part0079

From the time I was about five or six, I remember the old man chasing kids around in his electric wheelchair – grey wisps of what was left of his thinning hair capturing the summer breeze as he screamed obscenities at the child that crossed him that day. I never messed with him, but I found each occurrence more entertaining than the last. He always carried a cane, though I never saw him walk with it.

Instead, he’d swing it at whatever kid he was chasing while burning that wheelchair’s rubber. The kids would make a game of it, of course – always purposely throwing a ball in the old man’s yard, or tossing rocks at his mange-ridden-black-cat that attacked anyone who dared cross the fence line. In an old rundown town like this, it wouldn’t be the same without an ancient crow like him – hard on the eyes and meaner than a junkyard dog.

I get paid to walk him around the nursing home he resides in – Shady Hallows – every Monday and Thursday. Twenty-five bucks a day, and all I’ve got to do is walk, push, and listen.

He’s interesting. Never a dull, or silent, moment with that man – his war stories and marriage woes, words of wisdom hidden behind a spiteful tone.

“Married Madge, and she was no better than Margaret. Mother said I had no luck with the “Ms,” which isn’t surprising, seeing as her name was Mary. Wretched old cow lived well into her nineties. Days shy of one hundred before she finally kicked the bucket. Still, I shed a tear for that heifer.”

I smile at his names, and the spite, that he has for his mother. It’s refreshing that I’m not alone in my resentment – no maternal love to be found, no-matter how hard I look.

I think Gunther likes me because I’m quiet. People think I have too little arrogance to step up and speak my mind, and too much humility to pipe in with my own experiences. The truth is, is that my diffidence is often misunderstood as humility. My inability to say what’s on my mind has made me some sort of sponge – soaking up everyone’s sorrows and molding them into something that I can call my own. Funny how mere silence can trick stories to creep out from the shadows. It’s surprising how much you’re able to hear and absorb when you care enough to shut up and listen.

“Park it right under that tree. Snuck us a sandwich from that bitch of a cafeteria lady, Betty. She’s lucky I don’t have my cane anymore. I ought to whack her.”

I grin as I follow his orders, never making a peep. This is how we work. I don’t talk, and he respects that. He degrades women, and it’s not necessarily that I respect that, but I accept it. It’s an understanding between two people who wouldn’t ever associate otherwise.

I park his wheelchair beneath the tree and sit on the wooden bench beside it.

“Can’t believe that Donnie Wilder had the balls to challenge me to a game of cards. Son-a-bitch doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. He has dementia. Go figure that he’d go and forget every single time I’ve whooped ’im. Go on, pull those sandwiches from my bag there. Surprised that old hussy didn’t peek. Nosy cow!”

Smiling, I pull out the plain bologna on white sandwiches wrapped in cellophane before unwrapping his, handing it to him, and then getting to work on mine.

“There was one, her name didn’t start with an M, though. I think Fi would’ve made me real happy, but I done messed that one up.”

Maybe the “Miserable Ms” were karma for whatever he did to “Fi.” The questions sit on my tongue, but there’s no use asking him. For one, it would ruin our agreement. With Gunther, I’ve taken a vow of silence, because once his mind is stuck on a subject, he’ll talk and talk and talk. I can’t say that I necessarily hate it.

I love it, actually, because it means that he trusts me. A lot of people trust the quiet ones because they know they’ll listen. Day to day, we get used to being interrupted and ignored – but under the shade of this tree, Gunther only knows me as “the girl who doesn’t speak but listens,” and I think it’s refreshing for him.

The nursing home is the last stop before the cemetery. It’s a sad place, and I find myself passing each room with a pang in my heart.

There’s Lucy, who stands in the doorway of her room yelling, “Help!” She won’t calm down until the nurse plucks the cards hanging from above her hospital bed and reads them to her as she runs her hand along her frail back. Lucy’s daughter filled each one with memories of her childhood to make her mother remember. I can’t imagine waking up every day not knowing where I am, or why. Only having memories of my childhood, nothing further. To not remember the paramount times in my life, like my wedding, or the birth of my children… it must be a miserable, terrifying existence, because you aren’t actually living at that point.

Then, there’s Donnie – ornerier than Gunther, surprisingly. He likes to challenge other patients to “wheelchair races” in the right wing of the home.

Sammy is a little man who used to jockey for the Mafia, and Gretchen likes to carry around a “baby” that her granddaughter gave her.

Between the colorful, lively faces, there are shells of elderly people holed up in bed, eating through a tube and defecating in diapers. If this is my last stop, I’d hope somebody would hand me a bullet and a gun.

“Fi…” Gunther continues after he realizes I’m still not talking. “She was absolutely beautiful. I saw her at a dance, and she was wearing a simple, white dress – tied around the waist. Her hair was auburn, curled around her face, and her green eyes… they reminded me of when I was living in Maine. They don’t have sand on the beaches there. Instead, there are tiny little rocks, and if you dig for a bit, you’ll find sea glass of different shades. Those were her eyes, something that could only be found buried beneath simplistic, grey rocks. She was different. Everything about her was.”

I chew the bite slowly as I watch his distant, white-blue eyes. They’re locked onto the fountain across the way - reflecting the tree branches in the distance as they fill with reminiscent tears. Hurriedly, he clears is throat and attempts to blink them away, but not before one escapes and slides along his wrinkly cheek. “Anyway. I think we ought to get back before the old hag catches on. Wheel me back, won’t ya?”

Nodding, I take one last bite before throwing the crust to the birds. I stand and grasp the handles of the wheelchair. Then I unlock the back wheels before we’re off.

We walk for several minutes in silence until he speaks once more. “Want some words of wisdom, kid? If you’ve got something good, don’t go fucking it up. You never know if you’ll find it again.”