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The night was quiet like all of Elliott’s nights the last few years. None of his gang who met for doughnuts and coffee at Casey’s General Store every morning were still around. Even his Thursday night poker buddies had fallen by the wayside. Charlie and Pete had both died last year. Eddie didn’t die, but his mind was in full reverse with only an occasional rest stop. The last time Elliott went to see Eddie, he was repeating lines from Alice in Wonderland. He kept saying over and over: “I’m late! I’m late!”
“Late for what, Eddie?” Elliott had asked gently.
“Life, of course!” Eddie had replied, looking straight into his friend’s eyes. For just a moment, Elliott thought he saw his old buddy emerging. But then the moment passed, leaving Elliott sitting across from a stranger.
Tonight he was celebrating. This would be the last of the lonely nights for Elliott GoLightly. He would never have to see the signs of all his regrets every time he looked in the mirror. The deep creases were mocking reminders of all the opportunities that he had passed over, preferring the safety of his familiar rut. It had been easier to go to work every day and do the job he memorized the first year he was hired and then to come home and watch his favorite programs. When he retired, he had developed other routines that very quickly became familiar ruts that he did not like disturbed. Spontaneity had never been part of Elliott’s makeup.
Eddie's right, thought Elliott. It is too late for me in this life. No point in continuing this charade. Elliott considered several methods of ending his miserable existence, but none of them appealed to him. Hanging himself would be the easiest. Very little equipment required. The only problem was Elliott’s imagination. He could just see himself hanging from one of the cross beams in his den, flailing his arms and desperately trying to support his weight by clutching the rope length that stretched from the ceiling to the noose. Then he saw his lips turning blue and felt himself gasping for air. No—hanging was too dangerous. He might linger on in agony too long. Besides, he wasn’t absolutely sure he wouldn’t change his mind if given the chance.
Taking pills was another option. The trouble with this method was that Elliott, much to his dismay, was the only one of his friends who hadn’t been taking at least fifteen pills every day for the last ten years for some ailment or other. Elliott took an occasional aspirin for a headache. That was it. He—goldarnit!—was as healthy as a horse. That was why he knew he had to take deliberate action to end his miserable life. He was too healthy to die of some disease like his buddies.
Elliott finally decided to purchase over-the-counter cold medicines and allergy pills—making sure not to buy the non-drowsy brands. Then he mixed in a handful of aspirin and chased them with a bottle of bourbon. He figured he would either be asleep or too drunk to know the difference when the end came. There was no chance of anyone stumbling over him before the deed was complete. There was no one left in his life who would even notice he was missing.
The bourbon bottle rested on the arm of Elliott's chair. His fingers wrapped themselves tightly around the bottle. As the drowsiness washed over him, his fingers slowly relaxed until the bottle fell from their grasp and bounced silently on the carpet. His arms slid over the chair arms and hung loosely. His mind was slipping away from the world he knew all too well.
Suddenly, he heard a voice calling him. “Elliott! Wake up!” Then he felt someone shaking him. I can't believe it! he thought. What idiot is this—messing up my well-thought out plan? He opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” he asked. He wasn’t pretending bewilderment. Nothing he saw was familiar. He was in a room painted a soft yellow. Purple, pink, and yellow flowers in glass vases accented the room. He turned to the young man standing in front of him and asked again, “Where am I?”
“Where would you like to be, Elliott?”
“Dead.”
“Well, then, I’m sure that can be arranged. But, what do you say to a bit of breakfast first?” The young man walked toward the door, beckoning Elliott to follow. Stepping out of the room into a grand hallway, Elliott knew this place must have been a mansion home at one time. Obviously it had been converted into a mental facility. No other explanation could explain his presence here. The young man entered a room to the left. Elliott followed.
Three huge tables stood on the far side of the room. They were piled high with delicacies. Eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, pancakes, waffles, coffee cakes, omelets, crepes, and to Elliott’s delight, doughnuts! People were sitting at the small tables around the room, but Elliott could not take his eyes away from the food long enough to look at them. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until he saw all that gorgeous food just sitting there. He grabbed a plate and started a campaign to get as many things on this one plate as possible. Wonder how long it's been since I ate? he thought.
Looking around for an empty table, he spotted one in the middle of the room and started toward it. As he twisted and turned to slip between the chairs of those already seated, a queer thought started tugging at his mind. At first he ignored it because his primary purpose was directed toward finding a seat and eating his breakfast. It wasn’t until he actually settled himself and began to eat that he took the time to look at the people around him. Everyone was young. That’s strange, he thought. I always thought most nutty people were middle-aged or older. Then as he swiveled his head to look around the room, Elliott noticed that there were children here also. Seated behind him, the children’s backs were toward Elliott.
Doesn’t look much like a nut house! he thought just as the young man who brought him here pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Are you enjoying your food, Elliott?”
“Yeah! It’s great!” said Elliott, stuffing the rest of a doughnut in his mouth. “Hey, what is this place? It doesn’t look much like a mental hospital.”
The young man laughed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“How did I get here? How long do I have to stay? How long have I been here?”
“Did you have someplace you wanted to go, Elliott?”
“Well—no. I guess I was just wondering…I mean, one minute I was in my arm chair at home—dying rather peacefully, I might add—and the next minute I’m here. I seem to be a little vague on the details. I was hoping you could fill them in for me. I feel like I was teleported or something.”
“Or something.”
Elliott looked at the young man. He liked him, but his cryptic answers were starting to jangle Elliott’s nerves. “Look here. I have a right to know where I am.”
“Yes. You are dining at the Hospitality Center in Topsy-Turvy.”
“Topsy-Turvy? What the heck is that? Kind of callous to name a mental hospital something like that, isn’t it?”
“Oh, but Topsy-Turvy isn’t a mental hospital, Elliott. It’s the name of our world.”
“Your world? Okay… enough’s enough! Where’s the director of this loony bin? I demand to talk to him!”
The young man did not respond to Elliott’s demands. Instead he asked, “Elliott, look around you. What do you see?”
Elliott looked slowly around the room, not to please his companion, but because he was no longer sure how safe he was. There were young adults everywhere. There were a few children across the room. No old people.
“I see a lot of well-dressed young people…and a few kids.”
“How old do you think the adults are?”
“Oh, I would say the adults range in age…” Elliott glanced around again. “…from twenty to forty-five. Why?”
“Most of these people range in age from sixty-five to ninety.”
“Yeah, right! What do you take me for? Oh, I forgot. You think I’m crazy.”
“Let me show you something, Elliott. I will be right back.” The young man walked across the room, bent down and spoke to one of the children. The boy rose and followed him back toward Elliott. As they neared, Elliott was expecting to see a typical young boy. Instead he saw a person whose only resemblance to a child was his size. His face was creased with wrinkles not unlike Elliott’s. Rather than the characteristics one expects in a child—a little mischievousness, perhaps innocence, but certainly happiness—Elliott saw the weariness, the negativity, the disappointment one too often sees in those who have passed the mark of middle-age.
“What the...he…?” Elliott could not say another word. He was speechless. He reasoned that perhaps he was still sitting in his arm chair—only the drugs had rendered him delusional instead of killing him.
“Come with me, Elliott, and I will show you our world.”
Unable to resist his curiosity, Elliott followed, taking a couple of chocolate doughnuts with him. “What’s your name, young man? Or should I say
old man?”
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