SUNSET OASIS CONFIDENTIAL

Signed, Sealed, Delivered 

A new novel. Three years of writing: six drafts – a stack a little taller than two desktop printer stationers’ bundles of letter-size; reams of sometimes incomprehensible marginalia scribbled in red or blue ballpoint; a file folder crammed with notes, press clippings and examples of slick marketing materials; two title changes. All this paper tied up with string, shakily stomach-knotted with fear and doubt.

All right, here I go again on my own (Gratuitous Supertramp/Whitesnake mash-up, apologies, I’m not particularly fond of either band myself).

The premise of Sunset Oasis Confidential is simply “High School Confidential” in a retirement home. What I took away from many visits with my grandmother or mother in Montreal, and my former neighbour here in Edmonton, was mainly a sense of complaint. All inevitably sad, from the food to the company, from the childish level of rational discussion to the entertainment and activities. But in those places, I always found a modicum of humour even if it was of the tragic sort.

My friends have told me similar stories.

I remember trying to fit my mother in her wheelchair into a crowded elevator. Not a chance. As the doors began to close, I told its occupants, “It’s okay, we’ll take the stairs.” I slayed half the house, the second and third generation portion.

Nana Moore, my father’s mother was 99 when she decided to move into an Anglican Ladies Residence. She grew tired of cooking and cleaning. Nana took me on a tour of the lovely old building. She dragged her cane (Mom used hers as a pointer and a sword) behind her. She didn’t require it, but the staff insisted. Along the route we encountered an elderly woman maybe twenty years’ Nana’s junior. Nana stopped in front of her, blocking The Sound of Music video. This lady was slack-jawed, vacant. Nana said, “Geoffrey, do you remember your Auntie Agnes?” “Of course I do,” I (rep)lied (I did not recognize Auntie Agnes). “Look at her. She’s a cabbage now.” Nana gave Agnes a gentle tap on the shin with her cane. “Agnes! Maybe the doctors will give you a new head.” Agnes told me how much all the boys loved her beautiful red hair when she was a teenager. Nana said, “Let’s go.”

We sat outside together on the expansive verandah. Grey boards, white spindles, green railings. Looking north, I could just about see where Toe Blake’s Tavern and A&A Records used to be. Nana explained to me that her accountant had designated the Anglican Ladies Residence an institution for income tax purposes. And her eyes were faltering: knitting, crochet, crossword puzzles and Bridge were more difficult these days. Anyway, Agnes never was a good Bridge player.

The future is unwritten. I’ve been coming to realize that the future isn’t what it used to be. Late innings. And so I began to wonder what might transpire should I or members of my cohort end up alone in a retirement home. You can’t take it all with you, the books, the records and the Stones tour posters on the wall when you’re downsizing while your body and lifespan wither. On the other hand, memories, emotions and habits, good or bad, always weighty, will fit inside a matchbox.          

                                      

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. Sunset Oasis Confidential is out now in multiple formats. Visit my revitalized companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer*. Of Course You Did is still available.

*Avoid Amazon Canada as the pricing is beyond fucked. I’ve no explanation. Interested Canadian readers should shop directly with FriesenPress.