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Bob – by Tim O’Keefe
The wheelchair he uses is clunky, old-school, worn. Scars of rust mar the metal parts formerly covered in chrome.
He believes he’s 49. No one has said “Happy Birthday!” in many years. His memory is keen, but he can’t quite remember his age. He has a difficult time keeping up with the date, but he knows Christmas in in two days.
His hair is graying at the temples. One can see his scalp through the thinning strands. His haircuts are infrequent. It doesn’t bother him until it gets in his eyes. His hair, like the rest of him, is washed infrequently. His glasses are filthy, and that vexes him, for he’d like to see the world clearly. He’d prefer to be cleaner, to have his clothes changed more often. But that’s impossible in this place. His hygiene is at the whim of his caregivers.
He lives in a retirement center. He appreciates the irony. Because he hasn’t retired from anything—never had a job.
His upper body muscles are weak; his lower body has no muscle tone. He wears a diaper, which stays wet much of the time. And often worse.
He rolls into the common room because there will be Christmas music. He’s seen and heard these performers before. Not bad.
Red and green streamers decorate the ceiling and there are three Christmas trees with colored lights placed randomly around the space. He painstakingly pushes himself close to the musicians, a couple of guitar-wielding older guys with a crappy sound system. As he waits for them to set up, he remembers…
~~~~~~~~~~
When he was five, he learned to walk. Sort of. It was more of a shambling, clutching, cruising-around-the-furniture kind of walk. But his mom rejoiced, for she never thought he would achieve this milestone. She didn’t know how short lived this success would be.
Christmas that year was fine. The tree was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen with its colored lights, and tinsel meticulously applied by his mother, the piney fragrance filling the living room. It was the only year they bought a real tree. He rode with his mother when they picked it out at the roadside stand. It was a challenge for her to get him in and out of the car, so it was a big deal. “Two dollars is a lot of money,” she’d said, “for a plant that’s already as good as dead. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.” Then she laughed at her own joke. Bob laughed too.
His uncle gave him a cheap baseball and a glove that year. Even at five he knew it was a joke. His mother’s eyes were full of hurt. She knew he’d never throw a ball—he’d never wear a baseball glove, never make a hit, never run the bases. Never run at all.
His uncle laughed, and coughed, and lit up another smoke.
His uncle was never invited to their house again.
~~~~~~~~~~
The two musicians tune up. One plays twelve bar blues while the other keeps fiddling with his instrument, completely absorbed by the tuner at the end of his guitar.
Bob likes the blues, although no one knows that except himself.
“Check! Check! One-two-three!” The guy who’s already in tune says into the microphone. There is a squelch of feedback. The man dials something back on his amplifier.
Several more of the long-term residents wheel into the common room. Some under their own steam, some in front of the attendants. He’s heard some of the attendants are called therapists, some referred to as rehab specialists. That’s humorous. He’s never had any rehabilitation.
A few residents nod to him. Most wear blank expressions. Some residents likely don’t even know where they were.
Attendants wheel them in because at least it’s something. A different scene from their four walls and droning TVs. It probably makes the musicians feel better to have a couple dozen people in the room. Presumably, they’re playing for free.
It likely makes them feel good, doing this service for the poor, unfortunate old folks at Christmas. They’ll go back to their comfortable homes, their adoring families. After the winter holidays they’ll return to their jobs, where they save for retirement, maybe set aside money for their kids’ college, or some luxury item like a boat or motorcycle. They’ll think about upgrading from their current homes, cars, TVs.
The two guys upfront strum a few chords together to be sure they’re in tune.
~~~~~~~~~~
When he was six, his mom babysat a first grader from across the street. She was the best friend he ever had. She didn’t say anything about him being in a wheelchair, or about the funny way he talked. She spoke with him, not just at him. Her name was Ariana. She was pretty, and brown, and had fuzzy hair. She was kind. And while they were agemates, he figured they’d never be outside his home together.
She brought her dolls and would sometimes play with them on his legs. He grinned. Only Ariana and his mom could tell when he laughed.
His mom tried to get him enrolled in the local public school. She’d taken him up to meet the principal, a slender pinch-faced woman with a shrieky voice.
He sat in his chair and listened as the two women appeared to battle—his mom disadvantaged from the start.
“He’s very smart, but difficult to understand,” his mother said.
The pinch-faced woman tried to engage him. “Tell me your name. Can you tell me your name?” She shouted, as though that would help him comprehend. He understood just fine.
“Bob,” he’d said. But it came out, “Buuuhhhb.”
“His name is Bobby,” said his mom, clutching her purse too tightly.
“Do you know your colors, Bobby?”
Of course he did. His mother taught him his colors before he was two. He wanted to tell the principal that her shirt was tangerine, which didn’t go with her salmon pants. He wanted to tell her that he loved looking at rainbows and that he knew the order of the colors, named after a guy called Roy G. Biv.
What he did was nod his head. He was embarrassed by how he sounded when he talked. And he knew his speech was getting worse. Only his mom and Ariana understood him.
Principal Pinch-Face held up a notecard from her desk.
He wanted to say, “powder blue.” What came out was unintelligible.
“He said, ‘powder blue,’” his mom interpreted.
Pinch-Face pursed her lips. She wasn’t convinced. At all. “Can you wheel yourself, Bobby?”
Bob nodded and tried his best to show her by slowly pushing his wheels. His muscles were wasting, his arms soft and fleshy. He could move, but it was deliberate, and slow, his face wet with perspiration.
“I’m afraid he will be unable to attend Rosedale Elementary. I don’t know a teacher who would be willing to deal with his…” She paused, searching for the right words. “… issues. His speech, his immobility, his obvious… differences. He’d be the object of merciless teasing.”
“Bobby is not an object. He is a child of God.”
Pinch-Face continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Perhaps most importantly, at this point, I must consider him a fire hazard. He’d never make it out of the building in case of emergency. For his sake, as well as the students of Rosedale, I’m afraid the answer is no. But rest assured that I will take it up with the superintendent of schools.” Bob knew she never would.
While his mother tried many times over the next few years, Bob never made it to school.
Fire hazard.
~~~~~~~~~
They begin with “Jingles Bells.” A few of the residents sing along, off key. Others sit in their wheelchairs, faces blank. Stephen Davies, drools. Bob’s sure Stephen doesn’t know his whereabouts.
In Bob’s head, he can sing. Everyone knows the first verse and the chorus. But he even remembers the one that goes, “The horse was lean and lank, misfortune seemed its lot, he got into a drifted bank, and then we got upsot.”
Of course he doesn’t sing aloud. When he tries to speak, he sounds like a monster. So, he doesn’t. He hasn’t spoken for a long time.
When the song is finished about half the residents clap clumsily. The caregivers applaud and cheer. Bob figures they’re trying to make the musicians feel appreciated. Bob wants to clap. He enjoyed the song. But if he uses too much of his arm strength, he might not make it back to room 103 unaided. He might not be able to feed himself.
~~~~~~~~~~
Back when he knew his age, he was 10, he heard his mother on the phone. She didn’t realize he could hear through the ventilation ducts. She was in the kitchen, of course. That’s where the phone was. He was in his room reading Charlotte’s Web. He could still turn pages by himself with the eraser end of a pencil. His mother was speaking to a social worker.
“I don’t know what will happen to him, Shirley.” His mom’s cough was deep and wet.
Bob had met Shirley before. She had sprayed-up hair shaped like a beehive and a sad face. He wasn’t sure if she wore that sadness for him or if it was her default.
“I’ve considered that,” his mother said. “I don’t have any relatives willing to take him on.” The only relative he knew was the uncle who brought him the baseball glove, whom he’d never seen again. His mom coughed, this time violently. It took a long time to catch her breath.
There was a pause while Shirley spoke.
His mom said, “I don’t think I have much time I have left.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The two guys run through a bunch of Christmas songs people have heard a million times. “Rudolph,” “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “Frosty,” and “Deck the Halls.” It’s clear to Bob that they had thrown this set together quickly and may have never played these songs as a duo before. They’re not bad. Bob appreciates the effort.
The guy who had difficulty keeping his guitar in tune steps away from the mic to fiddle with his tuners. The other man leans toward his mic. “Even though we’re in Minnesota, I bet you’ve heard this one.”
He plays a Hoagie Carmichael song that indeed many have heard before. Most of the 25 or so folks who were wheeled into the common room hum, nod, tap their fingers. Several know the words and sing along atonally. Stephen Davies, who was drooling earlier, saliva stains on his shirt to prove it, sits up in his chair as much as he is able. His eyes sparkle in a way Bob hasn’t seen in a long while.
The singer, while he’s white, does a soulful rendering of the song patterned after Ray Charles’ version. Stephen, sings along, as clear and melodious as is possible for a ninety-something with no teeth. Bob’s heart fills to see Stephen come back alive after being away for so long.
When the song ends, it receives the greatest applause from the retirement home folks.
~~~~~~~~~~
Bob’s mother died when he was 11. She didn’t leave much behind; her house had 28 years left on the 30-year mortgage, she had $1,200 in her savings account, $78 in her checking. Bob heard her car described as a “piece of crap” and was sold for $250. The only valuable left behind her was, well, Bob. Although not many people felt anything but sorry for him. Because he couldn’t speak clearly, he was considered “feeble-minded” or “retarded.” While he was nothing of the kind, no one really knew Bob. He’d never been to school, rarely been in a car or even outside his modest home. Over the long years he often thought of Ariana, his only real friend.
Bob was institutionalized, where his mental and physical needs were largely unmet. While he had an occasional kind orderly, and a few medical professionals seemed to pity him, no one bothered to communicate with him. No one knew the bright eager mind trapped in the hunched and withered body.
~~~~~~~~~~
“We’ve got one more song for you,” says the musician who sang, “Georgia.” “If you know it, please sing along.”
He plays a verse of “Silent Night” as the introduction. The other player strums the chords while the main guys fingerpicks it. This one they rehearsed. This one is totally locked in. They start singing the first verse in perfect harmony.
Bob tires of Christmas songs. How many times can you listen to “Jingle Bell Rock” every year before it becomes annoying?
But not “Silent Night.” This song brings a thrilling sensation to Bob’s chest, he gets goosebumps.
~~~~~~~~~~
One of Bob’s most precious memories is when Ariana’s family took him to their Christmas service. He recalls her father’s muscular arms lifting him from his chair and placing him gently into the back seat of their old sedan. The smell of his Old Spice cologne mixed with Ariana’s mom’s perfume was lovely. Anna held his hand in the car. The touch of her hand in his gave him a rush of excitement.
The people at the church were kind to him, even though he was the only white person there. It wasn’t pity. He felt genuinely welcomed. When they sang “Silent Night” at the end of the service, tiny flames were passed from candle to candle until the small sanctuary filled with flickering light. The memory of that golden reflection of the holy light in Ariana’s eyes made him cry. Ariana’s family moved south soon after that. He never saw her again.
~~~~~~~~~~
The singers in the retirement home are at their best, but they pale in comparison to his memory of that Christmas Eve night so long ago.
Bob thinks of the real Christmas tree, his mother who tried to do her best by him, his young friend Ariana—who held his hand out of pure friendship, the African American church that blessed him with its sincere welcome, that “Silent Night” sung so long ago in the golden glow of shared candlelight.
He closes his eyes and smiles more brightly than he has in years.
