The first thing he noticed when they went in was that all the patients were on respirators. Without exception.
Billy had been coming here for a year now to see his step son. He had come to live here after the stepsons wife proved to be incompetent in caring for her husband after the doctors told her they could do no more. The bullet he fired that night had not damaged his mental faculties, but the physical situation was hopeless. At 30, the remainder of his life would be spent in this room, with this TV, this room mate, this machine breathing for him, this sunken forehead. His feet and hands turning inward with atrophy, followed by his legs and arms.
It was Robbie's first visit, and he was as prepared as someone could be on a first visit. It was a ghastly situation. They were everywhere, sitting in wheelchairs, some asleep, some moving toward them to see what was going on, room after room of damaged people with tubes connected to their throats to fill their lungs with air.
Billy called to one of them "Hey Roscoe, how ya doing?" The bespeckled face lit up and a grunted response accompanied the smile. "He knows everything that goes on in here, has to check it all out." Roscoe was checking it out. People here got visitors but rarely did they carry a guitar and a Conga Drum.
David was sitting up in he bed, and his eyes turned from The TV when they came into his world. "How ya doing there partner? Feeling okay today?" his step father asked. In response Davids eyes widened and his face lit up a bit. Robbie smiled at him, remembering the blond young boy who had once built a fort with his own son. He vocalized a bit, recognizing him. Billy addressed the room mate, a rotund man who was more ambulatory, he was happy to see them, sure it would be fine if they made a little music.
Robbie pushed the door together, and got out the guitar. Billy beat a rhythm on the conga, and Davids eyes widened to take it all in, the hands translating their force into a palatable feeling in his body. He was excited. Robbie tuned his instrument and they played Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer"
"I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest"
"Ya like that?" Billy called way too loud.
"Eh!" came the reply, between small blasts from the machine.
Robbie and Billy looked one another in the eye and Robbie said "Diamonds and Rust?"
"Sure!"
[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtQh0EBbPwo[/youtube]
Outside the room, up and down the hall, those who could move, moved toward their doors. The staff stopped what they were doing and congregated in hushed tones. The sleepers awoke. For three minutes the world stopped its progress to nowhere. The TVs were silenced and as they had already paid, Roscoe wheeled himself to the shut door and tapped.
Billy cracked it open and looked down at him.
"We, uhhhhhhhh, want to hear the uhhhhhhhhhh music too!"
He swung the door open and without missing a beat exclaimed "Cool! but we're getting ready to play some Jimi Hendrix, we're all done with this sad shit!"
Over his shoulder, he heard the faint, familiar giggle of David, coming between breaths.