have to just give up. I’d complain to the super, but he’s useless. And the calls to her snot-nosed daughter are even more useless, her business skirts so tight that they apparently choke off the blood to her conscience.
“Do I have kids, Freedom?” She remembers my name this time. This makes me sad. I think of her son and daughter, the ones who come by only to raid her medicine cabinets and pillage her jewelry boxes. I warned them once, trying to do Mimi a favor, but it backfired. And now they never come by.
“No, Mimi. You don’t have kids.” I envy her ignorance. There is a piano in her bedroom, the only room with the space in the apartment to hold it. And despite the dementia, she can always rememberthe right notes to play. I lead her to the bench, an attempt to put her chaotic mind at ease, before she starts talking like a porn star, before the demons of dementia possess her head.
“Do you have children, Nessa?” I never told her my name was Nessa. She flips through a songbook like it’s written in hieroglyphics.
“Nessa…why did you call me Nessa?” I straddle the bench right next to her.
“Who is Nessa? You’re Freedom.” There’s no use asking her anymore. She has the attention span of a tsetse fly, not her fault. But I thought I was more careful than that around her. When did I slip? Twenty bucks says it was some night when I was striding the apartment’s balcony in a drunken stupor.
I’m Nessa Delaney!
I let it go. The ringing from her head catches my attention once more. I help the hearing aid out of the side of her skull and speak loudly to her.
“I’ll pick up some batteries from the pharmacist this afternoon.” I flip through the pages until we get to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I put the book upside down on the music stand, for no other reason than selfish entertainment on my part. But Mimi impresses me. She plays it by ear, and I have to wonder how much of it she can actually hear. I take advantage of the somber melody and her deafness.
“You know, Mimi. There will be a day when I am gone, and that day will come before yours. And I’ll not be here to clean the eggs from the stove and to get you new hearing-aid batteries. And it saddens me, to imagine you dying in this home because you won’t know what the sound of the smoke alarm indicates.” I watch her hands create perfect sounds. In my head, I ask God that Mimi takes the whole apartment complex with her. And then I turn to the side of her face. “And when I lie dying next door after swallowing my suicide jar, I promise to think of you. Because I believe you were a good person, a good person who deserved better than what you got in this life. A kind soul, you were. And in some ways, I think you should consider the dementia a blessing. What I wouldn’t give not to remember anything about my life. And after the paramedicstake me away, I take comfort in knowing that you will never think of me again, despite me being your only friend in this world.” The music fades with a few of the same notes interrupting the silence. Her hands curl into weak fists down to her lap.
“Would you care to have a cup of coffee with me, Freedom?” Mimi smiles. I appreciate her charm. “We can find that George Clooney on The Weather Channel, if we watch closely.”
“I’d like that.”
My name is Freedom and there’s barely room at the Whammy Bar to stick out my chest. Long, gray beards spotted with beer foam protrude from black leather biker jackets. Jailhouse tattoos with the Indian ink that fades to green. Pints of ale spill from the brims. Teeth rotted by crystal meth decorate the bar as they shout over the All-man Brothers Band and Pantera. A cloud of Pall Mall smoke inflates within the walls. And to my left, at the end of the bar, is Passion, though rare is the prostitute who uses her Christian name.
Passion gets stares from the bikers, and not because she’s a pro, but because she’s black; too many of the bikers don’t like
“Do I have kids, Freedom?” She remembers my name this time. This makes me sad. I think of her son and daughter, the ones who come by only to raid her medicine cabinets and pillage her jewelry boxes. I warned them once, trying to do Mimi a favor, but it backfired. And now they never come by.
“No, Mimi. You don’t have kids.” I envy her ignorance. There is a piano in her bedroom, the only room with the space in the apartment to hold it. And despite the dementia, she can always rememberthe right notes to play. I lead her to the bench, an attempt to put her chaotic mind at ease, before she starts talking like a porn star, before the demons of dementia possess her head.
“Do you have children, Nessa?” I never told her my name was Nessa. She flips through a songbook like it’s written in hieroglyphics.
“Nessa…why did you call me Nessa?” I straddle the bench right next to her.
“Who is Nessa? You’re Freedom.” There’s no use asking her anymore. She has the attention span of a tsetse fly, not her fault. But I thought I was more careful than that around her. When did I slip? Twenty bucks says it was some night when I was striding the apartment’s balcony in a drunken stupor.
I’m Nessa Delaney!
I let it go. The ringing from her head catches my attention once more. I help the hearing aid out of the side of her skull and speak loudly to her.
“I’ll pick up some batteries from the pharmacist this afternoon.” I flip through the pages until we get to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I put the book upside down on the music stand, for no other reason than selfish entertainment on my part. But Mimi impresses me. She plays it by ear, and I have to wonder how much of it she can actually hear. I take advantage of the somber melody and her deafness.
“You know, Mimi. There will be a day when I am gone, and that day will come before yours. And I’ll not be here to clean the eggs from the stove and to get you new hearing-aid batteries. And it saddens me, to imagine you dying in this home because you won’t know what the sound of the smoke alarm indicates.” I watch her hands create perfect sounds. In my head, I ask God that Mimi takes the whole apartment complex with her. And then I turn to the side of her face. “And when I lie dying next door after swallowing my suicide jar, I promise to think of you. Because I believe you were a good person, a good person who deserved better than what you got in this life. A kind soul, you were. And in some ways, I think you should consider the dementia a blessing. What I wouldn’t give not to remember anything about my life. And after the paramedicstake me away, I take comfort in knowing that you will never think of me again, despite me being your only friend in this world.” The music fades with a few of the same notes interrupting the silence. Her hands curl into weak fists down to her lap.
“Would you care to have a cup of coffee with me, Freedom?” Mimi smiles. I appreciate her charm. “We can find that George Clooney on The Weather Channel, if we watch closely.”
“I’d like that.”
My name is Freedom and there’s barely room at the Whammy Bar to stick out my chest. Long, gray beards spotted with beer foam protrude from black leather biker jackets. Jailhouse tattoos with the Indian ink that fades to green. Pints of ale spill from the brims. Teeth rotted by crystal meth decorate the bar as they shout over the All-man Brothers Band and Pantera. A cloud of Pall Mall smoke inflates within the walls. And to my left, at the end of the bar, is Passion, though rare is the prostitute who uses her Christian name.
Passion gets stares from the bikers, and not because she’s a pro, but because she’s black; too many of the bikers don’t like
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