- A Small Room at a Hot Time of the Morning by Davis
- The Lion's Noose by Lloyd
- This Side of the Rainbow by DeMoss
- Grandpa's Bluetooth by Fowler
- Down Low by Long
- Crayons by Adams
Grandpa's Bluetooth
By Milo James Fowler
Narrated by Bob Eccles
They take me to Seven Oaks Nursing Home because I'm the only one he'll talk to. They say he's got dementia and it's not the same as being senile, that he's a stubborn old fart and probably faking the whole thing. I don't know about that. Maybe he just doesn't want to talk to them.
I don't blame him. The orderlies here look like welfare women. You know what I mean: hippos with hair pulled back so tight their eyes squint up at the sides. They laugh too loud and smell like smoke, calling each other "girl" and texting when they should be cleaning up after the old folks.
Maybe if they did their job, the place wouldn't reek like stale piss. They try to cover the odor with chemicals, but all you get is chemical-flavored urine. No wonder Grandpa never wants to eat the food here.
He eats every time I visit, though, when they dump me off for what they consider my mandatory community service hours. I would never call it that. I bring Grandpa a burger and a shake and he takes them with wrinkled hands that tremble like the food's too heavy.
He doesn't say anything when he sees me, but his glassy eyes focus on the greasy bag I carry, and while it takes him ten times longer to finish his lunch than I do, there's always a different look on his face after he's eaten. He looks almost like his old self.
"Got one of these now," he says, pointing to his left ear. "I can hear everything."
I nod and glance at the TV, the model that all senior citizens seem to prefer: a giant cabinet on the floor flickering with the latest news.
"Dad said he got you a hearing aid." For some reason, Dad thinks the reason Grandpa won't talk to anybody is because he can't hear. So he got him this state-of-the art hearing aid that's Bluetooth enabled, synced to the cell phone Dad got him last year. Pretty cool, if you ask me.
Grandpa nods. "Blue tooth," he says, staring past me out the doorway of his room.
"You get many calls?"
He shrugs. I know my parents have called him and he hasn't answered. Another reason why I'm here today. They want me to make sure everything's okay.
"Are they treating you good?" I nod toward the doorway and the guffawing orderlies out in the common area.
Another shrug. Grandpa's eyes return to the TV where now there's live local coverage of a massive railroad wreck. It looks like two trains plowed right into each other. How the heck does something like that happen? Were the drivers texting?
"I heard them," Grandpa says with a slow nod. "Calling for help."
"Who?" I clean up after him, crumpling his napkins and wrappers. He's still working on the shake.
"Them." He points a shaky finger at the screen. "They knew they were going to die."
Dementia—gotta love it. Take a man who's been the most intelligent member of the family for as long as you've been alive and give him a brain that calls it quits after eighty-odd years. How's that for life's fairness?
They tell me not to contradict him when he's sharing his crazy talk. I'm supposed to just nod and smile and change the subject. But he's staring so hard at the TV now, I want to ask him—
"It's the blue tooth, I tell you. I hear everything now." Another slow nod. His eyes have tears in them.
I offer him a tissue. He shakes his head, covers his face with his hands. I want to give him a hug, tell him everything's okay, but they tell me I'm not supposed to do that, that it will just upset him even more. And before I know it, they're here to pick me up and take me home. Has it already been an hour?
On the drive back through town, I bring up the train wreck. Dad curses and complains about the traffic it will cause. Mom murmurs about "all those poor people," and I can't help but mention what Grandpa said.
"He's got dementia, Aaron." Dad blows out a sigh. "You know that."
Of course I do; they tell me often enough.
#
The next day when I bring Grandpa his burger and shake, one of the hippo-orderlies is out front having a smoke with her phone pressed up against one ear. Her fat cheeks shine with tears. She turns away when she sees me take notice.
"Lunch time." I grin at Grandpa and hold up the greasy bag. He's sitting in the common area, hunched over in his wheelchair and wearing the royal blue robe we got him for Christmas.
"He's gonna kill her," Grandpa says as I hand him his burger.
I freeze. I don't know what to say, but somehow I know who he's talking about. I glance back at the orderly, pacing now outside.
"How do you know?" I can't swallow; my throat is too dry.
He's eating his burger, and it'll be a while before he's done. I catch myself glancing back at the orderly. Her phone argument is heating up.
#
Even as they drop me off again, Mom and Dad remind me to tell Grandpa they'd like to see him sometime. He stares at me blankly when I relay the message. Then he points at the TV.
The news anchor is covering a local murder in a low-income apartment complex where a woman was stabbed thirteen times with a screwdriver. Guess who?
"She won't be back." Grandpa tugs out his hearing aid and sets it on the end table. "Take it. I don't want blue tooth anymore."
I tell Dad later and he curses, grumbling over the expense. But I tell him I'll take care of the exchange.
I pay for the downgraded replacement and hold on to Grandpa's high-tech hearing aid. I sync it up to my phone, and now while Grandpa eats his burger and watches the news, I listen to everything he's missing.
BIO:
Milo James Fowler's work has recently appeared in Allegory, Port Iris Magazine, Residential Aliens, and Flash Me Magazine, among other fine venues. He's a junior high English teacher by day and a writer by night. Visit him anytime: www.milo-inmediasres.com