Pawns, Queens, Kings: ...The Endgame

By Barry Brynjulson

Two gentlemen in a senior community begin an evening $1 tuck-in service, complete with guitars and serenading. Pawns, Queens, Kings…the Endgame follows these two men and four other residents as they look for their own versions of purpose, esteem, and companionship.

Not all is fun and shenanigans as the realities of aging appear. This bitter-sweet narrative tenderly explores the needs and wants of the aged, as well as their desire to die with dignity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781728377957

Barry Brynjulson

Originally from Michigan, Barry Brynjulson resides in Northern California with his wife. After a successful business career, then eleven years as a professional golf instructor, Barry embarks on his third career - as an author. Down is his first fiction novel.

Book preview

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Acknowledgements

For Joan, who deserved a much better

ending, and for all seniors who

struggle to find purpose, esteem, and

human connections near the end.

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIRST

He stopped in front of the door to room 212 holding his six-string in one hand, and looked down the hall in both directions. No one. Harris had made it this far without being seen, although he had an excuse, a fabricated explanation at the ready, should he encounter anyone.

At 9:45 PM, it was usually quiet in the halls at The Ridge Senior Living, save for the sound of the occasional loud TV. He had made this walk up a flight of stairs and down the hall to the front of Miranda Wheeler’s door last night at this hour to test the route, and went undetected. While relieved to see no one this night, he was not surprised.

Turning the door knob quietly, it was unlocked as she indicated it would be. As he entered her tiny apartment and closed the door softly, he whispered, Miranda? It’s me. The recessed light under the microwave in the kitchenette was the only source of light in the four small rooms.

I’m in here, she said with her 78-year voice that did its best to sound calm and hide an excitement she hadn’t felt in too long.

Hi, Harris said as he poked his head through the open door of her bedroom and could barely make out the figure of his friend lying on her side under the covers.

Hi, she replied. There’s a chair next to my bureau. Can you see it?

Yes. Harris made his way to the wicker chair. It made the sound that only wicker does when he sat and pulled the guitar strap over his head. After several seconds of quiet, he began plucking an instrumental, something he called Morning… a tune he had composed years earlier. It was melodious and sweet, and despite the title, something that suited the quiet calmness of the hour. The fingering he used was uncommon, something someone from his past had shown him. Harris, while excited too, plucked the strings gently, fitting the song and the occasion.

After a few minutes, the song wound down to the slowest, faintest notes. When finished, the night was as quiet as it could be. He listened for her breathing, wondering if she had dozed off. He realized she hadn’t when she asked meekly, Can you do Bojangles?

Without saying a word, he slid the capo onto the neck of the guitar and up two frets. Strumming a G chord twice, he could tell the capo was on correctly, the guitar was still tuned to his liking, and was reminded how to start the song. "I knew a man, Bojangles, and he danced for you…in worn out shoes." He sang with tenderness, his eyes closed. Though his palms were moist and his heart raced, his voice stayed true. He gained confidence with each completed verse.

After the song, she said nothing. He listened again, unsure of what her breathing meant. He played another instrumental that he thought might be relaxing and appropriate. Earlier in the day he wondered about the number of songs he should play during these visits. This was new territory, and he was uncertain. He decided three was about right. Part way through the third number, he knew it would be the last for this, his first tuck-in performance.

When finished, he stood from the chair as quietly as possible, and, as he moved past the foot of her bed toward the door, he said, Sleep well Miranda.

Thank you, she said in a contented voice. The dollar is on the counter.

Harris took the money off the grey faux-granite counter next to the white refrigerator, and stepped through the door into an empty hallway. He too felt content but slept unevenly that night, the first of many in his new venture.

CHAPTER TWO

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

What’s going on? How’s the food? he asked while scanning the roundtable of five who were part way through their lunch.

Four of the five people seated at the table looked up at him. A man in a wheelchair did not, but kept spooning the chicken rice soup in front of him. The three ladies at the table looked at Harris, smiled, and said some version of, It’s good.

The fifth person at the table, a burly man, chimed in with a drawl, It’ll probably keep you from starving.

Oh, come now Rex, it’s not that bad, said Sandy the high-heeled, redheaded Sales Director mainly to the man she was giving the tour.

It’s the only decision I’ll have to make today…enchiladas or mac and cheese. I reckon I made the right one, Rex replied a little louder and slower than most people spoke.

We have two seatings for lunch, Mr. Archibald: 11:30 and 12:30.

Are you new here? asked Diana from the table. She was wearing four sports team hats on her head for some reason.

Mr. Archibald is considering The Ridge. I’m showing him around, said Sandy. We’re all going to show our best side, aren’t we, for Mr. Archibald?

It’s Harris, actually.

Well Harris, I’ve been told my back side is my best side, Diana said smiling at him before glancing around the table. The others smiled, nodded, or laughed softly having heard remarks like this from Diana before.

Harris chuckled nervously, somewhat uncertain how to respond but definitely concerned about a future that might include unfiltered flirtations from octogenarian women. He shifted his eyes to Sandy.

With that, Mr. Archibald, I think we need to keep moving, suggested Sandy who extended her right arm to indicate the direction they would be headed. Enjoy your lunches, she said to those at the table while taking her first steps away from it.

Nudging 70 with a full head of grey-flecked wavy brown hair, still a touch over six feet on a medium frame that he owed more to metabolism than exercise or diet, and with lines that creased his kind face, Harris Archibald was going to be the youngest and most mobile male at The Ridge if he decided to sign on. He couldn’t know yet, but Diana flirted with most every male she encountered. His inability to respond to her playfulness was due both to being out of practice as well as having never been very good at it. Though she didn’t come right out and say it, Diana may have found him ruggedly handsome, for that could apply. But Harris didn’t think of himself in that way. He had never been told that by a female in his life and he had learned to live most of the last two decades without female affirmations.

After leaving the dining area and heading down a hall, Sandy showed him the common living area. Harris remembered the white baby grand piano, the groupings of upholstered moss green, beige, and brown chairs and sofas from his previous visit. There was also the white painted brick fire place with large, never-lit candles instead of logs, and the small table with a chess set on it. The latter had caught his attention only because he’d once played a lot of chess, but hadn’t in years. He wondered momentarily, but doubted that he would find a playing partner in a place like The Ridge. Sandy went on with her well-worn spiel, We have all kinds in here. It runs the spectrum physically and socially. Some like to be left to themselves even though we have a wide range of activities every day. At the very least, they get to the dining room two or three times a day for their food and a little socializing. How about I show you a couple of apartments that we have available? You’ll see there’s no stove or oven in the kitchenette. There is a microwave. There’s no real cooking in the apartments.

I remember the kitchenettes from my last visit. How many residents currently? Harris asked.

It’s just short of 100 currently, with two married couples. It’s almost 65 to 35, women to men. I have no doubt you’d be very popular here, Mr. Archibald, she added while erroneously assuming this notion was important to Harris.

Harris only nodded slightly. Being around others was a secondary factor in his decision to look at senior communities, but romance was not. Having observed many females with walkers, canes, or four hats, as well as all being more aged than himself, did nothing to alter his thinking.

Three weeks later, after Harris Archibald had signed the papers with Sandy, and after a rudimentary screening and health assessment, he moved into The Ridge. The Ridge was a nicely furnished senior living complex with 100 one-bedroom apartments and 20 studios. There were 22 vacant rooms before Harris arrived, a number that alarmed the local administration and its corporate headquarters enough to float a half-off special to Harris and others as incentive to sign immediately.

The Ridge did not provide lifetime medical care as some of the newer senior facilities did in the area, nor did it provide memory care. It did, however, gladly take any one over 60 years of age in reasonably good health who was willing to pay the monthly fare. The Ridge residents could choose from a menu of other services for an additional fee, including medicine management, bathing, dressing, wound care, incontinence, and wheelchair or other physical assistance as needed. Weekly housekeeping was provided along with three adequate, semi-nutritious meals a day. For many residents, The Ridge was their last address. But Rex was correct…it was not because anyone starved to death.

After getting oriented for a couple of days and setting up his apartment, Harris found himself at the Friday 3:00 PM Happy Hour. Tiny glasses of inexpensive white and red wine were served while listening to live entertainment that was brought in every week for exactly one somewhat happy hour for the residents. Harris’ assigned buddy, Armando, had told him they needed to attend this event. It sets up my whole weekend, he told Harris.

When Harris opened his apartment door at 2:55 to see Armando in a red, pink, and white plaid jacket, beige slacks, as well as white and orange saddle shoes, he was stunned. When the smell of Old Spice followed Armando’s movements, Harris said, You didn’t tell me I had to dress up for this thing.

Hey, the ladies like it. Just watch.

Harris and Armando strolled toward the main lobby which opened into The Ridge’s common living room. Chairs had been taken from the dining room and arranged in rows next to sofas facing the piano. Harris and his buddy sat in the third row, with Armando taking the end seat. Harris had walked behind him from the hall to the living area and noticed him strutting peacock-like, smiling and waving to the other residents who had arrived before them. Of the 40 or so seated residents, nearly 30 were women. Some were nicely dressed for the occasion, others wore their daily attire, including Diana with her four hats.

The afternoon’s entertainment was provided by Frederica, who sang show tunes accompanied by recorded music played through one small Bose speaker. When she opened with Bali-Ha’i from South Pacific, the quality of the music and Frederica’s voice surprised Harris. Both were better than he’d expected. What also surprised him was when Armando stood early in the song next to his chair and begin moving his arms and hips a little with some semblance of rhythm. Harris watched Armando as he kept inching forward to the edge of the first row, apparently both to be more noticed and to scan the faces of the ladies. Harris watched as some smiled, while others leaned into a neighbor, said something, and shook their heads. Many women resisted looking in his direction, appearing to care less what Armando was up to, or deciding to avoid eye contact.

Harris wasn’t sure what to make of all this, but sat back to observe and enjoy this new experience. He helped himself to a glass of red wine the staff brought around on trays. When Frederica was into her second number, Some Enchanted Evening, Armando took the back of the wheelchair situated at one end of the first row with a woman in it whom Harris had not yet met, and began to roll her around in front of everyone in dancing motions. Armando did his best Fred Astaire leg movements, while moving the woman and her wheelchair back and forth, punctuated with little turns and wheelies. These antics no one could ignore. Clapping and laughter came from some of the those seated. Frederica, momentarily stumbled with the lyrics, apparently not having seen Armando in action before. Harris laughed throughout the dancing wheelchair performance, but only a week later discovered that the wheelchair dance was a regular Happy Hour occurrence.

During the next 50 minutes, Harris sat back and took it all in. His initial thoughts alternated between this is friggin’ bizarre and how charming. While it was much too early to make an assessment about his decision to move into The Ridge, he was already vacillating between what have I done and seeing possibilities for fun and uncomplicated companionship. Looking around the room, Harris, at 69 years old, realized he was the youngest at The Ridge. Outside of Armando, who seemed just a couple years older than himself, everyone else was deep into their 70’s, if not 80’s or 90’s.

Before that thought could slide him into a funk, Harris’ wandering mind was jarred back to the present during All That Jazz. Frederica was well into her set and had loosened up. Clearly, she enjoyed performing and loved her selected tunes. During this number, with top hat she pranced in front of the onlookers while singing. At one point during the song, she started snapping her fingers while singing and dancing. At the other end of the front row was another wheelchaired female whom Harris did not know either. Frederica, playing to the crowd, went toward that woman snapping and prancing and singing for everything she was worth. The wheelchair-bound woman sat stoically watching this performance not clapping, nor singing along, nor smiling approval. Suddenly, during a brief non-vocal musical bridge, the seated woman blurted out, Stop snapping! Frederica, in this case, never missed a beat, turned and kept high-stepping toward the other end of the row. Harris howled as did a few others who witnessed it. For Harris it triggered something else. He knew right then that this place was going to be different than any other portion of his life. At this very moment there seemed to be some possibilities for, if not happiness, at least contentment. He was good with that.

When Frederica ended her set with Whatever Lola Wants, and thanked the group for their nice response and participation, she apparently misinterpreted the kind closing applause as an encore call. She said, Okay, if you insist. But just one more. Before she finished the final note of Cabaret, Harris and some others were standing just to make certain the music would truly end.

Armando and Harris walked back down the wide burgundy and oatmeal colored carpeted hall toward Harris’ room. I didn’t expect it to be like that. The entertainment was pretty stinking okay if you ask me, including you! said Harris.

Ahh, the ladies don’t know what their missing, replied Armando apparently alluding to the fact that he, once again, was headed back without a woman at his side.

You’ll get ’em next time, Harris said to his buddy. Armando just looked at him in silence. Hey, you want to come by after dinner and watch the Dubs? he added. They start about 6:30; playing in Phoenix.

At 6:23 Harris picked up some loose garments that he’d strewn over the arms and backs of chairs in the living room. He tossed them onto the floor of his bedroom closet. He also grabbed a near-empty bag of Cheetos and brushed its crumbs off the glass coffee table into his hand before carrying both to the garbage bag under the sink.

Armando knocked at 6:30 although he had no idea that the Dubs referred to the Warriors or that the game was basketball. He, like most residents of The Ridge, struggled with the long nights. He longed for companionship, preferably female, but this new guy Harris was friendly enough. At this point in his life, he’d become a staunch yes person, never turning down an invitation.

Grab a seat, beckoned Harris, motioning toward the two, beige, faux-leather Barcaloungers on opposite ends of a light blue loveseat, all of which nicely filled the small living room. Want a beer? A glass of wine? Harris asked while opening the small refrigerator door.

Whatever you’re having.

Harris grabbed two Heinekens. Beer goes better with ball games. You follow the Dubs much?

Not too much, Armando said while sliding into one of the chairs and seeing that the athletes warming up on the large flat screen were playing basketball.

The men watched the game together, one keenly interested in the game’s outcome, the other in just being there. Small talk was not yet easy for the two men. They got into their second beers midway through the second quarter. Harris appreciated the company too, even though Armando knew little of the strategy of the game or its players. When half-time came, Harris muted the sound, turned to Armando, and asked, So, tell me…how long you been here?

Ten months.

Where’d you live before?

Armando took a long swig from the bottle before saying, I lived in a parish house about 20 miles from here.

Harris looked at Armando trying to process what he had heard. What do you mean? asked Harris in a tone that expressed real interest with a dose of confusion.

Armando knew Harris was questioning his reference to the parish house more than the mileage, and answered, I’ve been a parish priest for 42 years.

Wow, good for you, said Harris shifting his weight in his chair and rubbing both of his thighs with his hands while buying some time.

Priests rarely get wealthy, unless they inherit, Armando added. I don’t have much money. They offered me a good deal here. With the three meals and no taxes, insurance or utility costs, I think I can make this place work indefinitely. I hope so anyhow.

Half off? asked Harris curious about the deal Father Armando got.

Yes.

Good. Me too, Harris confided. I haven’t been really good with my money. I needed something like this, Harris revealed before falling silent. Armando was quiet too, uncertain where to take the conversation.

Does most everybody here know you were a priest?

"I’m still a priest. I can still say Mass, and preside over weddings. I just don’t belong to a parish or have weekly obligations. I’m just retired. And yes to your question. I imagine the word has spread here that I am a priest."

I’m sorry to be so dumb about this, said Harris. I didn’t know priests retired and were just left to fend for themselves. I thought they put you in some priest home or monastery or something.

No. They do that with some orders of nuns; not priests usually. We have to manage for ourselves. We get paid a small salary as priests. Usually, we’re given food and lodging while we belong to a parish. We’re able to put a little into an IRA. We also get Social Security. Some dioceses provide a retirement supplement at age 70 or 75.

I guess I never gave it much thought beyond that the rich Catholic Church must certainly take care of its own.

Common misconception. We take a vow of poverty, and we never lose sight of that.

Harris drank from his bottle then asked, Should I call you Father?

I wish you wouldn’t.

How about Mondo’? Anybody ever call you Mondo? asked Harris while thinking it sounded nothing like a priest’s name.

Not since my youth. I kinda liked it then. I’m good with that.

Alright Mondo, Harris said grabbing the remote and unmuting the TV as the second half got underway. Let’s see if the Dubs can put these Suns away.

Harris and Mondo checked out the activity whiteboard every day and went to many events together including blackjack, bingo, indoor putting and evening movies. They passed on chair-yoga and town hall meetings.

Bingo was funny at the start for Harris with most numbers needing to be verbally repeated for the hard of hearing. But with each game taking three times longer than it should, Harris told Mondo, I can’t do that anymore.

When Mondo finished last in the weekly putting contest on the bumpy eight-foot artificial turf strip and received significant ribbing from some other participants, he told Harris, I think that’s my last putting contest.

Harris and Mondo got together for Warrior games on TV, and for Sunday football. Mondo learned some strategy of each sport and began to have favorite players, often choosing someone on the second string to root for.

The televised games and The Ridge activities took only small portions of slow-moving days. Harris lapsed back to his routine prior to The Ridge when he watched too much crappy tv and read. He’d gone through phases when he read only non-fiction. Seabiscuit, The Boys in the Boat, a story about golf called The Match were among his favorites. For years he settled on different themes. One year he read six books on sports psychology hoping to discover some insights that might help his poor golf game, while another year he read five books on near-death experiences, curious about the light at the end of the tunnel so many people who had had near-death experiences claimed to have seen or travelled part way through. He now read mostly fiction.

Reading more than television helped him pass the time, and had helped him endure his semi-solitary existence of the past few years.

One evening for dinner Harris and Mondo sat at a round table with Miranda, Diana, and Rose. He noticed how slowly most residents ate, with many having an odd way of gently pushing food around their plates with their forks between bites. This meal the conversation did not flow easily. Comments about the news and food, were followed by long silences. While Harris had seen this pattern at meals before, it still made him fidget and say things he normally wouldn’t. The more seasoned residents seemed to have grown accustomed to it and did not feel the need to fill the silences.

Finally, Rose Hannigan said that housekeeping had lost a bra of hers the last time they did the laundry. How could that happen? It’s the second time! Who wants my bras?

No one had an answer for her questions. More silence. Harris, without having a plan, asked the ladies if anyone liked football?

My husband used to watch it all the time, Diana said. I liked the 49ers when they had Joe Montana. He was a cutie.

They were good, said Harris understating the obvious.

Miranda dabbed the corners of her mouth before speaking. My husband watched too. He’d want me to sit with him during the games. It seemed like just a lot bodies pushing each other around at first. But then he explained things. Once I learned some of the strategy, I enjoyed it.

Sounds like your husband was a good guy, suggested Armando.

He was, she said with a sad smile before looking at her plate.

Harris glanced at Mondo before saying, Well, the ‘Niners are on Monday Night Football right now. Probably started a few minutes ago. If anyone would like to join Mondo and me in 117 to watch any of it, or all of it, you’re welcome. We’ll supply the beer and wine.

That sounds like fun, said Diana. Party in 117. Woo-hoo.

As dinner ended and three of them began to move toward apartment 117, Diana leaned into a couple of tables who were still eating. We going to watch football in 117 now, if you want to join us. Party in 117.

Miranda had been non-committal about watching the game. The suddenness of the invite caught her off-guard. She had always been one who liked written calendars and