For some reason, I could only muster a few words. Mostly head-nods, gentle hums of approval to the “How ya doing?” “Thanks so much for this,” and “Are you ready?”

I’m sure every high school reunion is filled with ‘crazy’ experiences through the eyes of an ignorant teen. While everyone is laughing, try to slip in the Theater teacher getting caught for sexting a student, the kid who killed two grandmas and sentenced his family to a lifetime of poverty, the kid who died of cancer, the kid who sharpied the fuck out of an AR and brought it to school only to squib out a horse girl and fall on his sword. See how their faces shift while your eyes remain lit up, bursting from laughter.

But this was fucking weird. Looking back on all the transgressive shit I’ve done or have been witness to, this was fucking weird. You can honestly logic out most of the more shocking things, but this was different.

My periphery was filled with beige gore and fleshy strain. The grunts and coughs became more noticeable as we walked further from the man’s pleas. Finally we came across a room numbered 745 with a printed out mandala with green and brown shit crayon scribbled over it taped to the door.

Tim pushed the door that was slightly ajar, and we were met with two hospital beds facing each other with a cloth screen sectioning off the two living spaces. A TV blared FOX news and an adjacent one blared the Broncos game. The only light sources being the TVs and slits between broken blinds.

The smell of piss was still present, but now mixed with lavender and moth balls. We passed by the first bunk, harboring a skin suit with shifting eyes. Mouth open, head tilted aggressively to the left shoulder, eyes wide open and dancing wildly. All signal to gender whisked away some time ago; their reproductive system replaced with tubes and colostomy bags. The name on the edge of their bed read “Angie,” reminiscent to when children name rocks. Intersecting between the TV and their view we shuffled past the curtain.

The second bunk empty, but sitting beside it in a stained LaZBoy, a frail woman sleeping. Tim turned down the Broncos game, which made the woman’s eyes crack open. She began to struggle from the chair that was consuming her.

“Hey Nana. How are you doing today?” Tim said, as if speaking to a growling rottweiler. “Nana” began stretching from the back of the chair, ensuing a splatter of cracks and pops. After stretching her shoulders while staring at the floor she up-righted herself and glared at Tim.

“Score?” Nana spit, before erupting in a coughing fit. Before long she settled back into the chair with raised eyebrows.

“Uh-lemme-hold on,” Tim sputtered turning around to look at the score.

“Fucking move dumbass!” Tim cleared the view of the TV fast enough to knock over a stack of plastic trays filled with rotten food.

“Goddammit, Chuck you’re a fucking retard.”

“I’m Tim, mom. Your son, remember?” Nana looked quizzically at Tim until her eyebrows lowered, jaw in the same position.

“I know who you are. The fucking retard that spilled my slop pile. I was working on that y’know? If I get 10 trays that means they can’t serve everybody, and will have to go looking. Those bastards can go eat shi…”

Our eyes locked. I prayed that her eyesight was bad enough that she couldn’t see my fear.

“Andrew…” her entire demeanor softened and her raspy tone lulled to a Joni Mitchell hum.

She shot at Tim. “Chuck, get him a chair so he can sit next to me and a couple of Cokes. Make yourself useful.”

“I’m Tim not Dad. I’m your son.” Tim muttered through his teeth as he swung a folding chair behind me and walked out the room.

“Come closer! I want to see your face.” I scooched the chair closer right beside her. Her eyes a raging ocean with rainclouds obscuring the surface. Flesh sagging off structure, pooling in the fleece Broncos blanket underneath her. Every vantage point and curve outlined with a wrinkle.

“How are you? Getting into any trouble lately?” She nudged me in the shoulder relaying how fragile she really was. I cracked a nervous smile.

“Oh when I was your age, I got into all kinds of trouble. This one time, me and this boy Paulie would go down to the theme park when it was closed. We hoped the fence, and I tore my skirt on the post. We start gigglin’ and gigglin’. I had to hold my skirt in one hand and my purse in the other. Paulie said that there was something in the circus tent they only let out at night. I knew it was bullshit, but I thought he was cute. You remember that old circus tent? I don’t know if you were around when it was up. That place really went to shit, now looks like a dump. You know the lot off I-70 and Sheridan. You know, you take I-25 down to almost 216 and that’s where you get on I-70. There used to be a diner off of 48th and Harlan. I think that’s gone too. Watwazit called? Something like Earl’s or Irina’s or something. It was a person’s name; I think it was a man’s name. No it was a woman’s name. What was it? It had the seafoam trim out front with the huge laser sign that had a woman serving drinks. Ya know those signs that have like different uhhm tubes that light up at different times? And it looks like it’s moving. I think there’s gas in them or something. God, what are those called. Gas-tube signs? Naw, that can’t be it.”

“Neon–“

“NEON! Yes that’s what I’m talking about! God I remember when that car came out, ugliest piece of shit on the street. Your dumbass grandpa got one of them. First new car we ever bought together. And it was absolute shit.”

Tim walked in carrying four cans of soda. He passed a Sprite to me, a Coke to Nana and put the remaining two Dr. Peppers in his jacket pockets.

“You think I can open this myself numbnuts?” Tim was halfway out the door when she shouted at him. Before he could hustle back in I got up and opened the can.

“You’re such a nice boy Andrew. How did you get so polite?” She began laughing which quickly turned into another coughing fit. This one longer she gasped as if dumped under water.

“Ya know we had Coke stations back when I was a kid. You would go up and pay a penny for a cup of Coke. Except it wasn’t called Coke back then. It was like cream soda but not. It wasn’t root beer but what is that drink with the ridiculous name? It starts with an S. Oh goddammit.”

“Sarsaparilla?”

“SARSAPARILLA! Yes exactly!”

This winding road of dialogue continued for what seemed like two hours, me only supplying words she forgot. Tim walked in, face red and sweaty with two unopened soda cans bulging from his pockets.

“Hey gu–,”

“Tim I need to go to the bathroom,” I pleaded.

“Out the door to the right. Code is 7766.”

I bolted out of the room in between a long conversation about what exact years the Broncos won the Super Bowl.

“hhhHHHEEELLlllppppp,” the doppler effect of the crier reaches and end as I frantically input the code and swing the door open. I’m greeted to a semi-smoky bathroom, one stall occupied with two bright green J’s blaring Pop Smoke.

I let my garden hose go off for a straight minute. The stall next to me turns their phone up.

As I mosey back to the room I pass by the man yelling. I stop and we lock eyes. He whimpers a little but stays silent.

I slowly enter the room. He shakily takes his left hand from under his blanket and points to the corner of the room. A spilled cup of coffee.

“Oh I can get that.” I bend down to grab the cup when I hear a frantic “phwipping” sound behind me. I turn around to see the man feverishly masturbating a sore and purple clump against calloused and peeling skin, his tongue outstretched while his blanket barely keeps on top of him due to the fervent stroking. I drop the cup, and freeze. His face red and sweaty, eyes yellowed bulging, his member strobing in out of my sight through crusty yellow blanket. Before I can throw up, I take a deep breath in and get the fuck out. My face hot, my sight shaking, fists clenched I speed walk past a group of chuckling nurses.

Tim intercepts me, “We’re leaving.”

Both our faces red, mine from embarrassment, Tim from who-the-fuck knows where, he starts the car. He opens a can of Dr. Pepper, takes a swig and tosses two crushed cans from his jeans to the back of the car. After another swig he takes a deep breath.

“I owe you one.”

“$1,5000.”

“$200”

“$250”

“Deal.”