Death Comes to the Old Motel

The motel history lesson is taking a short break so I that I may tell a more current story. It is a story I can only title:

The Life and DEATH of FISH
or
How car shopping got pushed back four hours

Saturday, May 9, 2009:

Meredith and I were supposed to leave the motel bright and early that morning, so we could get her a new car to replace the one that her insurance company had recently declared a total. Everyone should know this story by now. If not, here's the SHORT, SHORT VERSION:

(Blah blah, recent accident, teenage driver ran a stop sign, no injuries, just crumpled metal).

So at roughly 9:15 am, we headed out of my residence, through the motel front office, and towards the door.
Unfortunately, standing directly outside the door was Dan, a tenant. He looked distressed, and was motioning with his finger for me to quickly follow him. I was not in the mood to be distracted by the pettiness of whatever I was convinced he needed me to see. I did notice, however, that he was very agitated, and was speaking very fast. He was talking about Fish.

"Fish" does not refer here to our scaly, gilled, underwater friends. Fish refers to FISH, a.k.a. Mr. Fischer, a long time tenant of the motel, and one of our most colorful, amusing, friendly, and REALLY annoying ones. A good man, but one who's life had clearly been derailed by Demon Alcohol. Fish was a former printer, 58 years old, going on 75. He was a physical wreck. Aside from basic alcoholism, he also suffered from a number of related ailments, most notably pancreatitis. He also claimed to have a pancreatic tumor, and a steel rod in his leg from some poorly explained past "incident".

As I followed Dan to Fish's room, I began to have an unsettling feeling. Nothing Dan was saying sounded good in any way.

"He's not movin', Chuck. He's not doin' anything. He won't answer! He's just sittin' there!"

I reached the room and saw that the door was open. I slowed down and peeked inside. I saw Fish. I didn't need to see any more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fish was an outgoing, talkative man. He enjoyed having visitors, and prided himself in being a gracious host. Unfortunately, at the motel, being a gracious host also meant that everyone would hang out at your place and mooch off of you constantly. And they did. Also, Fish loved his Cubs and Bears.

"CHUCK!", he would yell, while pounding on the office door.

"WHAT?!?", I would yell back, dropping everything and rushing to the door, wondering what horrific event was unfolding.

"The Cubs are on! Later tonight! CHANNEL NINE!"

"Thanks, Fish. I'll check into that. Right after my heart rate returns below 200."

He also found it of critical importance to inform me of breaking news in and around the motel. One weekend, during torrential downpours, the motel suffered some serious flooding. Rain water and melting snow were running from the sloped ground, directly into some of our basement apartments. Myself, my maintenance guy, and a couple tenants were feverishly bailing water and sandbagging at the same time. It was cold, strenuous work.

And there, around the corner, watching , was Fish, weather radio in hand.

"CHUCK! CHUCK!", he screamed.

"WHAT!? WHAT!?", I screamed back.

"It's really flooding here!"

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Fish received a monthly pension, and on the third Wednesday of every month he would need a ride to the bank. I ended up taking him each month so the other tenants wouldn't cajole him into giving them gas money for the one mile round trip. Also, he liked to stop at the liquor store on the way back to load up for the next few weeks. The other tenants would also convince him to buy THEM some booze, as well. I figured it was easier for me to take him. Also, it guaranteed I would get his rent right away. He always paid a month ahead. He really appreciated that I would take him, and I always refused his offer of gas money or beer. Each month we had our routine. It was always the same: Leave at nine, drive to the bank, drive to the liquor store, back to the motel. I would always park in the same spot of the completely empty liquor store parking lot and wait for him to emerge with the same exact stuff EVERY TIME. I found this amusing. I also like to play with my phone.












FEBRUARY MARCH APRIL


And so it went. Fish would pay his rent, be set for the next month, and then drink heavily. It was what he did.
But beneath his alcoholic exterior was a talented man. He owned a guitar, and he played it quite well. One evening, when the weather was warm enough for the window to be open, I heard an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer song. It was "From The Beginning", a great acoustic track. I went outside to see who was playing the record or tape or CD, and was stunned to find that it was Fish, playing the actual opening himself. It was beautiful and flawless, and I was speechless.


Unfortunately, this was a rare moment. It was a moment when, for some reason, Fish was actually sober. It made me realize how totally debilitating
alcoholism is, and why so many talented people were not fully realized because of it.

But as for Fish, Jack Daniels was not his only demon. He was also on some serious pain medication. Too many times, he would take his meds AND wash them down with a bottle of Jack. On a number of occasions he would be found, passed out in a sitting position, on the side of his bed. He would sit up near his pillows, so that his night stand was directly in front of him. That way he could smoke his cigarettes, drink his drinks, and look directly up at his TV, which was on a dresser to the side of his bed. To the casual observer, he would appear as if he were just meditating. He often left his door wide open, so a passing tenant would see him, and get him into bed. Sometimes they would panic and think he was dead, only to be relieved when he would cough or snort in some startled way. I had remarked a couple of times to my assistant that one day we would find him dead in there.

On a few occasions when his medication ran out, he would claim that he couldn't go on, and he would convince someone to call an ambulance. Someone always would, and off he would go. He would always return two or three days later in a great mood, and looking like a million bucks.

"Chuck, I'm never drinking again! "

"OK, Fish"

"The Bears are playing the Packers on Sunday!"

"Yes, they are."

Every month was the same cycle. He'd get his money and live it up for a couple weeks. Then he wouldn't look so good. Then he would complain about being broke. Then he would look and sound absolutely horrible. Finally, during the last week before his new check, he would be so miserable, that he'd call 911. The ambulance would come and take him away. He would return feeling great, get his check, and do it all over again. Everyone became desensitized to the site of the ambulance. It became known as the "Fish Taxi".

Very recently, after a visit to his doctor, Fish obtained a prescription for Fentanyl patches, which deliver constant pain relief in the form of a nice, tidy opiate. Really similar to morphine. Basically for people who have developed a strong tolerance to every other pain killer. Fish got the box, which contained ten patches. He asked me if I would hold on to the box for him, so that "they won't steal them from me". I figured that made sense. Initially, the plan worked well. Fish would ask me for a patch and I would give him one. Then, a couple days later, he would ask for another. Unfortunately, I started to notice a deterioration in his overall demeanor in the days preceding May 9th. I also noticed that he was asking for a patch EVERY day. Being that I am not his doctor or guardian, I had no ability or right to question or deny him. He eventually told me he was wearing several patches at once.

On the evening of May 8th, Meredith and I returned to the motel after a nice dinner out. She had come up in advance of our planned car shopping the following day. As we approached my door, I was greeted by Fish, who was clearly inebriated, and clearly unhappy. He sounded terrible, and was really not very coherent.
I walked him back to his room, more annoyed at him then anything else. I was not in the mood for any tenant idiocy that evening. Thankfully, the rest of the evening finished without incident.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was Fish, in his passed out position. I'd seen it a number of times. However, this time was immediately unlike any others before. First of all, he was completely slumped forward. His forehead lay directly on the surface of the nightstand. His arms were both limp, and hanging straight down. And more importantly, he was blue. Not the blue of a former roommate of mine, who was allergic to cats and ended up in the hospital once, but bad blue. Freakish, Halloween makeup blue. The veins on the side of his head were an even deeper blue, making them quite noticeable. A nearly empty Jack Daniels bottle sat on the far end of the nightstand. I yelled one time:


"FISH!"

I knew without question that he was dead.

Within one minute of my 911 call, the first squad car arrived. The officer who came out walked into the room, took a look, and immediately walked out. He knew. Then, as if knowing he HAD to do his job, he took a deep breath, and went back in. He then emerged, stood outside the door, and waited. There wasn't much for the paramedics to do, except call the time of death. The next several hours were all policy and procedure. More police, the departure of the ambulance, and the arrival of the coroner. Once it was determined that I was no longer needed, I placed the motel in the hands of my able assistant. Meredith, with the patience of a saint, put down her book, as she and I finally left the property.


Our car shopping went as planned, without incident. But the rest of the day continued for me with the surreal image of a deceased man on my mind.

I don't know much about Fish, except that he had two daughters. They arrived the following day to gather his belongings. They were understandably sad, yet seemed resigned that this was to be their father's inevitable fate. I was relieved to know there would be a proper family service for him.

Now comes the task of cleaning the room and preparing it for a new tenant.

I guess that's what I get paid for.