Extended Conversations

by Morris J. Marshall

Mark Adams had just arrived home from his part-time teaching job when saw the blue flyer tucked into the crack of his apartment door.

He put down his groceries. Probably some junk mail, he thought wryly. An ad for a fortune teller, perhaps. Maybe one of those call-center jobs. Mark could use the extra money. Inflation was killing him. It was killing everyone. And part-time teaching didn’t pay much. He’d wanted to get a cat or dog to ease his loneliness, but, with inflation running rampant, that was out of the question.

Mark plucked the flyer out of the door, fully intending to toss it in the garbage. He put his key in the lock, pushed open the door and placed his briefcase on the floor and the flyer on the couch. A film of sweat coated his face. It was the hottest September in years. Thirty Celsius at six in the evening with no end in sight.

Mark turned on the living room lights, walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge door, searching for something cold. A beer. A wine cooler. He’d long since sworn off hard stuff after getting drunk and puking his guts out at a university grad party twenty-five years ago.

Grabbing the wine cooler, he returned to the living room and sat down on his couch. Rent up three percent from the previous year. Gasoline up ten percent. Meats up eight percent. New houses up twenty percent year over year. Cars? Who could find them? Even the prices of used cars had gone through the roof. Damn supply shortages.

Mark took a sip of his cooler and picked up the blue flyer.

Great Employment Opportunity! Elderly gentleman seeks kind, interesting person as a companion for outings. Conversation ability a must. Great pay. Twelve hours per week. Please call number below for interview.

With those hours, Mark thought, I could keep teaching. The extra money would help him beat inflation. Maybe he could stay on top of his finances after all

He picked up his cell phone and called the number.

“Hello? Mr. Johnson speaking. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m calling in response to the position posted on a flyer I received. For a companion.”

There was a pause. “Yes. Can you come to my apartment for an interview? The position is still unfilled.”

Mark finished off his wine cooler and put the empty bottle down on his coffee table. “I teach mornings, but I do prep work in my office until four.”

“Oh... so you’re a teacher. I guess that means you’re a good talker?”

“I’d like to think so,” Mark replied. “I have eclectic interests, although I’m sure my students would prefer I shut up.”

“Can you come tomorrow at five o’clock for an interview? You sound perfect for the job, but I have to confirm it in person.”

“Sure. Sounds great.”

Mr. Johnson gave him the address. Talking, Mark thought. How hard can that be? I’ll probably have to keep this dude company. Maybe he’ll be so out of it that I can just slip out and leave early and still get paid.

* * *

The next day was Friday. Mr. Johnson’s place was only six blocks away from Mark’s school. It was in a seniors’ building with a lobby containing multiple blue chairs. The lobby led into a large dining area.

Mark left school at four-thirty and arrived at Mr. Johnson’s around ten to five. Holding his briefcase, he waited for the elevator. A grey-haired woman smiled at him as she walked by. His mother had been in a nursing home before she’d died. People in homes were always friendly because they were lonely.

Mark got off on the 14th floor and scanned the doors for apartment 1405. How hard could this job actually be? Entertaining an old man was a lot better than manual labor. At worst, there might be an occasional bathroom mishap. Mark found the apartment and knocked on the door.

Shuffling inside. Someone grunting. The door soon opened. The guy who appeared had a big potato-shaped head, receding white hair and bushy white eyebrows. His brown eyes glistened as he smiled. He stood, bent over, gnome-like, resting his hands against a walker, his skinny frame covered by a bulky sweater. The air conditioning was too high for Mark’s taste. It felt like a morgue.

“Mr. Johnson? I’m Mark Adams. We talked on the phone. I’m here about the position.”

“Yes, come in, come in. Do you have a smartphone with you?”

“Of course,” Mark said. “Is that a problem?”

“Please mute it and put it in the box beside the sofa. I don’t want any distractions during our interview.”

Once Mark had complied, the elderly man said, “Have a seat anywhere.”

“Hot out there,” Mark said, wiping sweat from his face. He wondered if he’d hinted strongly enough that he’d like a cold drink.

The hint went unnoticed. “Grab a seat and we’ll start.”

Mark removed his shoes and sat down on the sofa. He wanted to put his feet up on the coffee table, but decided that would be too informal.

“So, I’d like to learn a bit about your personality to find out how compatible we are,” Mr. Johnson said.

“Ask away.”

“Do you live alone, have a family, any dependents?”

“What does that have to do with—?”

“Please bear with me,” Mr. Johnson said. “This can be a time-consuming position at times. Even though it’s only twelve hours a week, there are times when I may require your services more... intensely, shall we say.”

“I have no family,” Mark said. “My wife took our kids and left me a year ago, and my parents have been dead for years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. So... what do you teach?”

“Economics. Both Micro and Macro. I’m fascinated by the way economies work.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Johnson smiled and clapped his hands together. “Do you know anything about Marx or Keynes or economic history?”

“That was my specialty in university,” Mark said. “Along with economic philosophy, monetary and fiscal policy.”

“I’ve always been fascinated by economics, too,” Mr. Johnson said, “especially conspiracy theories. How the Rockefellers built the Federal Reserve. The oncoming ‘Great Reset’ after COVID. What else are you interested in?”

“Literary styles and writing fiction. I’ve written several short stories for online magazines.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.” Mr. Johnson leaned forward, hands resting against his walker. “I used to be a good writer before old age set in. I wrote slice-of-life stories. Did quite well at it.”

“Did you publish?”

“Oh, yes, Mark. My short stories did fairly well. My wife, Elisa, died of COVID a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t been able to write anything since.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said.

“We were together for 45 years. I miss our conversations, and I just haven’t been able to let go of her yet. I thought that having a companion might help.”

“That’s natural,” Mark said. “Maybe I can help there.”

“Oh, you can. I hate social media, smartphones and texting. Technology in general. I need old-fashioned conversation, someone with me so I can see their facial responses and hear the intonation in their voices. You don’t get that with texting. I think a person can go insane without human contact. What do you think?”

“I agree. Many people lost it due to COVID isolation. There are a lot of people out there with short fuses looking for a fight. I mean, look how many families and friends have broken up over disagreements about the Freedom Rally.”

Mr. Johnson smiled. “I think we’re going to get along well, Mark. I’ve decided to give you the position if you’d like it. It pays fifty dollars per hour.”

“Absolutely,” Mark said. Had he heard right? Fifty bucks an hour for conversing! Even with the air conditioning, Mark needed a cold drink. He needed the extra money even more.

“I ordered some pizza for us for dinner. To celebrate your new employment, let’s have a drink first,” Mr. Johnson said. “What would you like?”

“Just water for me.”

Mr. Johnson rose and pushed his walker into the kitchen while Mark glanced around at the living room. Not a computer in sight. Most Canadians had at least two in their homes and a smart TV as well. No technology here. Just an antique couch with blue felt covering and a dark brown leather recliner similar to the one Mark’s dad had sat in forty years ago. Yellow, with red trim, the clock on the wall had a distinctively seventies feel. It was as if nothing had touched this room in fifty years. Frozen in time.

“Do you want some help?” Mark called out.

“I’ll be out in a second.” Mr. Johnson came through the kitchen door with two glasses resting in the tray on the front of his walker.

“Here, let me help you.” Mark rose and steadied the walker. He lifted the two drinks and passed the red one — a Bloody Mary? — to Mr. Johnson while taking the glass of water for himself.

They returned to their original seats, Mark to the couch and Mr. Johnson to his recliner.

“Hits the spot,” Mark said, downing most of the glass of water. The ice cubes clinked together and touched his lips, offering a flood of cool relief.

“Let’s have a toast,” Mr. Johnson said, raising his glass. “To the end of the Pandemic, of texting, of virtual meetings. To the beginning of meeting again and lively, vivid conversations. I think people have forgotten how important that is.”

Mark walked over and clinked his glass against Mr. Johnson’s. “I think you’re right. Everyone’s so rushed nowadays. They don’t have time for shooting the breeze.”

The doorbell rang.

“That must be the pizza,” Mr. Johnson said. He rose from his recliner and pushed his walker over to the door. Mark came and retrieved the pizza and put it on the kitchen table. He had to remove piles of papers and an old typewriter, which he placed on the living room sofa.

“My wife and I used to order in pizza every weekend,” Mr. Johnson said as they ate. He smiled and his eyes looked distant. “She hated anchovies and I’d insist on ordering them. One day I came home from work and there was a pizza waiting for me on the table with anchovies. She’d baked it that afternoon.”

“That was nice.”

Mr. Johnson nodded. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Sometimes I think I still hear her speaking to me when I’m in our bed at night.”

After they’d finished eating, Mark got up from the table. “I think I drank too much water. Can I use your washroom?”

“It’s... really messy. I haven’t done any cleaning for a while.”

“It can’t be much worse than mine.”

“It’s the last door on the right,” Mr. Johnson said, putting aside two slices of pizza on a plate.

“Are you saving that for later?” Mark asked.

Mr. Johnson smiled. “I used to save food for Elisa when she was out. I guess I still haven’t shaken that habit.”

Mark got up from the table, walked into the living room and down the hall. There were three doors to his right. As he approached the second one, he noticed the smell. He wondered if a raccoon had gotten stuck in the walls and died. The smell intensified as he got closer to the door. It reminded him of the time his dad had left meat in their cottage’s freezer. Ontario Hydro had accidentally turned off the power over the winter. When Mark and his dad had arrived in the spring, the smell in the cottage had almost knocked them backward.

Forgetting the bathroom, Mark pushed open the second door. He plugged his nose. His gag reflex rose.

A photo of Mr. Johnson and his wife graced the bedroom wall. Their wedding picture. Their faces lit up with smiles. Several slices of pizza and pieces of fruit lay on one of the bedside tables. They looked shriveled, as though they’d been sitting there for quite a while.

Still plugging his nose, Mark slid open the closet door.

The woman inside was covered by a clear plastic bag that might have once held a wedding dress. She was green and bloated and stared vacantly at Mark.

“I wanted to call the police when she died. I really did.” Mr. Johnson learned against his walker. “I just couldn’t let her go. During COVID, nobody talked to me in grocery stores or coffee shops. I couldn’t stand the silence. At least I wasn’t alone with Elisa still here.”

Mark put his arm around the old man’s shoulder and guided him out of the bedroom. He closed the door, led him toward the living room and sat Mr. Johnson down on the sofa. Mark took out his cell phone. “Is this the police department? Yes, I’d like to report a death. No, I don’t believe it’s a homicide.”

Mark went to the kitchen and made Mr. Johnson a coffee. He sat down beside him on the sofa and listened to the old man reminisce about his wife.