A Warehouse of Death. Adult Drama. Of Life in a Retirement Home. (standard:drama, 7480 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 27 2020	Views/Reads: 1422/993	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
In his 80s, Steve moves into a nursing home. The story switches back and forth as he reminisces about his past life on a farm, in the army during WWII, and the present. He goes out with a bang, not a whimper.

"I just know you're going to like it here, Uncle Steve." His nephew
grinned, an arm over Steve Ross's thin slightly-flabby shoulder. They 
were standing in an air-conditioned reception area inside the front 
door of the "Fantasy of Comfort Assisted Living Center", located on the 
outskirts of Chicago. His wife died ten-years before and Steve, at 87 
and with winter coming on, was having trouble coping with living alone 
on the family farm. He had finally agreed to try the place out. 

"Colder'n hell in here. And stuffy. Not fresh as at home," Steve
commented, looking around at the antiseptic environment. "How can 
anybody like living here?" 

"You'll get used to it, Grandpa," the nephew said, his own eyes on a
shapely nurse's aide. 

"You can always move back to the farm if you don't like it," daughter
Emily added with fake sincerity. 

That morning, several of Steve's children had come to the farm to help
convince him,  called an "intervention." Outnumbered and outflanked, 
Steve was forced to agree. For years, despite his best efforts and 
hired hands, he simply hadn't had the strength or stamina to work the 
farm. Recently he'd fallen down the back steps, luckily not breaking 
anything except a garbage bag. Not being able to stoop easily, it'd 
been a bitch to clean up. 

To make matters worse, by the time he paid all those employees and the
government, any profit was gone. Keeping records had always come hard, 
these days almost impossible. 

Perhaps his chief reason for coming was the inside plumbing. With winter
coming on in Illinois, he had to admit he dreaded walking that 
well-worn path to the outside toilet. At his age, he was forced to make 
the trip several times a day through rain or a couple feet of snow. 
Steve had even jokingly considered a power wheelchair for the trip to 
the little shack; even though he could still walk -- well mostly -- 
though not for long distances.... 

*** 

"Damn you," Steve swore as he forced himself down from a tractor,
scraping both knees in the process. "Why do they make these things so 
damned high? The old Petersbuilt did the same job and I could jump down 
in an instant. Now it's more like a ten-story building." 

Finally reaching rain-soaked ground, Steve wiped his brow and stepped
around the vehicle to pull out the remains of a small tree that was 
blocking the blades. Even that took an inordinate amount of time, the 
brush seemingly tougher than in past years. "I'm too damned slow these 
days. It doesn't happen as often, but this shit grows stronger ever 
damned year.” 

On regaining his seat, he had to sit a few minutes, letting that
goddamned blood pressure retreat to a normal level before jerking the 
tractor back into gear and moving the beast forward. 

"Even plowing a straight furrow seems harder this year," he muttered to
himself. "One thing, though, is the air-conditioner. That's the only 
thing better than the Petersbuilt. How the hell did I ever make it back 
then? One hundred in the shade, and that old bastard had a tin roof." 

As he relaxed in a leather seat, his mind drifted as it did so often,
forcing him to jerk the wheel to avoid running into a tree at the edge 
of the field.... 

*** 

After a lifetime of taking care of himself and sometimes several others,
Steve was slow to admit that he needed help for himself. 

Then, that morning, his youngsters came over, unexpectedly, for a little
talk that became an intervention.... 

"Daddy," Emily said, "we worry about you living alone way out here. What
if you have a heart attack and can't find help? You'd die out in that 


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