me wanted to save them and myself from the truth: no one is coming to save us. I exchanged my faith for reality and settled into comfortable apathy. I never went to church again.

You never think getting old will happen to you until it does. The accumulation of age shows up in the smallest ways, which are often the most humanizing, like combing your hair or brushing your teeth. For a few months, I’ve had consistent stiffness and aches in my joints, especially in my fingers. Of course, arthritis is not uncommon in people my age, although I haven’t spoken with a doctor yet, mostly out of fear. Fear of confirmation, I suppose. Fear of fear itself. Roosevelt would probably giggle at that.

In order to live in the facility, each senior must submit to a consultation with a geriatrician. I don’t like that it’s mandatory, but I’m also not blind to the fact that it’s getting harder for me to turn doorknobs, grab silverware, and push down the flush handle on toilets. Yesterday, I tried to flush the toilet and couldn’t do it to save my life; my fingers felt like swollen hot dogs, too big and clumsy for my body. It is times like these when I am convinced there is a God, but he is no pious liberator. He is a cruel jokester who chuckles to himself in the safety of heavenly realms while a fallen Veteran struggles earthside to flush his own damn toilet. Through some sense of cosmic irony, I find it comical that I escaped one war only to enter into another with the porcelain throne. There’s nothing really heroic about that. Up there, I’m sure God is laughing; if I wasn’t me, I would probably be laughing too.

Dr. Haught, the state-mandated geriatrician here, is a young clean-shaven man, most likely in his early thirties. Despite his youth, he had a slightly receding hairline that was poorly concealed with powder. I noticed this because his natural hair was much lighter than the color of the powder. I felt a pang of sympathy; maybe it ran in his family. He kept adjusting his thin, measly hairs, arranging them with no particular rhyme or reason. Dr. Haught kept covering his hairline as he spoke, like the way some people cover their mouth when they laugh in order to shield others from seeing the full extent of their humanity, their most natural self. To compensate, Dr. Haught also applied a substantial amount of hair gel to maintain the illusion of fullness, cementing each hair in place. I felt another pang, not of sympathy, but pity. I imagine it’s not easy being surrounded by aging, decaying people every day, constantly reminded of one’s mortality. It would make anyone cling to their youth or any semblance of youth they could get their hands on, even if that meant poorly covering up a prematurely receding hairline. I can’t blame him, though. I would probably do the same.

The next thing I noticed were Dr. Haught’s eyes: two milky orbs, extremely deep set, like someone had pushed his eyeballs deeper into their sockets with their forefinger. As he spoke to me, or rather at me, I noticed a faint sheen of superiority hiding coyly behind his pupils, like a game of ocular peek-a-boo. He had one of those looks that suggests, without speaking: I’m young; you are not. Therefore, I pity you, but I am also disgusted by you. The longer I was held captive in Dr. Haught’s gaze, the more I believed that there was no compassion hidden behind those pupils, but a masked repugnance toward the seniors he was meant to care for. Briefly, I wondered why he took this job in the first place. I came to the conclusion that it must have been a surefire ego-boost for him, a reminder that he has not fallen as low as the elderly, or at least not yet. Following this thought, I wondered if I was being too cynical. Maybe Dr. Haught likes his job after all. I mean, his profession is wholly dependent on keeping senior citizens alive if you really think about it. A geriatric physician can’t exactly make money treating corpses now, can he? No, Dr. Haught is clever. Clever enough to make hay while the sun is still shining, and the seniors are still aging, still seeking treatment for arthritis or gout. However, what Dr. Haught does not understand, or perhaps is too young to understand, is that there are more debilitating sources of pain than joint inflammation. There are certain ailments that have nothing to do with the aging body, but the aging soul.

I glanced at the clock behind the doctor’s head as he continued to spew words at me that had no meaning at the moment. I was too distracted. Fancy medical terms were being thrown around. I had heard some of them before. “It’s not something to be taken lightly, I’m afraid, especially in the beginning stages,” Dr. Haught muttered, glancing down at his watch with a look of mild disappointment. He had been talking for twelve minutes straight. I nodded mechanically at various intervals. It was obvious that Dr. Haught made a conscious, almost strained effort to raise his voice a little higher, speak a little clearer, and repeat simple phrases to me even though I heard him perfectly the first time. I had to stop myself from shouting out, “It’s my joints that are fucked up, not my hearing!” Of course, I did not say this; I simply let him speak. He is not the first, nor will he be the last person to speak to me as if I were a baby incapable of understanding. That’s just how young people talk to old people, or at least how they think they should.

His prescription was a combination of physical therapy and anti-inflammatory medication that would hopefully curb the progression of my undiagnosed arthritis. When he spoke, it sounded more like a scripted monologue than a good-hearted suggestion, like this was the thirtieth time he had to give this medical spiel today. I gave another mechanical nod and had to hold back a chuckle at the thought of dozens of arthritis-ridden seniors all gathered in a circle, like the ones you see at A.A. meetings, practicing up-and-down hand motions and squeezing stress balls until their joints are strong enough to push down the handles of all the toilets in the world. It was too much for me to imagine, let alone participate in; I would rather chop off every finger one by one than go to something like that.

For no particular reason, I started to imagine Dr. Haught’s life outside of work. I imagine he leaves the facility as soon as the clock strikes five and not a second later. He probably drives an expensive car to an expensive house and places a kiss on the overly blushed cheek of his artificially-breasted wife. They feast upon a meal of unseasoned chicken and unsalted broccoli, eaten off disposable paper plates to avoid doing the dishes since the chemicals in dish soap make the hands wrinkle faster, followed by some kind of wheatgrass/antioxidant/wellness shot, the kind that magically detoxifies your intestines. Dr. Haught probably has a twelve-step anti-aging skincare regimen followed by a nightly cocktail of collagen and biotin supplements. He stands before the mirror, examining himself critically, obsessing over the inevitable regression of his hairline. In my mind, I imagine him falling to his knees, careful not to exert too much pressure on his precious youthful joints, elbows settled neatly on the end of the bed, hands folded in prayer, praying that surely, indeed surely, God will spare him from the ugliness of aging. The unrelenting passing of time.

I was anxious to leave the conversation now, mostly because I was tired of imagining Dr. Haught’s life outside the facility. To me, it was better he remain Dr. Haught, the state-mandated geriatric physician. I was also anxious to get to the showing of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest playing in the movie room. I wanted to get there early to grab a snack and a good seat since the movie room only had two padded armchairs amidst dozens of uncomfortable folding metal chairs. “That’s why we’ll do everything in our power to manage these symptoms as best we can for as long as we can,” Dr. Haught placed a cautious hand on my shoulder and winked. He began walking away, already scanning his files for his next consultation that would parallel the one we just had. I felt a pang of sympathy for the next senior citizen who would soon become a victim of Dr. Haught’s egotism, his obsession with hearing the sound of his own voice. In my own consultation, I had not said a single word. I wondered if my voice still worked and what would happen if I stood there in the middle of the empty hallway and tried to scream.

I walked quickly to the movie room right when the opening credits were rolling. To my surprise, the room was not as crowded as I expected; one padded armchair was still available while the other was occupied by an aged man. Other seniors peppered the metal folding chairs, and I wondered why none of them were taking advantage of the empty cushioned armchair until I realized that their avoidance was intentional; no one wanted to sit next to the aged man.

In the corner of the room, a dingy table displayed a pathetic assortment of movie snacks: stale microwave popcorn, donut holes, and a bowl filled with individually wrapped peppermint candies, the ones that taste like toothpaste. I was about to reach for a donut hole when I felt someone’s presence behind me. I caught a whiff of something not entirely unpleasant, but not entirely delectable. It smelled like old tomatoes that had been left in the car too long, something moist and dry at the same time. Something stale. I heard a long sigh.

“It’s a damn shame, with how much we pay in taxes and how much our families pay for us to live here, you think they’d be kind enough to give us a better spread of movie snacks, eh?” I turned to see the aged man glaring at me with small dark eyes. He must have been twenty years older than me, at least. He placed a handful of donut holes in his pocket and stuffed one sloppily in his mouth. The powdered sugar smeared all over, sticking to patches of dry skin and bald spots in his beard. He made no effort to lick or wipe it off; he stared at me confidently as if his mouth was spotless. I did not know what to say or do. I stared back.

He spoke again, revealing a mouthful of mashed donut. “I guess I shouldn’t be one to complain, you know.” A furious lick of the lips. Finally, I thought. A glimmer of delight spread across his face when the donut powder was successfully slopped up. A brief smile revealed two missing teeth, one on top of the other. I began to grow uncomfortable watching an eighty-year-old man devour donut holes. There was something incredibly pathetic about it, like these donut holes were the only reason he came to movie night. The only reason he looked forward to tomorrow.

He continued picking up more donut holes as he spoke. “It’s not every day a man gets to have sweets, especially at our age. Blood sugar this and blood sugar that. I say phooey! To hell with all that nonsense. Life’s too short to deprive ourselves, if you ask me. This is a real treat right here. A real treat.” The aged man crammed another donut hole into his mouth. I noticed his fingernails were incredibly dirty, like someone had painted the tips of them with black nail polish. I felt like throwing up, trapped in another conversation I did not want to be in.

“I was in a different facility some years ago,” he continued. “You’ll never believe what they had for movie snacks: a bowlful of plain pistachios. You heard me right! Still in their goddamn shells! Can you believe that? It’s bad enough to offer nuts; who eats nuts anyway? Weirdos, that’s who. If you’re going to force people to eat nuts, at least remove the shells. Isn’t that the least the world owes us? Unshelled pistachios? I don’t think that’s asking too much, do you?” I tried to avoid eye contact and instead of answering, surveyed the remaining snack options. No, no donut holes for me. I reluctantly grabbed a peppermint candy and started to walk away from the table. I figured the aged man would get the hint that I didn’t feel like talking or listening. For a moment, I understood why no one else wanted to sit next to him.

I felt a weak hand on my shoulder, so brittle that I could have blown it away with one puff. The smell of old tomatoes was overpowering at such a close distance. The aged man and I looked at each other face-to-face. It was the first time we made eye contact. He had kinder eyes than Dr. Haught. They were not as milky as I expected them to be, but transparent, almost hollow. Like life was being sucked out of them by the second.

“I don’t know a lot of things, but I do know this,” the aged man whispered. His grip on my shoulder tightened. “It’s easier to get out of bed on movie day, I think. Yes. It’s easier to get out of bed on movie day. Something to look forward to, if you know what I mean. Something to make it to tomorrow.” His small hollow eyes glossed at me. “We could all use some more of that.”

I could see him anxiously awaiting a reply, but I made no response. I saw something extinguish in the aged man’s eyes, a longing for connection that had been rejected. It was the first moment I felt the pangs of guilt in a long, long time. The aged man, acknowledging my unspoken dismissal, silently returned to his armchair and plopped himself down in front of the screen, donut holes in hand. I took the seat next to him.

Instead of the movie, I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was completely undisturbed, stuffing his mouth with donut hole after donut hole. A steady strand of drool was pooling on his trousers like a tiny waterfall. I wondered how he ended up in a senior home. What life circumstances directed his path, who decided to put him here, or if he came willingly. It’s easy to think of every senior in a senior home as somewhat of a fallen angel. People who were once cherished members of their families, communities, only to be abandoned, left to rot in the custody of a care facility where, according to the aged man, the only thing worth living for were a few stale donut holes. Sometimes I think people will find any reason not to blow their brains out. Maybe sometimes donut holes are the easier option.

The film was playing, but I couldn’t understand what was happening on screen. I sank into the depths of the armchair while I suckled my peppermint candy. I didn’t mind that it tasted like toothpaste. It reminded me of the war when there were moments I would have killed for the opportunity to brush my teeth, or anything to make me feel clean. More human. In the midst of warfare, simplicity becomes a craveable substance. Something to remind you that filth and destruction are only temporary. Something to anchor you in a world hopelessly adrift.

Suddenly, the sound of my own chewing became unbearable. A dull panic brewed inside my stomach. I felt an indescribable urge, an erratic impulse to ask the aged man how he lost his teeth. I wanted to know if he got punched in a streetfight or fell in the shower. If he had them pulled by a dentist or if he pulled them himself. I wanted to know if he ever misses them or has simply learned to live without them. I wanted to ask him if he ever thinks about getting them replaced. I finally had an answer to his question about unshelled pistachios; no, I don’t think it’s too much to ask.

The film was coming to an end. Seated in the other armchair, I glanced at the aged man. His small hollow eyes were aglow with the reflection of the projector light, like shining a flashlight into the depths of a cave. They were immovably fixed on the screen. His mouth hung agape, powdered sugar still smeared on his beard. The tiny waterfall of drool had stopped, the liquid stain widening on his corduroy trousers. My disgust returned, and I looked away into nothingness. Into oblivion.

I don’t remember what made me turn around. To this day, I still cannot explain it. I felt as though some higher power picked me up like a puppet and forced me to gaze at the aged man a second time. I looked at his cave-like eyes to confirm I was not dreaming. To make sure I was here, not somewhere else. That I was me, not someone else. No blinks.

I walked towards the second armchair. Muffles of annoyance came from the audience, a flurry of agitated whispers telling me to move out of the way. “Excuse me, sir,” exclaimed an elderly woman seated in the back row. “You’re blocking the screen.” As I turned to her, I was momentarily blinded by the glow of the projector; all I could discern was the faint outline of her hat, which kind of looked like a swan or some kind of beautiful bird. Something with wings. Overseas, I saw a lot of birds, but I had only seen one swan. It was a divine pearl in the midst of endless suffocating smoke. I wanted to hold it, love it, protect it. I wanted to feel how light its body was in my hands, but instead, I watched it get blown to smithereens.

I wanted to tell the aged man about it and to ask if he had ever seen swans before or if he liked birds at all. Even if he had never seen one before, I needed to tell the aged man how beautiful swans were. He needed to know they are beautiful and free and do not fear tomorrow; they exist as freely as they fly. They do not need donut holes to look forward to tomorrow; it simply comes when it is ready. A powerful compulsion rose within me to fulfill his attempt at connection, to give him another reason to look forward to tomorrow. I needed to redeem myself; I needed to show him that I was listening.

I was standing directly in front of the aged man now. He did not acknowledge my presence but kept his eyes fixed on the screen as if he were staring through my body like an X-ray. His mouth was still agape, and as I stared into it, I felt a chill run down my body. Placed upon his tongue like a little statue was a singular unchewed donut hole. For a moment, it almost looked like he was smiling before he got interrupted by something. Before he could enjoy that last piece of sweetness, of joy. It was a toothless, wide-grinned smile that seemed to say without words, I no longer need a reason to look forward to tomorrow. I am going to see the swans.

In my first year overseas, I was taken as a prisoner. It was one of the only moments I felt I was going to die, and it would not be a dream. It would be the end. Like a ragdoll, I was thrown into a man-made pit in the ground filled with lifeless bodies. Bodies of soldiers who had come before me, whose fate would soon be my own. From the bottom of the pit, only a small circle of blue sky was visible, like I was staring down the enormous barrel of a gun.

I heard laughter from above, the sound of rifles shuffling. Black silhouettes of firearms peering over the edge of the pit. I counted them. A dozen rifles beaming like spotlights, illuminating the one cosmic truth all humans share when suddenly faced with their own mortality: I am not ready to die. I was convinced I had fallen into Hell itself. I was at its gates, ready to surrender to that unavoidable oblivion. Another number in the death toll, an insignificant figure. A nobody.

I was faced with another cosmic dilemma, the kind that fuels philosophy debates and causes riffs during family dinners because Uncle Joe thinks it’s okay for a poor man to steal bread for his family while Uncle Rob thinks all theft, no matter the intent, is immoral: a classic clashing of moral codes. A dilemma as old as time itself: to kill or be killed? Two warring sides of being. Of action. Of morality. Only two thoughts repeated in my mind; I am not ready to die. But I’m not ready to kill.

What happened next is blurry; it hurts to remember just as much as it hurts to forget. I pulled out my gun and pointed it straight up towards the sky where dozens of soldiers were peering down at me with the barrels of their rifles. In that very moment, I felt as though a million years passed in the blink of an eye. I knew I was not going to get out alive if I did not shoot first. It would be the first time I would pull the trigger in combat. The first time I would take another life. Multiple lives. I do not remember actively pulling the trigger, but I do remember the sounds. The sounds of bullets, of soldiers from above, falling lifeless and limp on top of me. I did not stop firing even after the last body landed. Am I still a hero for what I’ve done? If there is a God, that will be the first thing I ask him.

I never found out exactly how the aged man died. Shortly after, while the paramedics were taking him away, I heard Dr. Haught whispering discreetly to another staff member. “It’s all part of God’s plan if you ask me. One less troubled soul. He was certainly troubled, always stuffing his face with sugary treats. Gluttony, you know. He was so old, it was simply his time to go.” I caught a glimpse of his face, of those dark and dangerous pupils; the sheen of superiority was still blazing behind them, the satisfaction that he had evaded death for one more day. It’s taken me over forty years to realize that Hell is not what you see in movies. It is not a dark cave or a fiery dungeon. There are no horned devils or creatures with pitchforks. It is here on Earth. Hidden in plain sight, in ordinary places, in ordinary people. It is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, behind the pupils of someone you’re supposed to trust, waiting patiently in the dilapidated walls of a senior home.

I’m not sure if the aged man made it to heaven or hell, or if he believed in that sort of thing. I’m curious to know if he liked painting, even though I’m sure he would have said yes. I often wonder why I didn’t ask him. That’s the weird and beautiful thing about strangers; I did not know his name, and yet I felt like I knew him in some way. I did not have the words, but I felt it. That common bond of humanity. A longing for connection. A reason to get out of bed. Something worth sticking around for. Without that to anchor you, life becomes unlivable.

Since I got back, another question I get asked is what I learned from war. Of course, I never know how to respond to this. I learned nothing and everything. I learned that death has no rhyme or reason, no predetermination or calculation. People die in all kinds of unexplainable, mysterious ways; some deserve it, some don’t. Death is patient for some and impatient for others. Like God, Death works in mysterious ways, which are not ours to understand.

When I asked the receptionist about arrangements, she said the aged man had no family to orchestrate it, so there would be no funeral. It was as though his death came and went like he never existed. Like he was gone the whole time. He did not even receive a moment of silence; the world had already forgotten him.

The next day, another movie was already playing in the movie room. I decided to get there early to get a good seat. I grabbed a few donut holes and sat down in the padded armchair. I wondered if the aged man was also cramming some in his mouth wherever he might be. Each night I take a moment of silence in his memory and pray to no one in the darkness.