Morton

They’re over there discussing whose going to come get me and wheel me to the day room,” Morton thought to himself, watching the aides clustered in their nurses scrubs from his room at the retirement home. He knew they divvied up the patients, making deals with each other, using the levels of attention needed as currency. For example, Morton had to be wheeled around but often put up a fuss, which was worth one completely mobile ward plus a small chore. He was glad he hadn’t declined to the level where his charge was a whole day’s dues, so dependent on assistance he would be a breathing penalty box to these young people. But still he remembered being new and robust, when they wouldn’t even follow him down the hall to make sure he arrived at his destination. Those days were gone and with the failing of his body Morton knew they all suspected his mind must be thick with choking weeds, too. Those days were gone and he was worried.

It was the young white kid with the pants down his ass. Morton always hoped for the Puerto Rican girl because sometimes she pressed up against him while leaning over, possibly on purpose. Morton had tried to surprise her one day by speaking Spanish, but she didn’t know it. The kid helped Morton into the chair and the routine began, “You don’t need to wheel me young man, I can walk just fine.”

“No Sir, No Sir.” He was thickly built with a Mediterranean complexion. Everywhere he was covered with his nearly black hair it had a messy fringe, his eyebrows looked like caterpillars that were tracking dirty footprints above his eyes. His clothes were baggy and posture slumped. By contrast Morton was always groomed and dressed neatly, in the business casual way that had once been as informal as a man would dress in public. He rose early and showered, wrote letters or read in his room until they came for him. Routine was coming to dominate Morton’s life and he was resigned to never being surprised again.

After the charade of trying to assert his independence Morton settled in and allowed himself to be taken. He, too, was doubting his ability to get around on his own and he knew none of them had time to walk with him. It only made him realize how glacial he moved. They were always in a hurry and he had been the exact same way. Morton had stood around with other young men, each taking a serving of the day’s tasks, and he was always happy to take a little extra because it meant he was a little better. He worked like that until the day he retired, and he couldn’t believe he had managed another quarter century.

“Now I’ve got a bald head and sagging skin, hands look like I’m a kid wearing his daddies gloves,” Morton thought as they came into the sun of the day room, where he would read the paper and talk with the other old men. He looked at the lurching aide and the white string hanging from the kid’s neck caught Morton’s eye. “That looks like a transistor radio. Kids aren’t messing with those again, are they?”

“No Sir, No Sir.” The kid took his ipod from his pocket and showed it to Morton, who immediately put the rubber bud into his bristly ear. The kid began to protest but Morton waved him off.

He had lost his interest in music as his hearing went, and he couldn’t quite make this out, but the voice was aggressively vital. There was an ambulatory rhythm and brassy squonks, like the sudden calls of geese migrating overhead.

“What’s this?”

The kid balled his pink baby fists. “It’s music, sir.”

“I know that! I’m not senile. What is it?”

“N.W.A, sir.”

He aimed a large ear at the kid. “Huh?”

“Rap music, sir.”

Morton ignored the kid’s loud frustration. “Could you write that down for me? I will have my grandson pick some up before he visits.”