I remember conversations with illegal Russian immigrants who hid in the hospital. All during my heart operation, while the doctors were working on me and repairing my heart, I had lunch and conversation with this bunch of illegal émigrés. In order to pay off their smuggler, they hid out in the hospital while making stents for the cardiology department. Rooms were changed on a daily basis depending upon which beds were available. They led a nomadic life in that hospital. I was fascinated by my new friends, in particular Anna, the beautiful blonde with an exquisite figure. She didn’t speak any English. However, that was certainly a minor problem that we could work around. The problem was that I was terrified of women.
        	Our conversations usually went like this:
        	Peter, the youngest, would look at me and ask, “You know AC/DC or heavy metal?”
        	And I would respond with “Ja, Ja,” thinking I sounded ethnic hoping to impress the blonde.
        	Anna smiled, “So who you like?”
        	Lying I would say, “Linkin Park. They’re the bomb,” and quickly change the subject. 
She would want to go deeper into the subject but I always demurred and put questions back to her. I loved beautiful women but wasn’t ready to just rush in so soon, so I approached carefully, very carefully.
If you got to lie to be cool you know you’re not cool. So, there were a lot of subject changes.
        	 When I grew tired of trying to figure how to hang and talk with them, I’d head over to a tropical island and dive in a pool that had a 100 foot waterfall. There I enjoyed the quiet beauty of Nature. Its beauty was overwhelming even overwhelming the rapture of Anna. Not a lot of talking there just music of the island and its waterfall. I swam with the fish as if I  was one of them. Afterwords, I’d go back to see the Russians and Anna. Like I’d heard, the hospital drugs were the best.
 
Softly there was a velvet voice whispering for me to wake up. And the next thing I know I’m getting up, so slowly and so gently but up. Did you know that they wake you up three hours after a heart operation to take a walk around the room and then again every two hours after that with each time going a little farther?  Lovely people, those nurses, taking me for a walk just when I feel like my body hates me. As every cell in my body screamed “What in the hell have you done now,” I would get up for these nice women with such soft and even sexy voices when they told me to do so. I had to rise to the occasion if I was to get better. Thinking of what I had gone through just to get to this spot I obediently got up to get better. I was getting up to make my life better and not just to appease some silky female voice. I was getting up to be better.  By the second day, I was getting up on my own and was usually getting up when the nurse comes to get me for my walk.
 
It was on the second day that  my nephew stops by to see how I’m doing.  I start to recount the story of the Russians and of my island paradise and wouldn’t you know it but the soap dispenser at the sink turned into the ceramic “Hello Kitty” figurine from Japan. She was busy washing her face. The after effects to whatever they gave me were still running around my body like kids at a roller rink. This is not how I expected my rehabilitation to proceed but here I was seeing things still. Visitors throughout the day were treated to my stories about what I saw during the operation and a performance of my walking around the room. I wasn’t too concerned about what I was seeing but was coming to realize how much of an effort this getting better thing was going to require. I had an uphill road ahead of me.  

Still a bit groggy two days later I was sent to my son’s house. In the months of recovery that followed while staying there, I did my physical therapy three times a week, ate and rested. After a heart operation where your rib cage has been cut open you can’t use your arms to get up from the table, a chair, a bed or anything. So I did a lot of practicing by getting up using just my legs. A pattern of daily in-home exercises developed. It was boring and yet challenging, so I stayed with it and focused on growing my health. When I was strong and restless enough, I left and returned to my own home.
 
As I opened the door and entered my house, I could clearly hear the song “Hello Walls” by Willie Nelson of country music fame playing in my head. His quiet rendition of the solitude expressed in that song resonated in my soul. I had a long way to go if I was to get better. I, and I alone, had to do it. I was more curious than surprised to be hearing such strange things as the effect of those wonderful hospital drugs lingered. That’s all it was. That’s what I told myself, at least. Being home was what mattered and I could continue with my rehabilitation and my new lease on life.
 
It was a peaceful time.  My world had gotten smaller, as it must, if I was to recover. I got up and exercised when I woke, and that could be anytime day or night. My whole job was to do one thing: recover. At the start, it was still every two hours; it was a walk around the room, or the house, or the yard, and then some balance strengthening routines. A walk around the block was a big adventure, filling as much as a half hour some days. This was the down payment on my new life.
 
After one of those walks on a clear blue day and a post walk nap, things started to happen. When I woke up that afternoon, I heard a throat clearing “Ahem!” I was certain it was someone passing by the house, so I dismissed it. Next, I hear a voice telling me that I should clear up the mess from my late night snacks, in fact, emphasizing that the whole room is a mess. I decide to play along with this voice. I was certain that this was just the drugs that I had been given in the hospital, or maybe my inner critic had gotten so loud that I could actually hear it. Whichever it was, I decided to just let it play out. Cleaning is damn near impossible for one that has just undergone open heart surgery. The bones in my rib cage hadn’t knit back together so I didn’t and couldn’t clean the house. I was  recovering from major surgery and I thought I had a valid excuse, I said  to no one in particular.  

“Likely story. This place is a mess,” I hear.
“What do you mean ‘likely’ story,” I said. “Just look at this scar running up and down my chest. I’m rehabbing.”
 
Then I realized what I was doing. I was arguing with a voice sans body. Was it or wasn’t it the lingering effects of the drugs. This could be bad. I was at a loss as to what to think. It had been months since the operation and the hospital drugs but maybe it was a flashback. I wanted to know was this a step forward or backward on my road to recovery and a new life. I would have to calm down and approach this as Sherlock Holmes would and eliminate all possibilities which would then lead me to the truth of the situation. With that, I felt better as if I was once again in control of my life. I had a plan and that was comforting.
 
Trying to find the voice, I look around the room, out the window, and in the closet. No one is there. Front room? Same thing. Bathroom, same. And this goes on throughout the house. I want to look under the bed but if I get down I might not be able to get up. I still can’t use my arms to push or pull myself. But I’m a rehabber, a survivor. In a flash of brilliance, I go and get a dressing mirror out of the closet. I lay it on the floor and tilt the angle until I can look under the bed. Nope. No one is there. It’s just an empty cavern, a cave of forgotten dreams.
 
“Just give it up and start cleaning the room. You’re smart enough to figure out this little, itsy bitsy problem,” it whispered to me.
 
I really don’t like it when people talk to me like that but I said nothing.  It’s a flashback, that’s all, I told myself. It had to be. That could be the only logical explanation. But, I did pick up my laundry and take the plates from last night’s snack out into the kitchen. There wasn’t any gratitude from the voice, nothing as courteous as that. Still, I had to admit the room looked a little nicer and would probably be easier to negotiate in the middle of the night.
 
The next time I heard a voice, it wasn’t so shocking. It was more like intrigue. On that crystal blue, late afternoon, my theory of a residual effect of the hospital drugs didn’t hold up anymore. Just too much time had passed. I was still perplexed. Two of my three older sisters had similar procedures, one being a triple bypass surgery, and I had asked each in a quiet moment how the drugs affected them. Neither mentioned anything about side effects like hearing voices or things like that. So, I kept quiet about my voices. I didn’t want to make mention of my reaction to the drugs as older sisters are quick to judge and analyze a deficit in their younger brother’s approach to life. My mental stability would have hit the gossip wires once again. That wouldn’t do. I was venturing down this path into an unknown land.
 
Coming back after a walk in the park one quiet morning, I was greeted by a complaint about the color of the walls and how they could use a little paint and tender loving care. It had been such a nice morning until I heard this. 
I stopped in my tracks. 
I really wished that this dialogue was taking place somewhere other than in my head, but, there it was, and it really wasn’t in my head. Or, at least that’s what I thought. The Russians of my operating dreams had gone on their way and Hello Kitty had gone as well. Something else was going on. This kept on growing by the day. 
 
When I came home the atmosphere reminded me of being in a grocery store, pleasantly shopping when the voice comes over the intercom with some announcement. There is no intro to those announcements. It’s just that all of a sudden a voice comes at you from you above advising you of something totally random. That is what would often greet me.

“Dishes from last night’s dinner are still on the table.” 
or 
“Full trash bins need your attention.” 
That is what my life had become with this invisible voice reminding me to pick up after myself and how the walls needed paint.  
“The colors in here are really drab,” or “a nice fuchsia rose would be a good color on these walls. It would make it cheery here,” were familiar comments.
What was the meaning of all this? That is what I kept asking myself.

At a time like this, being the youngest and the only male in a family of all women comes in handy. I was able to mumble in a positive fashion, pretend that I was listening, and then keep on going about my business.
 
One day, I found myself in the local hardware store in the paint department. Imagine that! So I thought, what the heck, and grabbed a couple paint samples. Later, I sat in my bedroom/office, holding the samples in my hand like a poker player deciding his next move, when the voice came back.
 
“‘Frosted Blue’ is perfect for this room,” the voice said.
“No, I like Green Mist, or maybe a Navajo White with a touch of sandstone added in,” I respond.
 
Stunned, I realized that I was now having a dialogue with this voice that didn’t have a body. There was no one there. I was alone, and discussing colors with a hallucination of sound. Panic rose within me. I had been going to the gym, eating a Mediterranean Diet, meditating, and trying yoga. I hadn’t been drinking or taking any mind altering drugs, but, here I was, having a conversation with a disembodied voice filling a void.
 
“Look, calm down. Don’t worry. We’ll get you through this, but, first, it’s gotta be the Frosted Blue,” I was told.
 
I sank down onto the floor. I just sat there in the middle of the room. I looked around and decided that nobody will ever believe me about this. I’m having a conversation with a voice, unseen and unknown. It couldn’t have been the hospital drugs still. They had to have worn off by then. I decide, all I could do was to go with it and listen to what was being said.
 
I thought I heard a smattering of kindness in that remark and decided to make my move and hold the line.
“Nah it’s gotta be Mint Green,” I said.
“Frosted Blue,” was the quick reply.
“Look, I’m agreeing to paint you but I get to choose.”
“Frosted Blue,” was repeated.
“Mint Green is soothing or the Navajo White is nice and neutral.”
“Frosted Blue.”
A bit more of such back and forth and I looked defeat squarely in the face. Frosted Blue it was. It was time to get with the program and start painting. But I held my ground in retreat and insisted on framing the window with corner molding that would be painted a bright and cheery yellow. I had to have some say in this insanity. I had to have my own voice. The benefit to the physical act of painting was an increased pace for my physical recovery. I was getting stronger both mentally and physically. This new era was full of surprises and small victories.
 
While painting the walls with a brush around the edges and in the corners, I kept hearing giggles. At first, it was just a suppressed sort of laugh, and then a giggle that became a crescendo to an outright laughing fit. It was like when you tickle your lover, and you just can’t stop. Then I used a roller and the voice started moaning like I was caressing it. This was getting really weird. Quickly, I finished. It was then that I realized to whom I’d been talking. I’d been talking to the walls. The walls. That was it. That’s where this voice had come from.
 
“It’s the wall. I have been talking to the walls,” I said. “I’ve been talking to the walls. I’m not nuts. I’ve just been talking to the walls,”
 
What a relief. I wasn’t crazy or going through withdrawals. I then knew who I had been talking with. However, I also realized that it’s not a good idea to let people know you had been talking to the walls. Even worse, it’s not a good idea to mention that you’ve been having a conversation with walls. So, I said nothing and just finished painting the room. It took a couple of days what with my physical state, but I kept at it.
 
Once it was done, it did look nice, even the frame around the window worked. But I certainly didn’t make reference to that. No, I wasn’t going to open myself to the laughing critique that I’d get from the family. Anyhow, they would never understand the need for me to add my touch to the project.
 
Now that the painting was done and I knew who I was talking to, the conversations in the homestead did take a bit of a turn. It’s like we became roommates.
 
“I like this new look. I can feel the filtered sunlight coming through and Debussy’s Clair De Lune wandering in from another room. The air is as still as a blue mist.” The walls sighed, “Ahhh, it’s just lovely.”
 
Generally speaking, do not to reply to these openings because where those conversations can go is not somewhere you’d want to go.  I would slip into the youngest brother role where I gave my best little smile, nod my head in humble agreement and say something in the affirmative to whoever it was claiming the pulpit.
 
Growing so accustomed to talking to the walls I looked forward to sparring with the voice each day. I would leave a mess just for the response it would get. A fly swatter was purchased so I could hear a squeal when I snapped one off the wall. I felt in charge. The wall suffered in silence. We had developed a rapport. Things were going smoothly with the painting project and all of the little touch ups.
 
It was while taking a shower after cleaning up on the completed painting project that I heard the next voice. This steamy voice said, “What about me. Ready for me?” This was too much. Now the walls were trying to seduce me. A paint job was needed in the bathroom. Mauve, something in mauve was being requested. Trying to dry off while keeping your body covered is quite an experience but I did it with gratitude for all the balancing exercises I learned when rehabbing. I hopped out of the shower and backed out of the room covering my private parts.
 
So, the bathroom got in on the act. It insisted on mauve and threatened to talk. I wanted white, as in spring clouds on a blue sky. It would, totally complement the other room. It just kept saying mauve. That’s all it said, mauve in varying and insistent sighs. We held our ground from opposite sides. We argued and we sighed. I lost. The bathroom lost. We both lost. We compromised with a nice slate grey, like a morning fog at the beach, with white borders. It looked nice. I thought that was it, but no. That was not to be, not at all. The adventure waiting around the corner was going to be different.
 
Have you ever walked somewhere and felt an oppression of gloom? It could be in a city when you pass someone and a dark cloud seems to have passed by. Or you are wandering in a forest and a cloud seems to have covered the sky and the land grows quiet on a bright sunny day. That was the feeling that I got when walking through my hallway.
 
The hallway had ears and had been listening in on my burgeoning relationships. Not much was said. No, it was more of a whimpering and sniffling at being neglected. You know how it is when you are around a perennial victim and you just want to pour the water from the vase on the table onto their head and then give them the flowers to make them feel better. That’s how I felt. In the spirit of goodwill I didn’t bang into the wall while traveling through the hall, I just politely ignored the whimpers.
 
After three days, I hollered, “Pink. You want Pink. That would be nice, don't you think? I’ll paint you Pink.”
“Well, actually I was thinking of a nice Mint Green. Rather like a meadow in spring,” the voice replied.
“What? Not a nice Pink like the Cherry Blossoms in spring,” I whimpered.
 
We compromised and the walls are a nice Mint Green with branches of cherry blossoms bringing you down the hall.
 
And so it went. The spare bedroom, the guest bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, the closets. I was just starting negotiations about the laundry room when it happened. The inevitable took place.
 
The walls and I had truly established a rapport that was not to be shared. You might even have called it a relationship. Being the ‘baby brother’ to three ‘feminist’ sisters straight out of the 60’s, I was what you could call housebroken. In brief, the toilet seat was always put down. I had been groomed to be the perfect little gentleman. You know the nice guy who can never get a date because well he’s just so nice. I was the guy who was stood up for the Senior Prom and the response was “Oh well, shit happens, you’ll get over it.”  I was obedient and boring unlike many of their many husbands who were many things but boring and obedient wasn’t on that list. 

But now I had a relationship with these walls and it was all of my own making, no matter how docile I was. Away from the interference of my family I had developed a relationship on my own. I was finding my own way. And then my sisters came for a surprise visit. I was caught off guard; panic filled the air like the sand in an Arizona monsoon. My new life was in danger of an early demise before it got started. The looming scenario is one where I go back to the way my family likes me.  They would want the old ‘baby’ brother back. That couldn’t be. I tell the walls to just be quiet, no matter what they say or what is done. Under no conditions could I allow the walls to talk. And that was my order. I had to preserve my new life, no matter how crazy it might be.
 
“Don’t say nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Don’t say nothing,” I commanded.
 
It’s off to the door and hug, hug, kiss, kiss etc etc for the how ya doing part of the visit. It was fun watching and listening to the sisters say how nice, charming and cute my little 660 sq ft apartment was and after all the 5,000 sq ft house that I had previously resided in was a bit much, ya know. In unison they told me that they never did really like that neighborhood, and so on. 
 
Starting the tour, I take them into the office/bedroom where it all began. The tea water on the stove starts boiling. I go out to tend to it and leave them to their judgements.
 
Voices are coming from the room that they are in. I hear a man’s voice talking with them. Not only is it a man’s voice, it’s my voice. The walls are mimicking me and using my voice as if I’m talking from another room. The hidden talent displayed was remarkable, except it had me frozen with terror. I have no words. I can only hear the voices, but not their words. But I can hear them moving toward the hall and then it all comes apart. It shouldn’t have but it did. It just got worse. The hall couldn’t mimic me. Remember the hall wall whimpers in a fragile and delicate voice and she did. Silence ensues. I hear the bathroom talking in its crooner’s voice. More silence. Then it’s a series of muffled conversation between all parties. Now it’s laughter and squeals of delight and they all start talking at once as in celebration.
 
“He’s so cute. You know he was left alone a lot when he was growing up and has always been a little different,” says the elder sister.
The younger chimes in with, “But he is sweet. He’s really darling. He just has different friends”.
The walls murmur at the appropriate times. It all sounded so sinister to my ears.
 
They are not talking about just anything. They are talking about me. All at once, they decided to collaborate and straighten my life out and in the most important ways, like relationships. The walls are promising to keep them abreast of who I’m dating and what type of a woman she is. I walk in. Without missing a beat, I’m greeted with “Hi, we were just talking about you.” And it’s all smile, smile, smile.
 
I ask myself how can this be happening to me? I’ve undergone three months of three different heart procedures, and the following year of rehab to end up here. What happened to my new lease on life? Would my life return back here to the old one, but with the new enhanced feature of talking walls! Where did my new lease on life go? Who negotiated this deal? It was time for me to stand up and make my voice heard.
 
Yes, that was the answer, to assert my inner male self. To seize the day was the way. And I’d write my own history, thank you very much.
 
I informed them that the tea and cupcakes are almost ready. I smile back at their smiles and quietly back out toward the kitchen but go out the front door instead.
 
My fortunes were changing as I had my camping gear still in the car. A case of my old ways aiding my new ways. A quick stop on the way out of town for supplies and it was a night under the stars. 

The next day I contacted a realtor that could handle my requests. It was kind of like trying to make a deal with a shark whose asking what’s for dinner but I got the deal done. For a half percent more in commission she would sell my house after auctioning off all of my belongings, transfer the profits to an offshore bank account and I’d be free.
 
And that is why you’ll find me out here far from the city, watching the sunset and listening to the owls. In my solitude, I often talk to the plants and animals around me, but none talk back and I am allowed my own destiny.  The Saguaro Cactus, the sentinels of the desert, keep watch over me  And on certain nights, I can hear Willie Nelson singing “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys” as the moon rises.