The Factory Man's Reset

4:30AM. Charles “Chuck” Boling awoke to the loud drone of the emergency call light from the adjoining bathroom. The night shift nurses’ clogs squeaked as they scurried to check on his suitemate who had a terrible tendency to fall asleep on the toilet.

The staff often left Chuck’s bedroom door slightly cracked, and although it usually annoyed him, there was just enough light for him to put on his houseshoes, to grab his robe, and to carefully shuffle to the vestibule of the doorway. There he saw the young nurse’s aide, the one with kind, familiar eyes, grabbing some towels out of the linen closet across the hall.

“Miss, is Ansel going to be alright?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and the thick creases around his temples.

“Mr. Boling, you should not be up without your walker.” She put the towels down and gently put her arm under his and guided him to his bed, where she brought over to him this walker with old worn tennis balls on the ends. He was going to say it wasn’t his until he saw on the front handle the name CHUCK written in bold permanent marker.

There she continued, explaining. “Ansel was discharged to another unit, remember? Mr. Payne moved in next door last week. He unfortunately is no longer with us. He had a cardiac event while in the bathroom. They are cleaning him up in his room now so the bathroom is available to use if you need it.”

It took Chuck a minute to register who Mr. Payne was, but vaguely remembered thick black hair with jaundiced eyes, and a potbelly that grew and shrunk over and over when he laughed. “He died on the toilet?... Like The King?”

The girl’s eyebrows furrowed. “Who is that?” she asked with no sarcasm in her voice.

Chuck was shocked. Who hadn’t heard of the King?

“You know, The King… ‘Hound Dog…’” he tried to think of more- either the hit songs of his childhood that he had listened to in the den, or the movies Mother & her friends used to watch- but his mind ran empty.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t pay much attention in history class, sir. Do you need to use the bathroom, or need a drink of water before you go back to bed?”

He pondered and decided yes, he should probably use the bathroom, and so the young woman walked with him to the bathroom and started to shut the door behind him.

“Thank you. What is your name again, Miss?”

“It’s Jeannie.”

“Okay. Thank you, Jeannie.”

—

9:00AM. “Mr. Boling?” He awoke in the lounge on the sofa. He must have dozed off after breakfast. One of the dining room workers stood in front of him with a tray of dishes in their hands. “Are you done with your coffee, Sir?”

“No, I am still working on it, thank you.” His black coffee had gotten cool, but it was the strongest-roasted batch the kitchen had made in days, so he was going to savor it regardless. Chuck looked around and saw several other patients asleep, some in big wheelchairs leaned back. Others were pacing and looking out the window at the patio. He also saw some nurses at the desk- some were laughing, some were doing work on the computer. Everyone was in their own little world.

“Good morning, Chuck. How are you today?” One of the women in charge had come around the other side of the sofa. She was the one that came around with puzzle sheets and a little dog sometimes. She was one of the few to wear a name tag, he had to check again but hers read “Barbara Pitt.” Her blouse had this orange and pink psychedelic pattern that looked like something my Mother would have worn to a Christmas party in the 70s, and it had the same kind of Elizabeth Taylor perfume that his ex-wife had used as a feeble attempt to cover up the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.

“Doing fine, and you?”

“I am doing great, thank you for asking. Is it alright if I sit here?” He nodded and she took a seat next to him on the couch. She always had a clipboard in her hand or not far from her, a few different pens in her pockets with the clips visible, and the occasional mint. “It is time for your annual assessments again. Is it alright if I ask you a few questions? We ask everyone these same questions to make sure we are meeting your needs. It should take about twenty minutes.” He took a sip and nodded again.

“I’m going to say three words for you to remember. Please repeat them back to me after I have said all three: sock, blue, bed.”

“Sock, blue, bed.” She scribbled after his answer.

“Please tell me what year it is right now.”

He paused a few moments before saying 2022. It was still shocking to him, how his 80 years had flashed by so quickly. The last twenty or so years had been a blur.

“What month are we in right now?”

“December.” There was a Christmas advertisement playing on the television.

“What day of the week is today?”

The grease and flavor of bacon was on the edge of his coffee cup, and they only had bacon twice a week, so he had a 50/50 shot: “Wednesday.”

“Great. Now, let’s go back to the earlier question. What were the three words I asked you to repeat?”

“Hmm.” He remembered needing to remember them, but now they seemed like mirages in a desert he couldn’t quite grasp. One came to his mind: “Sock.”

She nodded her head slowly and prompted him. “One was a color…”

“Blue.”

“And one was a piece of furniture…”

He looked out at the room in front of him. He saw some tables, some chairs, a few lamps, and some artwork that didn’t look like anything at all. “Chair?” he guessed.

There was a pause. “Great, thank you.” She smiled gently, scribbled some more, then flipped the page. “Okay, now we have a different kind of assessment. This one is about your preferences and background, to make sure we are doing things here to your liking here as much as possible.”

“Do you still prefer to wake up before breakfast?”

“Yes.” He had always been an early-riser. On the days he worked, Chuck had to be up at 4:30AM to take the subway for the first shift at McLellan. The 12-hour shifts were brutal physically and mentally, but it put food on the table.

“Do you prefer a shower, tub bath, sponge bath, or bed bath?”

“A shower.” He used to take one in the morning before he left and one in the evening upon coming home, but now that he had retired he saw the need for less and less. He still always wanted to be clean-shaven and use Barbasol, but they did not always keep it stocked on the unit compared to the generic brand.

“How important is it to you to have your family or a close friend involved in discussions about your care?” she asked, looking down at her clipboard sheepishly. They both knew that his daughter had not visited since he was admitted. He remembered being so angry when he was brought there- it was a rage that made him feel so young and strong in the moment, and then after it had blown over, so old. He had cursed her until he was red in the face, with every blue-collar insult he knew for putting him in one of these places, but she never cried. She walked away and didn't turn back.

He vividly remembered when Rebecca Jane was small, like an entire wing of the art gallery of his life’s proudest moments. At her 2nd grade Easter pageant that he was able to attend after a leak at the plant had shut down production, she wore a yellow dress with paper bunny ears and had a solo. She & his his ex-wife, Louise, made rum raisin cookies every year from for his birthday, his Mother's Depression-era recipe. And he remembered her opening Christmas presents and having this look of astonishment that made the hard times worth it. At her high school graduation, she looked back and forth across the crowd between her mother & father. And when she was working her way through cosmetology school, she would shave her father on the weekends. It broke his heart to recall all of these old, sweet memories- why couldn’t she ask about the good moments he remembered, instead of the bad times he didn’t?

“She isn’t involved.”

“You said family isn't involved. When you think about what you would prefer, would you say that it’s very important, somewhat important, not very important, not important at all, or that it is important but you have no choice or can’t have them involved in decisions about your care?”

He answered quickly and promptly, because he didn't know if it was his choice anymore: “Somewhat important.” He did miss visiting with someone, especially her little boy who had racked up some miles now and probably had kids of his own. The days in Chuck's room were either too quiet or filled with the wrong kind of noise. The last drinking buddy of his friend group had passed away years ago.

“Okay, last question for now: how important is it to you to be able to use the phone in private?”

“It is important to me. I’ve always enjoyed my privacy. But I have lost my phone charger.”

“I have a cord you can borrow if you’d like. I’ll have my assistant drop it off to you in your room.” Her phone buzzed. “Thanks so much, Chuck. I have to run to the other unit now for a meeting, but I will see you later.” She grabbed the rest of her papers and briskly walked to the walls with the security code and hidden doors, and a group started singing along to karaoke on the TV- “love me tender…”

—

12:00PM Chuck stood in his doorway waiting for his lunch tray to be taken up. It had been a good lunch but he did not have nearly enough condiments to flavor the low-sodium meals they were served. Even though he couldn’t see the clock on the wall, he could tell it was almost time by the sound of the huge bussing carts cruising down the hall and the aroma of pickled-something. Strangers were passing up and down the hall in uniforms, smiling and talking.

All were smiling except one: a tall, wet-eyed woman who had just stepped out of the room next door. She had on a wrinkled work shirt and her hair was greasy, but pulled back to where only a few thick strands were not contained within her ponytail. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.

“Are you alright?” Chuck asked, leaning over his walker into the hallway. She looked up as though he had caught her in a daze.

“I will be. Eventually.” she responded, wiping away some leftover tears.

“Were you visiting someone?”

“Yes, saying goodbye to my father, Frank.”

He got quiet. “Sorry for your loss. He was a good man,” he mumbled after realizing Frank must have been the man who passed this morning.

She put her bag down on the floor between them and went to grab Chuck’s tray to put it on a nearby table.

“Here, let me grab this for you... Can I ask you something? Did he say anything to you about me?”

Chuck thought back- he could barely remember what the man looked like, let alone his life story. “I’m sorry, Miss, I really don’t remember.”

“I just… wish I would have had the chance to tell him I forgave him. I had my mind made up to resent him forever, I had been at a conference in Springfield and drove through the night but didn’t make it in time… I hope he felt the same way for me.” she remarked defeatedly. “Do you have children?”

Chuck felt his throat tighten up around his Adam's apple. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, it’s never too late, until someone’s 6 feet under,” she said all matter-of-fact. She went to shake both of his hands. “Thank you for being a good suitemate to my father. Good luck, Mr. Boling.”

“And to you, too.”

—

5:00PM Chuck was awakened from his afternoon nap by a quick series of knocks at the door. A young man wearing khakis and a polo shirt opened the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Boling. I apologize I wasn’t able to get up here sooner, but Barbara wanted me to drop this charger off to you before I left. You don’t need to get up, but if you tell me where your phone is, I’ll plug it in for you” Still in a daze, Chuck pointed to the bottom dresser drawer, where he always liked to keep his valuables. The young man retrieved Chuck’s flip phone, plugged it into the wall by his bed, and left before Chuck could muster a word.

The phone began to light up and vibrate after the 6 O’Clock News. Chuck did not have much use for a phone over the years. He mostly dialed the operator to ask about store hours and directions, and it usually had the weather on it. Rebecca had bought this one for him- it was the cheapest model they had at the store, and the screen had a crack from where he threw it once.

A lot of the missed calls were from 1-800 numbers. Some numbers he recognized- the electric company, the hospital. And there was one missed call from “Becky.” Chuck could see in the corner a little mailbox icon, which meant there were voicemails.

He felt a little ping of something: excitement, hope, whatever you want to call it. It was small but strong enough to give him the courage to dial his voicemail. The screen lit up with a bold text box with four lines underneath: Please Enter Your Password. He knew he didn’t know it- he tried his birth year, his banking number, his childhood home’s house number, and he had made no progress.

He vaguely remembered when Rebecca was helping him set it up that if he pressed the side buttons it would pop up with a menu, so he held those until a different screen popped up.

It had multiple options that were in much smaller writing- he could barely make them out without his glasses that had been missing for months, but saw one that said “Reset Your Password.” He pressed the red button to approve it, when the screen turned to black.

—

8:30PM The nurse’s aides had begun their rounds for shift change. Room 2401’s door was closed until Jeannie knocked softly and asked to come in. When she arrived, Chuck was on the floor next to his bed, hunched over this little phone screen. He had a panicked look in his eyes, like a deer in headlights. “Louise, Louise, please help me... I can’t call Becky.”

She unfortunately had seen that look dozens of times now, in so many people on her shift. She walked over and looked at the screen to see an address book with zero contacts. She sat and joined him on the fall mat. “I’m sorry, sir, but it seems you accidentally reset your phone. I will check the paper file, but I know you are listed as your only emergency contact. Would you like me to leave a note to see if Barbara has Becky’s number?” Chuck continued to stare glumly at the screen as though nothing she had said had registered with him. It was some combination of those ten numbers. It will probably come to me later, he thought.

Alas, he did have a moment of clarity while she was talking, and he remembered the picture. He pulled it out of the bottom drawer, where he always liked to keep his valuables. It was a photo of Rebecca, in a yellow dress. He showed it to the girl beside him.

“This is Becky. She just had these pictures last week taken at her recital.”

“She’s beautiful, Mr. Boling.”

“Yes, I miss her a lot. I wasn’t there for her for the other ones when I needed to be, because I was working so much. So I really need to be with her now.” His tears started to fall.

“It will be okay, Mr. Boling.” She reassured him while easing him up off the floor and into bed. “I will leave Barbara a note, and we will get things sorted in the morning. Things will seem much clearer in the morning, just try to get some sleep.” That is all he could hope for as his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off into sleep, exhausted from the rushing forth of years of stifled emotion into a single evening.

—

EPILOGUE

“Hey Jeannie, perfect timing, I just finished making eggs.” Mark announced as his daughter walked in the door.

“Thanks, Dad,” she practically sighed as she took off her work shoes at the door and plopped down onto one of the kitchen island’s bar stools.

“How was your night, hon?”

“One of my residents is having a hard time. His dementia has been getting worse. Tonight he though I was his wife and was upset because he accidentally deleted his daughter’s contact information. He showed me the school picture he keeps hidden away of his daughter, for like the third time this month.” Jeannie felt the sobs in her throat. Mark came over to hold her and stroke her hair.

“Honey, I’m really sorry. Caring for people can be messy sometimes.”

She braced herself to hold the tears and sobs back. “I want to help him find her. I know it’ll take some time because he had said before that she was getting married again the last they spoke. But you hear of all of those kids finding their birth mothers over social media, why can’t it be the other way around?”

“Jeannie, you really shouldn’t be getting into other people’s family affairs. There’s levels of hurt that only they know about, and she may not want to be found at the end of the day.”

“I can’t not help him, Dad. If you have the power to heal someone with a small act, then it’s cruel to do nothing. I know God forbid if anything were to happen between us, I would want someone to help me find you again.”

Mark chuckled. “You always have had a kind heart. I’m proud of you, kid. And I won’t forget, it’s my job to protect you. And to serve you delicious breakfast, so please eat.”

Jeannie perked up at his affirmations and munched on a piece of toast. She brainstormed aloud. “He was from around here, so maybe Grandma Jane knows where to find her.”

“I'm sure Grandma would love that, sweetie. She adores seeing you, but understands that you are busy and working difficult shifts.”

"That's where we'll start, then: spending time with my family to find his."