The Rebirth of Clayton Powell - Part 2

     Clayton squeezed exactly one half inch of Crest onto his toothbrush and replaced the tube to the cabinet. The Oxycontin bottle caught his eye. It was the one thing he didn't flush down the toilet after Rhonda died. He was well aware of the dangers of the opiate with all of the press it was receiving lately. The doctor issued strong warnings too - “used with extreme caution even when the pain is at its worst.” He'd hung on to it for one reason or another. This could be his best option which is why it was still there, awaiting a purpose.

     The internet was helpful in his research on self-administered dying but he had an aversion to blood and pain which, to him, made lethal doses of Oxycontin a viable option. The drug had an effect similar to heroin, affecting the pleasure centers of the brain leading to euphoria. Not a bad way to go in his estimation. The pills could also be crushed and administered by injection giving them a more rapid entry into the bloodstream, but Clayton also hated needles. The bottle was still near full, surely enough to affect the results he was looking for in a short period of time.

     Living alone meant he'd not likely be found for days. Unpleasant but necessary to prevent the interception of medical personnel. He'd wait till after his D.C trip, though. A plan was in place for that too. Scheduled to be gone for three weeks he'd fly home after the first, take the pills and have two more weeks before the kids expected him to be home. By that time, they'd have received the news. There was a handsome inheritance tucked away for them. They'd get over his death soon enough.

     Fences had to be one of North America's most distinguishable icons; pointed, painted, impregnable or insubstantial, tall, short, straight or crooked. Every front yard in Clayton's neighborhood was enclosed by one, all sending a similar message – no trespassing. He jogged on, recollecting Sophia Loren's famous line, “A woman's dress should be like a fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view.”

     With clock-work timing the Martins' dog slammed against his wire enclosure, lips peeled into a toothy grimace just inches from the sidewalk. Clayton had no doubt that his bark was indicative of his bite, flesh-ripping incisors doing battle with the weaved wire standing between him and passers-by. Clayton took little comfort in the steel fortress; the dog had a will that would one day see him to the human prize he sought.

      He rounded the corner and worked his way up Spruce Street, past Tiny Tike Daycare and Dawson's Mini Mart. Jogging became a part of his daily routine when Rhonda came home from the hospital to die, her temporary bed dropped into the middle of the living room for convenience; he could keep a close watch while her body dabbled with the dark unknown.

     Dying had a curious smell. It permeated the house and all of its accoutrements. At times, when she slept, he made his escape from its ugliness, drawing deeply on the fresh air forced into his lungs by a slow gallop around town.

     He stopped and bent to tie a rebellious shoe lace, the nylon kind, too slippery for a decent knot. Made for women by women, he thought to himself. How did they end up in his man joggers?

     Returning upright he saw it. He'd never seen it there before, its discreet, unsuspecting facade of sage colored vinyl. It looked like all of the other houses except for the commercial sign fastened just above the ivory front door. Lawson & Trent Senior Services – a bit elusive but he supposed that's what they were after.

     Approaching the iron gate, he lifted the latch and nonchalantly stepped into the manicured front lawn. Slate landscaping rock led a straight, non-threatening path directly past a row of blooming forsythia to the front door. The window blinds were pulled. Light footsteps drew him to the top of the stairs, the porch floor creaking unceremoniously as he reached it. His left knee buckled under a shot of pain – damn knee!

     “Open,” the sign announced and he gently turned the knob. Lucille's toothpaste smile greeted him upon entry.

      “How can I help you, today?” She was too cheerful. Clayton preferred the tellers at his bank branch, barely acknowledging his presence as they performed their mundane tasks.

     “I was just jogging by...never even noticed this place here before. Just curious, I guess. What services exactly do you do for seniors?” He was playing it cool. She looked pleased that he asked; for the next few minutes she could earn her keep.

     “Well, you might say our services are quite specialized, dealing mostly with friendship, filling the void when companionship is needed. You might have seen our ad in this week's paper?”

     “Mm hm.” Clayton jammed his hands into his front pockets, toying nervously with the house keys. He withdrew the right and reached across her desk for a business card, flipping it front to back to front again.

     “So...how exactly does it work?” Stupid question, and she pounced on it.

     “Why don't you sit down, Mr...”

     “Powell. Clayton Powell.”

     “Tell me a little about yourself, Clayton Powell.”

     He assumed the empty, padded chair across from Lucille and rubbed a nervous palm against the cantankerous knee.

     “I don't know...not much to say, really. Wife died of cancer six months ago. I'm not looking for another, you know. She was the love of my life. Just...well...I'm taking this trip to D.C next month. Got an extra plane ticket.”

     “Mmm. You'd like some company, then?”

     Lucille had a curly mop of hair, dyed artificially copper-red with a shock of white resting playfully on her left temple. The pendant earrings danced on her shoulders every time she spoke. Clayton was not clairvoyant but she must be...let's see...fifty-five, sixty. Her candour was disarming.

     “It's o.k to admit that you're lonely Mr. Powell. May I call you Clayton? We do all kinds of matches here; long-term, short term, friendship...love, if we're lucky. But that's not something one can plan for. For some it just happens. For others...well...it's all about having someone to talk to, share stories...you know.”

     Clayton nodded.

     “And...what if...what if I decided that I'd like to find a friend? Short-term, of course. Just this once, one week to D.C and back, all-expenses paid, no strings attached, that sort of thing. Have to be someone I like, of course...of the female persuasion, preferably. Nothing more, though. Just one week and that's it.” His voice was becoming a little forceful by the end and he swallowed hard.

     “If that's what you'd like I can set up an appointment to see Mr. Trent, Harv Trent.” She nodded toward a closed door to her right. He'll take a look at your file and set up some potential matches from our data base. I'll need to ask you a few questions, Clayton, if that's all right.” Lucille pulled a notebook from her top drawer and gazed at him, business-like and demure. “What are your interests...hobbies?”

Continued...